Wet Chemistry Photo Booth

Four odd intervals

To look foolish

Throwing our fists up in the air

Crossing our eyes

Striking poses

One of them 

The obligatory

‘Kiss’

Blinded four times

By a proper flash

Impatient

Choosing NOT

To wait the four minutes

For the black and white process

Instead 

Sticking our hands

Up

Into the guts

Of the machine

To grab 

The 1-1/2” x 8” strip

Still sticky and wet

Getting hit

By the smell of sulpher

While blowing the future memories dry

Behind the heavy red curtain

Dead Men

“Bill’s gonna live to be 105.  He’s too mean and ugly to die.”

He said inbetween drags on his Newport.

“Everything in him is hard except his dick.”

“Guy died right here at the bar last night...heart attack...”

“First guy to ever die at this bar.  Would’ve thought differently...”

“Lots of people have probably left this place and died somewhere else.”

He looked around

Taking a sip of his drink.

“You can’t buy a break at a bar.”

He shook his head.

“I could die here.  Hell!  I’m giving it my best shot!”

“Hell...they’d probably roll me over and check my wallet to see if I had enough money to

  pay my tab.”

“I’m not asking for it...I’m just saying...it wouldn’t be so bad going in this place.”

He picked up his drink

And tapped mine.

“They’re dropping like flies around here!  You better look alive!”

He said with a crooked grin.

Escalator Down

The old man

Wandered the second floor

Of my work

Looking for the escalator.

“How do I get down?”

He asked.

“Try listening to some James Brown man!”

I replied.

Fiji Mermaid

I spooned you

Down on the damp sand

By the foamy waves.

I held both of your breasts

As your skin began to warm

In the sun

And turn thirsty.

My hardness 

Became tender inside you

While the balm moved your hair

Delicately

Like the Dune Grass.

You turned to face me.

I was a victim to your full black amphibious eyes.

Before it was too late

Before there was any suffering

I carried you back 

Into the ocean

When the tides were going out

And the swells were more kindly.

With the briny brink

At sway

We let go.

As before

While strolling the sand

Lost at sea

Treasuring shells

I would do so again

Calling your name

“Cordelia”

“Cordelia”

Jewel of the sea.

Ladder Demonstration

“Here, let me show you.”

 He said.

Before I could shut the door 

Or even had a chance to respond

He flicked the ladder effortlessly

Into a new position.

“Clackity clack!”

“This ladder has 25 different configurations SON...”

He slurred in a slight Appalachian drawl...

“It can meet any of your needs whatsoEVER...”

He said this as he clicked the ladder

Into four more different configurations.

“Click, clack, click, clack...CLACK!”

He did it all with one amazing thin arm

Skilled and with steadfast confidence.

One arm was all he had.

Whether he was born like that 

Or not

I don’t know.

I didn’t ask

As fast as he was

Pitching the device about.

It WAS entertaining to see though.

On a Saturday morning

Slightly hungover

After one cup of coffee

While I’m standing there 

In my pajama bottoms

Wanting to shut the door

Like I do

With any other Jehovah’s Witness.

But there he was

In a conservative dark suit and tie

One empty arm pinned to the side

While the other arm

Demonstrated a ladder

That had 25 different positions.

“It can be a step-stool...a step-ladder...a 3 story-scaffold...a 30’ extension ladder...a   

  footstool for your poodle or terrier to get up into bed with you...” 

He spoke the latter affectedly

Like he was gay and had a poodle.

He said all of this 

While continually breaking down

And reconstructing

This great ladder

In a fury

With a loud 

Reverberating

Aluminum metallic noise.

“Look. It can be a fire escape for your kids...God forbid there was EVER such a fire.”

“Clack, clack, clack!”

“You can bend it over into a sawhorse if you ever wanted to do work around the house.”

“And if you didn’t!”

He continued...

“Clack, clack, clackity, clack!”

“There’s a special attachment here for a fleshlight!”

He held onto the ladder

With his only hand 

And started 

Gyrating his hips 

Into the aluminum horse

Like he was 

Humping a Mexican whore.

“Alright!”

I said.

“That’s enough!  I don’t need your ladder!”

“You need to go.  You’re wasting your time here.”

I told him.

“You’re better off with the preacher up the street.  He’s doing a lot of housework these

  days.” 

“He could probably use a ladder like this.”

“Number 183.”

I closed the door

To protests.

Breast

Her right breast

Plenty-filled my left hand

Resting there

Fingers 

Open

Arm draped

Over her sternum.

Her flesh

Mounting and abating

With each drowsy bedtime breath

She took

Dreaming.

Certainly not necessarily of me.

The soft flesh

Inflating and deflating

In my palms and fingers

Like a vital organ

Drumming.

As if I was holding 

The anatomical meat

Of her living heart

Itself.

Bloody

Warm and beating.

The gorey flesh and muscle

Lifting away from my hand

To return full and heavy

While she sleeps

Tranquil

Perhaps

Not knowing my hand 

Is on her breast at all.

And I sleep for but a few hours.

The breast helps.

Bird Shit Palace

It is almost midnight

Almost a full moon.

We are sitting on the 

Pigeon shit spattered balcony

Of the Kingston

SUPERLODGE

Smoking cigarettes

And drinking our last beers

On bird shit

Covered

Mis-matched chairs

Rescued from curbside

Kingston evictions

I’m sure.

One chair is 

Fake brass with broken

Torquois vinyl

Strapping.

Several of the straps 

Are loose

And hanging.

And the other 

Is a cheap indoor

Dirty upholstered

Conference chair...

It is the last room available

In all of Kingston.

Tonight.

The Duchess County Fair 

Depleting all vacancies

Within a forty mile radius.

Our view is

Route 87

The New York Throughway

A mere football field away

Along with

Powerlines

Aromatic dumpsters

Abandoned homeless shopping carts

And permanently lost semi-trailers.

I checked in with some Meth-Heads right behind me.

They were sweating profusely

And yelling at each other

Violently and unintelligibly

From the car in the parking lot

Into the lobby.

We got the last room.

King-size bed

Smoking

For $69 +tax.

The bible was already stolen

Or never there

At all.

Which made me pull the bed away from the wall

Checking for condoms

And needles

Because housekeeping

In these fleabags is lax.

It was the last great white hope

For us.

Otherwise 

We would have been driving for hours.

We went to bed 

In a king size bed.

A first.

The ice machine didn’t work

And the stairwells smelled like

Swamp ass.

But the palace was ours for the night
Smoking

For $69 +tax.