WILD!

She drives me wild inna her kick of a car.

She takes me places I’ve never been before

Dragging on each other’s cigarettes.

I can faintly taste her bubble gum

On the rouge-stained filter.

We cut through the cold night 

Like a hot double-blade

Singing along to Blossom Dearie on the radio.

She drives with Mae West magnetism

Smiling through pungent red lipstick

Gazing through thick black siren eyelashes

And she smells oh-so-wild from the passenger seat

Like a hungry Jasmine flower.

The interior of the car is a flashing heartbeat

As we pass below the city’s street lights.

I rub her leg at thirty-five

Kiss her ear at forty

Then I’m on her neck

And at fifty-five

We are on a high-speed chase

Back in the 1940’s 

Film noir

Running from the coppers

Laughing

And as I breathe in her platinum hair

I tell her to 

“Give it a punch on the gas!”

“Run the red lights.”

“Go wild, baybee.”

“Go wild!”

The Only Nuclear Poem I Have Ever Written

Mary had a little lamb

Her fleece was white as snow

Ever since the Three Mile Accident

At night her lamb would glow.

Star Trek (Lost Episode)

Spock just found a Captain's Log in the Bridge Terlit.

214 West Mulberry Street

After 40 years

Morris Martick

88 years old

Closed Marticks

For final

By dying.

He told me he was retiring

Back in the Nineties.

He was naked

Except for his boxers

And apron

Sitting in the chair 

Next to me

With it’s ripped plastic seat cover

Like it was normal 

For the owner

The head chef

To do so

In a room full of people

Dining.

In Morris’s case

It was.

The lights shimmered yellow-gold off 

Of the peeling aluminum 

Rattlesnake wallpaper

Creating a magic glow.

I think he was 67 back then.

I clinked jelly jar glasses

Full of red wine 

With him.

“Cheers!”

We winked at each other

Smiling through

Broken teeth.

He was famous for his

Pate De Campagne

Handwritten menus

And bread pudding.

What he may or may not have known

Was that he was also famous for cooking

French food

Naked in the kitchen

Except for the apron.

Hitting unrelentlessly on all of the female staff

To the point of even exposing himself.

He was famous for his handpainted windows

And blue chevron doors

Which you had to ring the doorbell

To get in.

It was once a speakeasy.

Or that he kept the catch of the day

Upstairs in his apartment

On ice

In his filthy bathtub.

That he was more than happy

To come out of the kitchen

And check on you

To find out 

How you were enjoying 

Your food

In a tattered t-shirt

Zipper down

Dick falling out

Like only a crazy 

French man could.

He was uncircumcised.

And that truly

Was part of his charm.

Some Shit Overheard In A Strip Club At A VIP Table Next To Me

“SHIT!”

“Yo...THIS SHIT’S MOIST AND MELTING AND IT TASTES LIKE PERFUME OR

  DISH DETERGENT!”

“THIS IS SERIOUSLY CUT WITH BABY POWDER!”

“I could just put this on my kid’s ass to heal a rash.  I DEF don’t wanna be putting THIS up

  my nose.  Tastes like FDS.  Get this shit away from me.  Wouldn’t even use that as 

  deodorant muthafucka.  Dude...look at that shit!  It’s melting like a sno-cone in July!”

“I’m rolling with pure Columbian flake.  You watch YouTube?  You should check how they

  make cocaine.  It ain’t with perfume muthafucka.  It ain’t supposed to drip like Willy Wonka

  Every Flavor.  They make that shit with kerosene...that’s some harsh shit cuz...but if it’s 

  good and they don’t cut it up like kindergartners...that drip won’t make you think about 

  nothing else except the taste of pussy...or cock, if that’s what you’re into...which I think you

  must be...It AIN’T supposed to taste like you said a bad word and got your mouth 

  washed out with soap!”

“Amigo.  You might be trying.  But you hafta understand...I’m flying First Class.”

“I see you again, which I won’t...you deliver.”

“That’s all I’m saying playboy.”

“Be sure to tip your waitress.”

Milk Carton Kid

We were the seekers

Exploring the unfamiliar.

Nothing was impossible.

We were the lost ones

That didn’t fit into a societal mold.

I was anti-societal.

I had a penchant for danger.

I was punk rock riff raff.

Nearly homeless on several occassions.

An eccentric panhandler.

Educated and creative.

I tended to like sex and violence.

At one time

Myself

And the other Milk Carton Kids

Were important to each other

Hanging around in packs.

Over time 

We got lost between the dirty cracks 

Of those polluted concrete city sidewalks.

Lost to drugs and disease.

It was the Reagan/Thatcher years

And we were the only ones aware enough

To know that things weren’t 

Going in the right direction.

As our cherub faces

Would show up on the side of milk cartons

We were marching in Washington.

We were pissed off.

We were making music and art

And dancing.

We were helping each other out

Because we knew

No one else would.

The suburban army of zoned out picket fenced robots

Didn’t understand.

Their eyes glowed

From the radiation of UHF/VHF.

I never felt apologetic for my attitude.

They were just as much the enemy.

When our pack 

Was in a convenience store

And we spotted one of us

On the side of the quart sized milk cartons

We stole them all.

Out in the parking lot 

We stood around laughing

And put the milk cartons on the ground

And all of us at the same time

Jumped up in the air

And came down

With heavy worn leather boots.

The milk sprayed out everywhere

In a giant white abstract

All over the bruised pavement

And we danced around

Celebrating 

Our freedom

Until the owner of the convenience store

Came running out

With a baseball bat

Yelling at us

That he called the cops

And we took off on foot

Down the street

And disappeared.

Something we were really

Good at.

Lavandería

“When I tell you this, I don’t want you to think I’m prejudice, cuz I’m not!”

“But the Mexicans are killing this place!  They overload the washers, pour all of their bleach

  and shit into these machines and leave it for hours!”

“They don’t give a fuck!”

“Even the dryers. They never empty the fucking godamn lint!”

“I’ve been in here with EVERY washer and dryer DONE...FINISHED... TERMINADO...

  waiting for them to be emptied so that somebody else could use them!  Hours at a time!”

“It really pisses me off!”

“I’ve actually emptied them myself so that I could do MY fucking laundry!”

“All flourescent clothes bought at WALMART.  That’s how you can tell which dryers you’ll

  be waiting around for.”

“You def don’t want to go up to the Northside laundromat, because the Enchiladas that live

  in the apartments above send their kids down to watch the TV like it’s their living room.

  It’s TELEMUNDO down there 24/7!  Niños running around in there like it’s a playground.  

  No babysitter.”

“You might think I’m harsh, but...”

“It’s hard enough to come here and do my laundry.  But when machines are broken and

  smell like shit when you first open the door and you have to go down five machines

  before you find one that smells halfway decent and doesn’t have gum melted into the 

  drum...I tell you...something is DEFINITELY WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE.”

“And I’m TELLING you, I’m NOT prejudice. This is just something I have to deal with

  EVERYTIME I come in here.”

“I like their food though...you ever try that taqueria place up the block?  The burrito carnitas

  is to die for...”