-whispered between second and third avenues
A buck today’s worth
more than a buck
tomorrow and
a buck yesterday’s worth
the same as
your empty stomach now.
Fuck all endows.
I used to make rent
with only two whores.
But no more.
Boosy hoos. Now,
get to the overpass
and shake that ass—
it’s about to rain
harder.
it must be a qin or mandolin
or something
weaving its delicate soul around the Red Dragon
Cafe. keen shadows creep
up distressed brick walls. a circle of people
mingle around the flaming
fireplace. in the corner, a sawed-off
hitman is awash
in neon, the misshapen skull
of his restless yes-man huffing Lucky Strikes.
I take a sip of my Tsingtao. next to me
there is a Turk who doesn’t bother hiding
the side of his face that’s melting
or his eyes jumping like amoebas
as The Bellflower Lady descends
the staircase; she is wearing
saffron sequins and a see-through dress, rogue tongues
of color licking the heavy
curves of her supple breasts; a fang of gold
flickering between them
as she wanders past the window.
behind her snow
is dazzling
and the people are frozen.
but in here there is fire and ghosts that are alive.
My coworker
says drinking and the Internet
are a match made in hell, says
he got up late Sunday morning
to see all of the expensive items
he bought while wasted; of course,
he promptly cancelled the orders
before they shipped. Lucky bastard.
I, too, got drunk Saturday night
and awoke late Sunday morning
feeling much regret, feeling like
a total fool, but there was nothing
I could do, the damage done, all
sales final as what I bought had
already walked out the door
in a short skirt and a pair of
Air Jordans.
My dad once told me that love is a perfect golf swing
that his Callaway driver, Big Bertha
can really wallop your balls
He kept Playboys in a sock drawer
gold among the GOLDTOE
A pulpit, not a puppet
sermons as smooth as a shaved you-know-what.
There were nine planets when I was a kid
but the solar system isn’t what she used to be
I was in my own little world
Car beams at night
striated through Venetian blinds
Pizza delivery and Newport smoke
ice cream and kisses in the canyon of Peach Mountain.
We rode along the highway in the parting of her hair
her hands on the wheel
guiding me as I drove for the first time
going fifty in a thirty
I was fifteen, she was thirty
pearls on her wrist
each one like the moon
starlight mined from her pores.
I recall a holy cavern
a cathedral at a crossroads of thighs
a birdbath navel
a pretty pink nave
a portal into heaven
The cloisters! Have you ever seen such cloisters?
She was cold on the shore at Blue Pine Lodge
and when I kissed her
I thought of Laura Palmer
And though she died many years before I was born
I dream of Laura Ingalls Wilder
whose portrait plays the piano in my heart
invoking melodic ghosts
life on the plains
a simple existence
a little house
in switchgrass tides
and bluestem seas.
my next-door neighbor
lena wears winter clothes in summer
and does tai chi in the Spielplatz
and burns cinnamon incense
and plays the handpan.
I don’t think she has a job
but she does drumming
lessons sometimes and sometimes
she gives full body massages in her flat.
her massage business is not advertised,
but shows up with a little arrow on Google maps
and sometimes I see her clients in the hall.
they are usually men,
workingclass men, old, tired;
they hobble
into her apartment,
I hear a little noise, some moans,
the handpan.
the noise is clearest
from my writing desk
and it’s strange to think about
as I’m sitting there
lost in some poem: on the other side
of the wall, not more than ten feet away,
lena’s got some potbellied old german
pipefitter sprawled out nude on a table
as she drains
the paste out of him.
I looked
at myself
in the mirror.
I looked
pretty much
the same—
minus
a bit of lip
and some nose.
I’d been
so scared
but now
something had changed.
I saw myself
for what I truly was:
ugly,
imperfect flesh,
stretched
over bone—
hiding
behind the illusion
of a soul.
That ship has sailed,
now it’s boogers
at sea.
Breaching
with the whales
that slam down onto
crimson dreams.
The diving squid
like tentacles in a hurry.
When the dig dig captain
goes looking for treasure,
it’s mutiny snots down
through the ranks.
Gonna harpoon me
one of those real
big suckers.
Pose for pictures
back on dock
like some master
of the universe.
Get barnacle sticky
real fast.
So the booger schools
will take me in
as one of their own.
Why is she always face down when we fuck
and when I turn her over she’s cold as ice?
Goth bitch act nice
Worship the devil
She only listens to Tasmanian death metal
Says “I don’t sleep
Just binge meth and shoot the homegrown stuff”
Acts like God’s not watching
Dances in the cruel colours of memory
Words whispered
If you really love me, you’ll do this for me
When you don’t do what I say,
it makes me sad
And I know you don’t want me sad
Kill the mood and I’ll kill you
She says “I’ll get away with it too”
It’s not a want
It’s a need
Something weak to bleed
beat and fuck (give it a disease)
Gives me a look and gets down
on her hands and knees
If you think
you have all
the tools necessary
to never succumb
to the elements
or the offhand comments
or the slap in the face
random acts
of poetic justice
that come at you
like forced kindness
in lieu of true loveliness
then allow me
to clap back
and pull the rug
out of your smug
conceit where
you feel that confidence
alone is enough
to weather
gathering storms…
all I’m saying
in everything
I just wrote
is that hey, it’s cold
out there
at least
please put on
your emotional
winter coat
Street lights aren’t orange any more
So we’ve lost that dreamy haze
That pumpkin-coloured glow
Which made every night feel
Like a nostalgic flashback in a movie
Impermanent and eternal
In equal measure
Beneath that light
Every spilled liquid
Beer
Blood
The urine-soaked in-between
Took on the fathomless depths of the night sky
Blackly boundless like a patch of dream
The sleeping mind had yet to fill in
Now the street lights are perfectly white
Shining pristinely
Like the sterile oppression of a dental surgery
A bleak illumination of every part of
The diorama of the city night
No longer a dream
But a painful waking to the reality
That this is all there really is
I made a romance of my night walks once
Now there’s only the minimalism
Of one foot following another
Going nowhere in particular.
Horror Sleaze Trash 