Notes Toward a Banned Book

Lenore likes the slightly crumpled beak of an origami bird. Justine enjoys removing the silk from an ear of corn. We must carry on as if life is polite. We must hide the contrary evidence in a shoebox under the bed. 

Sometimes I think about attending an ornate church where the priest puts on a show after reading a story by Poe or De Sade. Sometimes I wander this city for years at a time without a single shock.

Gloria likes her ankles bound. Fran likes to watch men drink her urine. We must carry on as if love is sexless, and sex has no theatrical core. Sometimes the bindings are Velcro. Sometimes the men drink Gatorade.

FF

Spain in the 1950s was an odd place.
Under the thumb of the Generalissimo
and the Catholic Church, freedom
was limited, especially for women,
which meant that relations between
the sexes were carefully monitored.
Women were chaperoned, usually
by a male member of her family.
Only the official ‘novio’ was allowed
to hold hands or be discreetly kissed.

It was my lot to suffer this sexual
wasteland in two very Francoist cities:
Salamanca and El Ferrol (del Caudillo),
his headquarters in the Civil War 
and the place where he was born.
I was living in Salamanca and spent
the Christmas holidays in El Ferrol
where I got to know the stationmaster’s 
daughter, which made me think of jokes
like “She was only a wrangler’s daughter
but she knew how to handle a longhorn.”

Back in Salamanca, the 21-year-old me
continued to be frustrated by the regime
in my pursuit of a normal modern sex life.

In those days, young men were expected
to satisfy their sexual needs in a brothel,
a sort of rite of passage sponsored by friends.
In the chilly month of March, a visiting
Professor Vivaldi from Granada University
was well-known in the city’s Chinatown
and its casas de citas. “The road to sin city” 
was fittingly named Broad Street.

What struck me as we entered that seedy area
were the flat roofs with clothes lines hung
with small strips of towelling like bunting.
He took me with him to show me around
one of his favourite haunts, introduced me
to the girls who weren’t occupied with clients
and recommended I get to know Dulce Corazón.
She was young, slender, pale and quite pretty.

The Madame quoted me a price for a “while”,
in other words for as long as the sex act took.
Alternatively, the all-night fee was 250 pesetas.
I remember thinking, “That’s the price of a shirt”.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I opted for all night.
Being eager and thrifty, I thought if I could manage it
five times, it would work out at 50 pesetas a fuck.

In the end I did manage five; oh, those were the days!
After each event, D.C. slipped out of bed,
douched herself in the bidet, and dried herself off
with a scrap of towelling like those on the flat roofs.
The following morning, I was offered a deal:
if I paid a retainer I could have her as often as I liked. 

Looking back, I suppose what comes to mind
is a comparison with Frequent Flyers:
Frequent Fuckers.

Things My Gob Might Say

I didn’t know the fare
I  slammed some coin and 
Stood amongst the 
bloated and sweating 
Stench in the air, dry, unseasoned 
of sex and salt and stockings
A bland potato soup bobbing heads 
To the rhythm of the curves and stops

I held on to the dirty pole in a pounding fantasy 
Germs are mutating ready to breach my body
I’m closed mouthed avoiding suckage of 
E. coli, Salmonella,  Herpes, Tuberculosis, Strep 
Covid, flu,  and god forbid, Staphylococcus!
Patience partner, you got this. 
Keep your gob tight and

know the vaselined chrome bar is your life line
from a tumble onto shit and nightly wanking jizz 
Floors and feet, floors and feet.
Now breathe and open your eyes
It’s time to spread your beaten brain
Squirting signs of infectious horrors 
No longer existing in the 50 years of
Running on that 1980’s treadmill

I smell home first. Fist pumping the greasy stop cord
Calves are snorting and squealing
Calling out for their mamas 
Herded,but not heard
having lived a less than semi life

We jerk. We stop
The pissway path is revealed.
I wind my way through the potato heads
 and look over my left shoulder
I catch a pud-whacker in a trenchcoat
Columbo style
The whites of his eyes flicker 
Tugging his popsicle raw
He breathes the poisoned air

I descend three steps and walk a short distance. 
I round the slaughterhouse corner. 
Headphones silencing the horrors
I  breathe in the deathly air. 
I climb the warehouse stairs. 
Hardwood and woodies
HOME 

my idle mind, sleepless brain, and other bitchings and moanings

I don’t know what to do with myself

I’m tired like a bed comforter
but I can’t sleep

I get up to smoke
see if the hot neighbor
makes an appearance

her beauty fragrant
as a dream of honey
whenever I see her
I fall to rose bushes
get cut my on wife’s thorns (scorn)

I go back to the couch

study others writers
their typewriters
paper, pencils
the vitality of the written word
it’s here pulsing through
the vein on the side of my head
popping onto the page like a zit

my soul has been thrown
in the dirty clothes hamper
and I’m trying to do the wash

I go outside again
try to refresh
the sky is all light blue
totally bleh
like a bad photograph

I spot the moon
and say what the hell are you doing out here
it replies by asking me the same question

Happy Hour

I decide against bringing in the bone hook hiding in the glove box
I stole before quitting the hospital. 
In this bar I feel safer with a weapon,
Something threatening and sharp.
To be armed with it grants me the urge to use it.
Ian is here. Happy Hour Friday.
I haven’t seen him since last Saturday when he said, 
I might have to make myself throw up. 
Too sick to work, leaving Dominic to fill in.
Poor Dom. His legs must have been on fire that night
Having to work a double shift.
Ian looks sleepy, suffering still from insomnia.
I came by to see if you’re alright.
Why wouldn’t I be? He asks.
I leave it at that. 
He’s always looking to bruise bellies,
To cut faces, to piss in someone’s Cheerios.
What do you want to drink? He asks.
A Corona with a shot of whiskey. 
He continues to joke around with Haley, Dom’s roommate 
And that hippie, Eric whose throat I want to shove a stray cat down.
Ian asks again what I want to drink.
His brain is an empty fishbowl.
Corona.
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
Fuck you! He keeps chanting.
Instead of the beer I want
He serves me two cans of something I didn’t ask for.
It’s Asshole Friday. 
My anger grows high and hot.
I think of that bone hook in my car,
Hooked over Ian’s lip, a gate of teeth, into the roof of his mouth.
I think of the strength it will take to pull me off him,
To pry the weapon out of my hand.

The Look I Took

She sits across from me
in the diner booth,
this friend I see from time to time
when I’m sure I won’t embarrass myself too much
and tell her how much I want her.

One of her front teeth 
is just a little crooked.
Just like all of her face:
a tad off, distorted –
one eye a little larger,
a bump on her nose
and even her smile is uneven.
It works.
She’s so beautiful.

I keep my thoughts to myself now
because there’s no point in telling
and I want her to feel safe
while sitting across from me.
I want her to be happy and open
and willing to tell me everything
even if it means
not being happy and open myself.
She deserves it.
She’s every bit as beautiful inside.
She deserves anything she wants.

She excuses herself 
to use the restroom
and when she gets up
she bows to me
the way a person does
when they push out their chair
getting up from a table
and I can see down her shirt,
getting a peek at her cleavage.
Her wonderful little breasts,
so close to me,
close enough to touch
but of course I don’t –
I shouldn’t even be looking
but I do for a moment.

While she’s gone
I think about why I didn’t avert my eyes
when normally I would have –
I would have if it was anyone else.
She’ll go home to her husband
and I’ll go home
and think about her cleavage,
her bra,
her shoulderblade
and the flesh of her neck
that was so close
I could have kissed it.

The look I took,
I took it by mistake,
without permission
but I will cherish it.
It’s mine.

Jump Over Cracks

Avoid black cats. 
Don’t walk under ladders.

Fasten your seatbelt.
Use a condom.
Get vaccinated.
Take your vitamins.

Wait for the green light.
Stop at the red light.
Strap the baby in.
Strap the dog in.

Get health insurance.
Eat organic food.
Wear a mask.
Don’t go out at night.

Don’t go out.
Don’t talk to strangers.
Don’t talk to anyone.
Don’t talk to yourself.

Pay your rent.
Open your mail.
Go to housing court.
Pack your bags.

Don’t be alone.
Get married.
Be quiet.
Pack your bags.

Register to vote.
Vote for the Democrat.
Vote for the lesser evil.
Don’t vote for anyone.
Pack your bags.

And never, ever step on the crack.
You will break your mother’s back.

Salute to the One-Ballers

Keitel, Dafoe, Clift,
Cage, Walken, Pacino,
and, definitely, Brando…

They shirked the 
limits of anatomy
and—don’t you know?— 
underwent an orchiectomy.
Henceforth, they lope-lean
into The Way, breathing 
from a space deeper 
than conscious craft. 
Impossible with a full sack.  

Beware imitators.
They but seem to lean:
Cooper—imitator 
DiCaprio—pretender  
Pattinson—who dat?
Pitt—nope  

Imagine Tom Cruise (archetypal 
two-baller) with Walken’s line:
“I hid this uncomfortable hunk 
of metal up my ass two years.”

It becomes sound against music, 
an F-14 landing On the Waterfront. 
Deer Hunter ending on Love Island.
“Bazinga!” splooging onto “Attica!” 

Hawke, Hardy, Depp,   
Cage, Clift, Dean,
and, yup, McQueen

Think on their sacrifice 
next time you jam your hand 
in pocket, dreaming 
of Griffith Observatory 
under the luscious LA light.

3am 

I never thought I’d miss the smell

The smell of spongy roof shingles stained with lichens and the exhaust of ambulances cutting through the block to drop bodies in hope their ascension can be delayed

The smell of stale beer and musty basement hastily mopped with last weeks water bucket

Water stained by the soil from outside and tears from within

The smell of tobacco smoke lingering in the air

Weaved in the thread of my clothes

Embedded in my fingertips

Particles stuck in my throat and sinuses

Copper rising from my lungs 

The smell of sweaty walls

Sweaty halls

Sweaty balls

Left over miasma of physical union in an unlocked bedroom

Or moldy bathroom

The smell of a stranger’s alleyway vomit in the treads of my boots

Pizza or ziti?

Or someone’s deodorant smeared on my shirt and the failure of its effectiveness

The smell of jungle juice and regret coming from the stains on my jeans

Reminding me that open 9oz cups mixed with crowds and music and limited square footage are about stable as a pile of rocks on the San Andreas fault

The smell of cucumber melon or sweet pea body lotion which has been transferred to my skin by some siren who will vanish from my night as quickly as she materialized into it 

The smell of a pissed on dumpster

It’s rotting contents

Or the burnt spoon next to it

The smell of crushed pills that never made it into a mucosal membrane or the ashes they were pulverized next to

The smell of morning dew creeping onto the asphalt reminding me morning can bring many things ranging from a cleansing rebirth to shame

The smell reminding me like those nights,  the party is mostly over

The only ones left crusty eyed and awake are people looking for a piece

Whether it be piece of ass

Piece of the pie

Or peace of mind 

The smell of those that have burnt out and worn their souls so thin they will vaporize into nothingness and into a seemingly eternal sleep upon collapse

Metaphorically or literally

The smell of the real soldiers that march on through the mess of the past and eventually will see the daylight

Even if it’s brought by the end of a tunnel

The smell. The smell that strangely signals a world of opportunity in front of you

Triggering vitality

Energy

Reminding you possibilities exist and that the carrot dangling in front of you was poorly constructed and you can reach out and bite that fucker if you try hard enough

I never thought I’d miss the smell

The smell of New Brunswick 3am

The smell of youth

My Sign 

Now that I am old and worthless, 
teetering along the sidewalk, 
getting in everyone’s way, 
so rickety and disgusting, 
not even the dogs want to piss on me, 
I have attached a sign to the back of my shirt: 
If found down, 
please kick me to the curb, 
and call a garbage truck. 
Please do not attempt mouth-to-mouth, 
unless it really gets you off, 
because I might like it too much.