I see you wanted to waste a little time.
So did I.
You, the reader, must have too much of it
Me, the writer, doubly so.
Think of all the other things
you could be doing now.
Think of all the other things
I could have done instead.
It seems we both make bad choices.
Isn’t it good to know
We have this much in common?
Let’s make another bad choice,
This time together.
You can read this poem to the end.
And me? I’ll write it.
Christ knows why
But after hearing
You’re back with him
I’m remembering
How you told me
He always tried
To fuck you
In the arse
And how sometimes,
Unwilling
You let him
And I ain’t saying
It’s nice to do so
But as I think of him
Hammering away,
I can’t tell if it’s
You
Or me
Who’s in
More pain.
We talked about sex at Bible camp:
three young women, not yet
out of high school, bored out
of our wits in downstate Illinois.
The summer torpor drove us
to seek weird companionship
amongst Christian families—
screaming kids dressed in overalls,
pasty-faced pre-adolescents,
women who wore bras under
their nightgowns at bedtime.
In giggling whispers, the girls
and I discussed baseball terms.
One had already made it
to home plate, at age thirteen.
The other, more bashful,
had reached second base.
I estimated my own progress
as slightly past third.
Midafternoon, dutiful,
we sang songs about Jesus.
The pastor threw his head back,
crooning about Jesus’ arms, how much
he wanted those arms around him.
I didn’t believe in Jesus,
so my mind always wandered.
I thought of my boyfriend,
and the hardness of his bat.
By the end of the weekend,
I was best friends with the girls.
The three of us exchanged
phone numbers before we parted.
We hugged each other, tearful,
promising to keep in touch,
but, as I should have predicted,
Jesus had other plans.
The first girl had sex with a cop
while she was still underage.
I’m sure my other friend
eventually made it past second,
but something tells me
it was less than what she expected.
At this point, I’m just glad
to swing somebody’s bat,
and I hope somewhere in heaven,
Jesus is swinging his as well.
I walk into the interview
with a fake confidence I have
not had in years.
Even the lighting seems half-favourable.
An older gentleman stands up
so we can shake hands.
Good to meet you!
I’m Richard Siemann,
head of merchandise.
I stop and pause for a moment.
So, you’re Dick Siemann?
The words just come out.
His face grows red
and he collects his papers,
says that concludes our
interview.
Acting as though
this has never happened
before.
Simple and to the point.
Did anyone hear a woman screaming,
Like she was being killed or murdered? Around noon today?
I heard it from my backyard but could not pinpoint the direction.
I drove around the subdivision for about 5 minutes. The screams stopped.
The responses:
I only heard the fucking leaf-blowers.
Probably got their cable bill.
Might have been a fox. They sound like a woman screaming.
Might have been a bobcat They sound like a woman screeching.
Maybe an owl? But not likely during the daytime.
Probably the brats at 1409 Stonebrook. They never shut up.
Maybe a Jehovah’s Witnesses at the wrong house,
Maybe a coyote, a T-Rex, or Bigfoot? It’s mating season.
Did you call the police? Did you call 911?
Someone did.
Too late.
Sometimes what sounds like a woman screaming
Is a woman screaming.
Eye of the storm
I’m in a fake friend-neighbor’s
third floor bathroom; coke mirror haunts
my devastation and
resistance
Left the faucet running with
Pulp Fiction on pause
but the movie is still playing in my head
Something’s pulling me under-
This party’s fucking over; dumb bitch
overboard, where the sharks serve me
cake and truth-or dare me to bleed
Full moon in Scorpio
and this frog princess has been stung
a few hundred times or so, pondering
too long at Crystal Lake; killer crossroads,
stagnant bath water-over thinking,
over drinking the death parade-kool-aid,
slow motion blinking-
I’ve been merely existing
inside an esoteric yawn
god in the white lines; god
in the mirror- eyes
on the prize yo,
Are you listening? Grow up,
just a mini ego death on a Saturday night-
The bitch is back and all that jazz
I forgot how to have fun or maybe,
I never knew at all
The sharks giggle,
it’s Tuesday
I don’t respond but I’ll be gone
by the time they breakdown
the doors.
Thursday night
Sittin’ ’round a table
At Clete’s bar, we all
Try to come up with
Ways to get some
Extra money. Me?
I’m sellin’ a few things.
Paul’s workin’ overtime.
Poncho’s just lookin’
For the part-time job.
Jimmy laughs at us
And says gettin’ by
Ain’t all that hard.
“You want a Coke,
Suck a dick. You want
A pack of smokes,
Suck a dick.” None
Of us were ever that
Hard up that we even
Considered following
Jimmy’s advice. But
None of us had spent
Twenty years in prison.
it had been about a year
since I last called
and her Dad had died
so I facetimed her
to give my condolences
and as I watched her face
I felt her long soft flowing hair
the back of her neck
the joy-burst
of her lips
and continued to get
aroused
looking at her bare shoulder
above her cream-colored fuzzy
jumper
and suddenly
I proposed
that we be married to each other
about a week
once a year
and she said
Yes
now
contemplating our next rendezvous
I miss her body
remembering the glorious sight of her
riding me that warm summer in Boston
I miss her
like the sailor the late morning rise
I remember a locked door
Against which a ten-year-old girl
Pressed her entire frame
A little above keyhole height
The first time
She heard her parents do things
The first time she heard
The mother moan
And not in pain
The moaning ended
The image lingered
Today the girl sits
And watches a pregnant neighbour
Wondering what her ultrasound looks like
If it’s a ‘Rosemary’s Baby’
Growing inside
Another house to the left
Has this woman in her early thirties
A Belle De Jour
Husband slouched with briefcase
Unsuspecting
In his 9 to 5 routine
The voyeur hasn’t left me
The seeds, too deep inside
The ennui of our times
When every subway loaf
Across the globe
Is precisely
The same size
I will arrive
Unannounced
I will greet
With smile
And a muttered line
I will hold her face
Like a dead bird
I will kiss her lips
Dry
And I will strip her
Down
Make love
To her
The night
Will be naked,
Her head will tilt
Towards oblivion
As I run sandpaper between her
It will be so perfect,
Even I don’t
Believe me.
Horror Sleaze Trash 