Beneath the dark-light of night
And the soft daze of rain
It feels as though the world begins to fade
Signs erased by the rhythmic downpour
Shopfronts like blank postcards
Recounting memories never made
The towns which glisten beneath this rain
Run smooth with the melting fat of history
The homogenising filter of the modern age
The streets, clogged arteries of artificial light
Burning shadows into the misery-haunted earth
i had a dream i died
in your arms
don’t ask me how i got to
new jersey with no money
and just a few poems left
in me
i got down on my bad knee
took out one of those toy
rings from my youth
and asked for the hand of the
loveliest woman i have ever
known
you told me to get up,
i was being foolish
i knew it would end up this way
we went back to your apartment
drank some bourbon and laughed
about the old times
made love for the first time
my fading brain can remember
i felt my soul start laughing
i figured that old fuck was
just as surprised as me
i was warned if i ever found
happiness it would be my last
day on earth
finally got the damn chance
to roll the dice
Give me liberty or give me five
‘cuz death won’t buy shit anymore
inflation being what it is and all
Even inflation isn’t worth much
except for tire pressure
and Trump’s ego
and the mouse in your pocket
that tells her you’re glad to see her
And speaking of liberty
we aren’t allowed to laugh enough
They ought to make farting
a competitive sport on ESPN
sponsored by Hormel’s Chili
That’d give those rebel flag-waving
good ol’ boys some serious
wood wouldn’t it?
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
