It was a wild one.
That much I know.
Now, first light of morning,
unclear how we arrived
in these unfamiliar surroundings,
clear on what happened though,
clearer still on the consequences
that await,
trying to be quiet,
I say out loud,
“You fucking slut,”
as I wash my face,
avoiding the mirror.
her long legs
stretched out
over the couch
like 2 big snakes
ready to coil,
choke me good
just looking at her
I already can’t breathe
This old house—
a rattle of bones—
settles in
for the night—
the lights
of its eyes
dimmed.
Graying roof tiles
kiss, tentatively,
twilight’s gloved hand
in silent communion.
Her pale eye
peeks
past kaleidoscopes
of scattered sun
and browns
of rustling leaves,
indifferent
to the subtle advances
of worn rooftops
and old men.
***
(Originally published at The Milk House)
When your wife has been ill for 2 years
and no doctor in the land can put a name to it
when she cries in bed each night
and flinches when you touch her
and all you can do is remember
how young and happy she once was
it is difficult to give a shit
that they’re fighting over sky-fairies in Tal Afar
or that demonstrators are up in arms in Barcelona
or that somebody made hot cakes on Facebook
or that glassy-eyed poets are passing mouth-gas on Spotify
bitching about Nietzsche
with their backdrop bookshelves testifying
to their talent and mental acuity
or that the motorcycle rally is next weekend
or that the car is filthy
from the spit that fell from the clouds
or that jam has bits of fruit in it unlike jelly
or that a pubescent loop-job dropped artillery
in a Missoula classroom
killing eleven
or that the monarchs are fluttering again
on the motherfucking wind.
You ask me to tell you a story.
Instead I will blow up a balloon,
Puffing my words into it
Until it is full.
I will not tie up the end.
I will hold that part
Between my fingers,
Up against your ear.
Slowly relaxing my grip.
The air will come rushing out
Along with all the sounds,
Vowels and consonants
Forming syllables
And phrases.
Listen closely
As the wind whispers
All the tales
I could ever wish to tell.
Don’t mind the scent
Of rubber and latex.
The stink is part
Of the price you have to pay
For being entertained this way.
So here I am wandering strange streets
In another strange town. Lost the tour bus,
So I started drinking. Got a bottle of what?
From some beverage shop full of foreigners.
No, locals. Here, for sure, I’m the foreigner.
Whatever this is, it’s kickin’ my ass big time.
Where is Rick Steves when you need him?
Now dark night and drizzling. Stepped? No,
Staggered into a cathedral. Yeah, mega
House of God. Big enough for basketball.
I’d give Him a drink but, no tellin’ what all
He’d do liquored up. Fire from the sky,
Another plague, zero out all bank accounts,
Make black white and white black, move
Our assholes to the middle of the forehead.
Whoa, better stop before He gets ideas.
the bottle rockets
landed on the neighbor’s roof
over and over
that summer.
It was the summer the Pearson Girls
still climbed trees
and the men
who worked with our father
gathered in the backyard
on Saturdays
to throw horseshoes
and drink beer
talk about the Union
and Management
and who was filing a grievance
and every Saturday as if on cue
the neighbor would come out
on his porch
pitch ringers
about the drinking
and the foul language
and the goddamn bottle rockets
that landed on his roof like memories
of a summer long ago
I can touch your skin again.
No, not the skin, deeper this time,
the polished hardness of your bones.
I can trace your eye sockets
with my tongue and discover
every crevice, worm-worn and hollow,
I can love you again
with my fingers buried deep in your flesh,
until the scent of your congealed blood
brings both of us back from the dead.
Dirty martinis and Cuban cigars
Fishnet stockings on hookers
Playing my guitar.
Vacationing in Mexico
Women without wedding rings
Making a list of my favorite things.
Sex before Breakfast
Out-running the cops
A judge that grants bail
Then getting bailed out.
Books by Sandra Cisneros
And Renaissance Art,
All of these things have a special place in my heart.
But when the bars close
And I’m still sober
My dealer doesn’t answer the phone
I think on these things
To keep from getting pissed off
And I express how I feel
in a poem.
Rock n’ Roll music and classic cars
Rockford Files reruns
Deep cuts that leave scars
My probation officer not making me drop
Dive bars bad girls and musty bookshops.
A day at Wrigley
Watching the Cubs
Cool Tucson mornings
And falling in love
My children’s laughter
and the first day of spring
What a great life
having these things.
But when I’m hungover
And I’ve got warrants
Or when my car breaks down
I think about all of my favorite things
And haul my ass out of town.
Guillermo had this great supplier out of Guadalajara.
Came through every time like a fresh nail
into seasoned wood.
And the whole gang was over at Holland’s place.
Slamming careless darts into the board like horny
strip club men that hadn’t been fucked right in months.
Some glacial piss beer from an overactive icebox
in the next room.
When are you finally gonna fuck the landlady
and get around to earning a break on the rent?
Guillermo poked.
Kasparian laughed in that busy gulag way he did.
A black belt in ju-jitsu, or so he told anyone
who would listen.
Building himself up like a greasy New York skyline.
All those hours in the gym, fighting off Staph infections
and lousy cardio.
You stick anymore roids in your ass,
and that bubble butt will put out the sun,
Guillermo said.
It’s the other things he sticks in his ass
that I’m worried about,
Holland grinned.
Kasparian was easily flustered.
Threw a dart at the board that missed everything
but the wall a good three feet away.
Guillermo retreated to the kitchen.
To check on the goodies he left de-thawing
in the sink.
Beside those many dirtied dishes
that never seemed to clean themselves.
When he came back,
he had an old cd case of these wobbly
gelatinous lines.
Holland and Kasparian threw down their darts
and sat on the pull out couch.
Like easily bored children with a new toy.
Snorting lines of pure bovine ejaculate.
The ultimate high.
Guillermo went third to make sure there
were no stragglers.
Threw his head back with that burny Jello-mold feeling.
Bovine ejaculate went straight to the frenzy-finders,
turned you into a beast.
Made you bullish about everything.
Kasparian challenged Guillermo to a fight.
Holland flipped a table and began goring it
with imagined horns.
***
The drive down to Mercy Hospital was a blur.
Breaking into the back trash yard with a pair
of bolt cutters and bulging jumping bean eyes
that threatened to charge right out of the frothing
boom town stratosphere.
And the garbage bags were set right there beside three angled dumpsters.
Filled with all those unwanted foreskins.
The many screaming baby boys welcomed to the world
and sent straight to the chopping block.
There was an honesty in that.
No one could be surprised by the cruelty
that came later.
Holland grabbed a bag and slammed it against Kasparian’s naked leg.
Howling with laughter as it broke apart.
All those little unwanteds flying everywhere.
The excess.
What the fuck?
Kasparian picked up a few errant foreskins
and threw them at Holland’s head.
Holland felt a sudden tap on the shoulder
and turned to find Guillermo
holding out a bag of his own.
How much did this bag of foreskins set you back, El Presidente?
Guillermo swung the bag in a wild swooning hammer motion.
Slamming it down over Holland’s swoll raving head.
An army of squirmy mush like a sloppy skin waterfall.
Kasparian was ripping on the chain link
and howling at non-existent moons.
As Guillermo and Holland fought it out for bragging rights.
Tiny exploding foreskins shooting off in all directions.
The discarded slipping on piles of the discarded.
Stripping down and beating their chests
in mutilated hysteria.
No retreat from the dropping
bombshell arena.
Horror Sleaze Trash 