A Time and a Place

The girl behind the counter
of the Texaco station
is already dressed up for the night.

She’s wearing a tight
black dress, high heels, her massive
boobs spilling out
of her top.

The door to the garage
suddenly opens.
It’s the mechanic. A short, unassuming

alcoholic 
with grease-stains all over 
his navy shirt and 
trousers, his unshaven 
face

full of crosshatchings
and pockmarks.
He hands her something
in an oily red rag.

She puts it on the counter
without thinking about
it. “I wanna go
dancing tonight,” she says. “Do you
like to dance?”

He shrugs. He’s eye-level
with her breasts. “I bet you’d make a good
dancer,” she says, swaying
a bit.

He blushes some, 
exits.
“How can I help you,” she asks
the customer in front
of me.

“$40 on pump twelve.” She takes
the money, gives
him his change.

“I just wanna go dance,” 
she sighs. “I love dancing.” 

He nods,
heads for the door.

Meanwhile, in the case beside
her, three Jamaican
beef patties sit under the heat lamp, 
glowering.

A Secret After Party (ASAP) 

Gravel bouncing off the megaphone
Of some sidewalk grifter’s pity party,
Asking anti-Capitalists to hit up his Ca$htag,
Passing out pre-landfill leaflets on eco-terrorism. 

These days, 
I prefer the candor and clamor 
of Black Israelites.
At least they mean it 
and they’re not self-hating 
when they scream,
No parody of privilege 
shrugging off a pedigree 
to sell grinders to shakers.

These nights, 
I prefer to walk the cratered streets 
with the moon the only curse-worthy whiteness, 
my solo passenger, as I skip another class on existentialism,
sick of the professor with a ratty bob 
proclaiming the end of the world 
like a cardboard-toting Jesus freak, 
claiming we’ll all be choking 
on seaweed before grad school.

The South Beach bars 
have been under water 
since they opened, 
but then again, 
Liquor has never led to sound planning 
or shied away from an insurance scam. 
It’s where you go to take 
on a Tuesday bloat 
even in the best of times.   
Drown me in a river 
rimmed with salt 
and orange-peel garnish

And I’ll die a DeSoto saint, 
conservative when I come to,
But it’s all relative to the 
loser olympics on campus.

Revived on counterfeit 
big pharma Flintstones 
I found on the floor, 
I sink into the cement again, 
absorbing the graffiti gang signs,
seeing construction cones as buoys 
and liking them that way.
I fall in lockstep with the other 
Wavy-walking, smudge-eye grrls,
Envying their salty exteriors 
that come off more strategic 
Than breeze-begotten, 
weather-eroded, 
or college-bought.   

They wear headphones in the club, 
more content off their own mix
And whichever hides in their purses, 
canceling the noise 
Of dick jockeys, static MCs, 
and other slack-jaw jivers.
Hip-checking and chin-swaying, 
they laugh off the come-ons
Of CHUD hucksters and 
creepy Che-shirters, asking, 
“Doesn’t anyone want to 
enjoy themselves anymore?”

Umbilical Cords Make the Best Drug Lords 

The morgue was filled with bodies
that were no longer in movie theatres.
Riddled with bullets and much confusion.

Looks like this one was triggered!
laughed Richmond.

Yeah, about a 147 times by my last count,
said the coroner. 
Has enough lead now that he could
probably be Made in China.

Richmond couldn’t remember the last 
time he made anything.
Probably his third child, but his wife
did all the work.

Send all the jackets off to ballistics
when you get a moment, Chief!
said Averella.

Richmond was just back from
the evidence locker and hopped up
on many of the latest finds.

Averella looked over and saw Richmond
standing halfway between the hall
and the morgue, propping the door open
with his fat wiggling ass.

Don’t mind him!
Averella smiled to the coroner.
Any decent investigator will begin 
investigating the mysteries of a 
swinging door before too long.

I’ll have what he’s having!
the bullet-riddled body on the slab
sat up and said.

The coroner jumped back,
remembered where he kept his 
own stash which may be waning 
according to the evidence.

You alright doc?
Averella smiled.
An small invasion force of his teeth 
setting out to conquer 
distant lands.

The coroner said nothing.
Made sure he was triple gloved
so no one got pregnant.

Richmond leaning obtusely 
over in the far corner,
hitting on a pair of calipers 
while this latest cause of death 
refused to play hard to get.

a shameful uniformity

I can’t quantify my hatred
for the Cub Scouts,
but it is always there,
seething,
just below the surface.

those brightly colored merit badges
and bullshit ribbons,
pseudo survivalist camping trips,
pinewood derby races
rewarding the children
possessing the most industrious fathers.

the cub scouts,
a militaristic outreach program
with the sole aim
of selling Orville Reddenbacher popcorn
to the clueless masses.

so reminiscent of that other
haven for pedophiles,
the Klu Klux Klan
charging $200 to join
another $250 for the fancy robes
then, every year they change the
design of the hem forcing you
to buy new robes if you wish
to remain au currant with your jackass
buddies, only to finally discover
you still have to do a bake sale
and sell rebel flag bumper stickers
just so your klavern can afford
to attend the hate rally
sponsored by the local Chik-Fil-A
down in Pawntatawk, Mississippi.

everything is a racket.

Know Your Season

An aging surfer dressed like he’s still fourteen,
shouting in his cellphone. I can hear him through the ficus
hedges and coconut palms: “I told you I’d have yer
money on Friday, bro. FRIDAY!
That’s when the eagle
shits.”

He clops through the sand in his flip-flops,
passes a voluptuous young beauty
in a black bikini. She struts past me, shaking softly
her three silver bracelets
as the music pours out of the bar across the street.
She moves in perfect rhythm with it,
and will stay in perfect rhythm, just like that, for years,
through love affairs, the changing of seasons, styles,
empires, epochs,
drifting along,
the music brushing lightly
against her hips and shoulders, her silky skin, touching her ears,
becoming her thoughts and words and then…

Well, and then,
going slowly out of time,
like everything that lives long enough. The music attaching
to someone else.

It’s all part of the process,
and when it happens, it just happens, and you have to know
it’s happened and accept and adapt.

I watch as she takes the crosswalk, glides along
the other side of the street.
A few minutes later, she is gone, and the aging surfer is back,
still on his cellphone. A tired old song
from a bygone era.

“Dude, why you gotta
bust my chops?
I told you my situation!
Work with me, bro. Work with me!”

Misery Acquaints a Man with Strange Bedfellows

In bed and at the gym: You can’t even do one?

In bed and in elementary school: Aren’t you a little old for this? 

In bed and in elementary school: What do the instructions say? 

In bed and at a gas station: Meet me at the pump.

In bed and on a hike: This isn’t as enjoyable as I thought.

In bed and at the hairstylist: Boy, now there’s a close shave. 

In bed and at a gas station: Now I’m supposed to pay extra for that?!

In bed and at a religious service: Is that the body of Christ? 

In bed and during a Supreme Court session: Go easy on me. 

In bed and at the gym: Let me slip into something more comfortable. 

In bed and to the Jan. 6 committee: That one guy was like an animal!

In bed and on a hike: Is that a rash?

In bed and on a hike: Did you bring all the supplies? 

In bed and to a telemarketer: What can you offer? 

In bed and to a telemarketer: Please don’t ever ask that again. 

In bed and during a Supreme Court session: I object!

In bed and at the gym: You need a shower. 

In bed and to the Jan. 6 committee: They weren’t supposed to go in there!

In bed and at the hairstylist: Just get everything out of my eyes. 

In bed and in elementary school: Draw what you want. 

In bed and in elementary school: Nice lunchbox. 

In bed and at a religious service: Take off your cassocks. 

In bed and at a religious service: Pray this works. 

In bed and at the hairstylist: Please stop talking. 

In bed and at a gas station: I think I need some air. 

chronic pain

the spanish princess and i trade 
horror stories about chronic pain

she mentions that she has recently 
started to think about suicide

i told her the first time i thought 
of suicide i was eight years old

couldn’t tie a good enough knot

had the rope, the ladder, the tree
in the backyard

damn small fingers

i dream of us slipping away one 
summer evening off to the pacific 
ocean

where i will take the spanish 
princess into my arms, make love, 
drink the wine and may we die 
dancing in each other’s arms

who am i kidding

she lives thousands of miles away
and i don’t think my twenty year 
old vehicle is going to make it 
there

but i do know a few tall bridges
and exactly how gravity works

Mr. & Mrs. Nobodie 

I saw your skeleton 
in every moonlit chuckle; every warm beer  
spilled across my cold and compliant nipples, 
every sun-cursed coffee-kiss-shuffle, every  
was-that-really-the-last-fucking-beer tantrum. 
I saw you, and still counted  
and adored every 
stupid bone. 
You could always dig mine up 
just by walking into the room. In return,  
fuck yes, I was gonna be the disco ball  
in your coffin as you lit the dancefloor 
of my soul. I was dedicated to dying  
more and more each night  
to be the bag of bones you’d imagine  
being buried with; kindred dirt-glam 
kisses, I’d dig you forever and play 
dead on command. 
I wanted to save us from bone-splintering 
boredom. But it seems 
the Moon was only dying 
for a good joke. 

Greg, or Nothing

Greg used to come to my shop to sell stolen tools. 
“You in need of set of needle nose
vice grips?” he’d ask, 
and dredge the set from his backside, 
the packaging still on it. 
“No thanks.” I’d say. 
“Is there anything you do need?” 
“I don’t know, does your supplier
carry diamond blades?”
He’d scratch his head 
as if pondering the word supplier. 
Confucius couldn’t have looked deeper 
in thought. “I’m pretty sure 
they do,” he’d say. 
“I’ll have to check. I’ll get back to you.“ 
He’d then exit the shop and I wouldn’t see him 
until he’d come back with something 
else I didn’t need.
This went on for an entire summer,
and then I guess
he gave up, or something 
happened: prison, rehab, his girlfriend kicked
him out of the house, etc. 
Years went by. Hurricanes happened. 
Presidents changed. 
Wars erupted. Monte Hale died. 
And I’d all but forgotten about 
Greg when one day I glanced at the surveillance 
camera and saw a man 
who looked just like him 
pushing rapidly
an empty 
wheelchair 
along the west 
side of the building. 
At first, I thought it might just be 
the graininess of the camera or the angle
that made it look like Greg. 
But two nights later, as I was walking through 
the parking lot of a strip mall a few miles 
from my shop, I saw the same man 
sitting in the same wheelchair, 
and asking for donations. 
“Greg,” I called out to him.
He looked at me, 
adjusted his legs with his hands.
“What happened?” I asked. 
“You don’t 
even want to know,” he said, and did 
a slow 180°
wheeling 
away from me.

sometimes, writing for yourself just isn’t enough

I tried writing another
children’s book just last night.
it’s titled “Guess What I Do
To Your Mommy While You Pretend
To Sleep” which is a direct sequel
to the yet unpublished YA epic
“Kara Has Two Mommies and a
Drunk Polack Who Likes To
Come Around and Pay Fifty
Dollars To Watch Them Play.”

it is difficult, I have to admit,
to pour so much of my time,
effort and creative spirit into
these works of literature only
to be told time and time again
no audience exists for the art
I have to offer, yet the best
writing advice one can pass
along is to write for yourself
and trust there is an audience
that will find you, eventually.