PulpLit.net

We were together
for four or five months,
this crazy girl and I.
The thing started
matter-of-factly,
at a gathering
after a whole lot of
smoke
had been blown into the air.

She didn’t make a lot of sense. It was part of her charm.
Wasn’t concerned with
the norms and the codes of conduct.
That attracted me.
As the months rolled,
and they rolled fast,
the thing began to tire itself.
The more she told me about herself
the less I wanted to know.
Her father,
was a stone-crazed school principal,
with a knack
for burying people to their necks
by the waterline
at low tide.
Her previous boyfriend,
a short Italian guy,
had raped her
repeatedly.
Michelle, her roommate,
had made a pass at her.
Not knowing what to say
she said nothing and went with it.
These and a few other things
put a damper on the thing.
Sex was never too great.
In the beginning
I couldn’t get it up
and cried on her lap.
She had a few quirks too.
Hated certain positions.
Said they made her feel like a prostitute…
Conversation was limited
usually her running her mouth
and I watching her lip ring.
Looking back,
our happiest times
were when we were
stoned beyond all measures.
During these times,
her words
(and also
her nose,
her face,
the walls,
and even snow)
were very very interesting.
But then,
when morning came
and the body ached
and the breath stunk
and the headache hit
I would look at her
she would look at me
and then we would look away.
At the tail end of the saga
it was quite obvious
where we were headed.
But laziness
prevented any harsh moves.
It wasn’t until I went down South
for a few weeks
and met somebody
that the whole thing
came crashing down.
When I got back,
first thing I did
was to go from the airport,
to the popcorn shop.
I went in
and there she was,
apron tight around her waist
bracelets on her wrist,
ring on her lip.
She looked at me
and looked down
I looked down too.
We knew it was over.
I made Sam drive me
all the way to her house.
I packed my stuff,
threw it all in a cardboard box
gave the key to the roommate
and went home.
I didn’t feel bad.
I should have done it earlier.
So, I moved on…
Took up photography,
drinking
and indiscreet womanizing.
She moved on too.
Went from grass to stronger things
dropped out of school
and last I heard of her
she had moved to San Francisco
and gone back to her old boyfriend.
The short Italian guy
that had raped her repeatedly.

Vote!

Were we growing
tired of cleaning day,
or rather all the days,
hung out to dry under
an impassioned sun.

Did I not know that
bleach sterilizes on
contact, the first time?
I do tend to overreact,
and my obsessions
have made white of
everything colorful.

I could have said to
you then, articulate
and gently, that each
dog hair on the floor,
each cigarette butt in
the ashtray, each dirty
sock in the hamper,
grows bigger and
larger and without
cause or temperament,
becoming unruly, unjust.

As each dish placed in
the sink will conspire
with other dishes ,and
other dirty things,
and all will weigh too
great on me, that I suffer
from the accumulation
of little things, for they
manifest into larger,
powerful, entities in
number, and I would
be lost and defenseless.

But I chose to be silent,
fearing alienations
would land on my
clean floors, imploring
me to disinfect again.

I did stop for a moment
to count the speckles of
tomato sauce on the
stovetop, before my
sterile sponged hand
stroked decisively. I
counted as if they were
stars in an imaginary
sky with answers to
your questions, a
possible road map
back to you, somehow
hidden in randomness.

But it was only for a
moment, and my hand
swooped across the
night sky to reveal
only more whiteness.

This blandness has
permeated my skin,
and as we laid abed,
I reasoned that you
may have thought
my heart to be a real
page turner, keeping
your heavy eyelids
open, fighting their
inevitable submissions,
like empowered soldiers.

But there was no Patton,
there was no Macarthur
in my novel. So you fell
into the black night alone,
my ink disappearing into
another bleached page.

Tomorrow I will awake,
smell my hands to see
if the bleach odor has
resided, for I have
intentionally overfilled
the garbage in hopes
that something will fall
out onto pristine floors,
and I will walk away
happy.

(with a tip of the hat to Robert Service)

My story begins one cold night
When I yearned for some carnal delight;
I discovered a dive
That was jumping with jive
And habitues hardly contrite.

The first local talent I spied
Was the type whom by all had been tried.
?Mah name?s Jaw-juh,? said she,
As she slinked up to me;
?And yoahs?? A pseudo (of course) I supplied.

A garish tattoo on each arm
I noticed with pop-eyed alarm;
These dermal stigmata
In bright terra cotta
Did much to enhance her sweet charm.

Phenix City, St. Louie, St. Paul;
She?d set hearts athrob in ?em all;
Her torrid gyrations
Earned loud acclamations,
Her champions could fill a great hall!

She?d given up peeling last year;
?Had to,? said she, ?stripped a gear.?
Now?s she?s living her life
Where sin is quite rife
And the small talk consists of ?one beer?.

To get on with my tale of disaster,
I leaned close and proceeded to ast ?er;
?How about a cool ale
My splendiferous quail??
She accepted, and quaffed like a master.

Her lids drooped with a coquettish flutter
As she gave me a nudge with her rudder;
She asked me to dance,
I jumped at the chance,
And we soon were awaltzin? each other.

On the dance floor my peach was a tease;
?Tween us two there lacked space for a breeze.
She maneuvered her torso
In a way men adore so,
At a glance we were twins Siamese!

To make a short story much shorter,
I did what I shouldn?t had orter.
I invited her up
For a night-capping cup
Of coffee. . .or maybe a ?snorter.?

Her mascara?d orbs brightened wide
As she eyed me both out and inside;
She approved in a minute,
But asked me ?What?s in it
If ?Yes? is the word I decide??

That just when I should?ve backed down,
But playing the role of dumb clown,
I blindly persisted,
She hardly resisted,
And soon we were driving uptown.

To describe what occurred in my suite
Would neither be right nor discreet
I?ll dispense with the gory,
Get on with my story,
But I must say: ?twas really a treat!

When my one-night amour from me faded,
And I lay ?neath my quilt tired and jaded,
I turned o?er with a sigh,
To fond sleep did I fly,
Sans a thought for what I?d perpetrated.

The renascence of sunlight soon came,
Seemed a day like all others the same;
But there at day break,
I jumped up with a shake,
Lilliputians were gnawing my frame!

I immediately commenced an inspection
Of a rather unmention?ble section;
You can guess my surprise
When I saw with my eyes
That I?d picked up some type of infection!
There cavorting upon me with glee
Was a horrible species of flea!
Upon subsequent careful research
At a drugstore I learned with a lurch
?Twas the dread Pubic Pediculi!

Now, except for the experts in labs,
The rest of us folks call ?em CRABS;
Those tiny crustaceans
That lurk in bus stations
And oft in the rear seats of cabs.

In my own particular case,
The cause I could easily trace.
Though I hate to name names,
Or to fix folks with blames,
It was Georgia who fostered the race!

Oh, they bit and they hatched
While I grimaced and scratched;
Oh, they multiplied quicker
Than rummies drink likker!
Yes, to me they were fondly attached!

Upon the sage druggist?s advice,
I purchased a cure for the lice;
I made my anointment,
A tube of Blue Ointment,
To say that it worked will suffice.

Now that I?m clear of the curse,
I can?t say I?m any the worse,
I?ve learned a great deal
From my ?awkward? ordeal;
And I?ll sum it up now with this verse.

If ever you?re plagued by ennui,
Invite Georgia to a nocturnal spree;
She?s always quite willing
For anything thrilling,
But beware of the dread Pubic Pediculi!

there is no sound
but the failure of the night
to bring a smile
to a quiet face

there is no touch
but unsure hands
parting thick curtains
like morning warm thighs

there is no rain
but God there should be
it makes falling appear beautiful
it makes the stars shy