three decades in an empty jar of mayo
Two Poems:
Half Asleep In Striped Pajamas
Welcome Back Bub, We Missed Ya
three decades in an empty jar of mayo (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)
we were broke then
when lennon got shot
outside the dakota on 72nd then
reagan came along
ushered morning in america
and gave the impression
that we were rich or we could be
hinckley disagreed
and we are broke now then
everything is cyclical
then i watched boxcar willie
sell his greatest hits on the small screen
hart to hart star blazers three's company
love boat fantasy island dynasty tj hooker
fall guy bosom buddies facts of life all trash
listened to queen blondie elvis
(costello not the other one)
clash pistols pretenders talking heads
got my news first from frank reynolds
then peter jennings then roger…roger…moore
no mudd roger mudd
most of them are gone now
holes without holes really
because no one is missed
after enough time flows
no matter how loudly they howl
Table of Contents
Half Asleep In Striped Pajamas
ahahahaha
the fellas sang at the machine
when i tripped Robbins
Robbins was a shit of a man
in cahoots with Tante Wilfreda
(is what we called her)
found them banging behind a stack of pallets
(Robbins and her)
and got the Little Debbie’s man
to take photos
ve maek eet fit
Tante Wilfreda once told me
while i was lifting impossibly-heavy boxes
filled with shit from China
materiel
plastic garbage
above my head
on shelves two stories high
in the warehouse
ve maek eet fit
she said
and i fucking hated her
the bloody Nazi exploitative cunt
we got treated like horse shit
all of us
black white foreign domestic poor middle class…
the Coke vendor
looked like Harry Reames
the porno guy from the 70s
who became a preacher in the late 80s
the Coke guy got the Tante fair and square
behind the loading dock outside the warehouse
he came on her chin
and smacked her with his cock
while the weekly Richfood shipment came in
a giant air-conditioned semi
and i swept the aisles
futility
you sick
motherfucker
Welcome Back Bub, We Missed Ya
moving through the thick air of eight hours
is excruciating
i drive to the job squinting in the 7 am sun
and i think all i want to do is veer off
into the oak tree there
in the median
one more day responsible
for one more task
licking a stamp
or
pulling a lever
filling out a time sheet
little blank squares
these are the things
that take me down
eviscerate me
quickly
howya doin’ bub?
how’s it hangin?
long time no see?
glad to see yer mug ’round here
where ya been?
where ya at?
wanna cigarette?
they’re turning screws into my flesh
the lot of ‘em
and me?
i’m putting out the fires
looking for band aids
hey Hank
who’s gonna save me baby?
this day
seems like two weeks
Sick (April 9, 2009. Full Pink Moon. Issue 3)
i waited for her at the hospital in the waiting room on the floor on which she stayed
and watched a team of slow-moving cancer patients go round and round
with their IVs hooked to metal poles on wheels.
they all wore bathrobes which were obtusely opened at the chest
showing scars and knife marks
punctures and bandages
holes and dark flesh bunched up together.
round and round they walked an invisible track
and sometimes they looked like harness racing jockeys
in slow motion.
when she came in she carried a white styrofoam cup filled with thin coffee
and complained the night nurse withheld her medication
probably to sell it down the line to some shitty addict waiting in the garage
in the sub-basement of the building.
want some? it’s awful, she said.
it was.
when’re you gettin’ out i asked
and she shrugged and when she did
her shoulders lifted the eviscerated flesh for a moment under her robe
for me to see that what it really looked like
was much like the impact point of a grenade that had gone off under her ribs.
jesus! she said when she caught me looking
and i pulled away embarrassed and flustered.
can’t they make a regular goddamn cup of coffee here?