sitting on a couch
reading a book
(the title is unimportant)
and across the way
out my window and through
the next one and into the neighbor’s living room
is a naked woman.
she’s dancing.
or maybe it’s pilates or some such goddamn thing.
the important thing is she’s young and naked;
ripe tits, hairy bush, the works.
am I supposed to NOT look?
she’s in plain view, 20 feet from my couch.
I look and look some more.
she finishes her herky-jerky motions and leaves the room.
I sit, stunned, replaying the sequence in my mind.
the next day all blinds are closed.
every single one, the side of the house
locked up, impenetrable.
but something catches my eye,
a talisman
it’s a paper cut-out of a half-naked women
clipped from a porn magazine,
taped to the exact spot on the window
where my eyes bore holes.
what does it mean?
is it a warning? an invitation? a joke?
or a grim reminder that my best years are past?
Envisioning a parade of former lovers all gone to seed
I almost clicked the ad for the Web Site featuring “paunchy ex-girlfriends”
Some with floppy tits and Cesarean scars;
Others still looking good after all these years.
Then I noticed the ad said “Raunchy,” not “Paunchy”
And I was heavily disappointed.
While watching my children dance
My regret momentarily abates.
In the home of a childhood friend I encountered that friend’s father.
He sunk next to me on the stained sofa
And said: “Tell me your problems.”
I went through a mental list — the mortgage, the marriage — and stopped.
It was a test, the results of which would determine something of consequence.
“No, no. Why don’t you tell me your problems,” I said.
He turned and looked me over, then smiled.
And it occurred to me that he’d been dead for thirty years.
(That’s one hell of a problem to have.)
We laughed desperately, slapping backs and coughing into our fists.
Thirty goddamn years.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the…
(Source: psychedelic-escapades)
Outside the pub we frequented on the bad side of town
There was an itinerant Negro named Esteban who begged for coins every night.
He was Cuban-Creole or some damn thing and no one could understand a goddamn word he said.
Even the Spanish-speakers among us.
One night a group of overdressed college girls came to our pub
Dragged there by their boyfriends, no doubt
And we thought it would be funny if Esteban showed them his penis.
So we took up a collection.
We raised five or ten dollars, and told Esteban, using hand signals and Spanglish,
What he had to do for the money.
Haggling ensued — Esteban wanted twenty —
But soon we reached an agreement.
Or so we thought.
Esteban — either through mistranslation or mischief — took the money and
Chose instead to expose himself to us, right there on the spot.
Now, many years later, I have the indelible image of Esteban’s surprisingly large, ropey cock, waggling around, slapping his hairy belly
Imprinted on my brain for all eternity.
Each time we have sex
I think to myself
This is the first time I have had sex
With someone as old as you
HER: I can’t say [rape] and last night I had a dream that someone kept shouting “What can’t you say? What can’t you say?”
HIM: What can’t you say?
She made him feel like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs;
And tied to the cat’s tail was a string;
And on the end of the string a red balloon;
And drawn on the red balloon a hellish grimacing face;
So the cat scurried this way and that thinking he was being followed by a demon;
Mindful as always of the rocking chairs;
And every now and then a klaxon would blast for no reason at all;
And hand grenades lobbed and detonated;
And mousetraps beneath the rocking chairs ironically baited with catnip.
And he mistook this feeling for love.
I am one of the greatest poets of our time.
