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Old & Tattered Postcards
Observations From New Jersey
1986
We were living on the border
of the extreme eastern shores;
Borrowing sunrises and sunsets
that never meant that much
to me but mused Andy
with drunken excuses.
Winter
We toured the bay colonies,
summered in Wildwood. Nothing
new for a Joe-Pro-Adjuster; Nothing
new for the white collar set
he ran with. Nothing new
for the black-inked, pink-paper
criminals they turned out
of socially-disheveled,
annular functions.
Partners
In Burberry's Limited shirts,
Andy rode high with Some Guy-Bill
and drank Catholic-Communist
Addictions from the bottom
of the glass. A glass filled
with bitters and gin,
iced to make it go down
just a little
easier.
Prodded
By greed, they worked
the staff of United States
Fidelity and Guarantee
into the folds of easy
money; Lured the outcasts
with coke-rimmed eyes
into green-lined envelopes
and spanked the lurid monkey
with malicious intent.
Lydia
Bill's wife and Connie,
his slave, kept white
picket-fenced houses, fancy
cars, and a hundred pairs
of shoes. Between the girls,
Bill had it licked, all sewn up
in pockets ruffled and cold
with the flapping sound
of a quarter million. Cash
was easy. Life was hard.
Lydia spoke little English
but broke her stories down
to the unequivocable truth.
She didn't care what
or with whom as long as fur
dressed her back and FLA
was a toke away.
Connie
worked the back end.
The operation. The lines
of Gloucester County cops,
palms-up, two-facing formed
around the corner from her front
door. She worked them hard
and filled hollow fists
with change. Chump change. Word
had it that Connie handed out
more than that. Bill didn't care.
As long as the paper rolled
and the claims were totalled
life was good. Especially good
if you were Bill & Andy.
USF & G
It's good when claims roll
smooth from King of Prussia
to the outer banks of Jersey.
Gee-its really good
when client satisfaction is
a phone-call away and paper trails
lead flawlessly from adjuster
to independent and fall back,
Signed-Sealed-Delivered
by five bells in the eight
hour work-a-day world of golf
shirts and dockets.
Gee-it's great.
With Frank & Herpster
steering the helm and Gee-
it's easy handing out cheques
and trust to American
Appraisers in New Jersey,
blindly getting
phucked.
Frank & Herpster
Each had their wallets
filled to maximum capacity.
Kickbacks alone could fill
the furnace and paychecks
were just the bonus. Frank
spent his days shuffling pink
and claim papers from the green
into the dumpster
of Herpster's office edict.
Paper in. Shreds out.
Nothing left and nothing gained.
No leads to follow, no axe
to gind; A simple wave of black
pen over blue water-marked paper
infected veins ran clean.
Cleaner than weekly junkets
to Vegas.
Back Wash
Andy & Bill wined, dined
and sixty-nined the hardened
Principles of Gloucester
County. Boys in blue
took their cues,
erased evidence and feathered
blue-er collared nests with whiter-
collared cash. They laughed
themselves silly and spilled
the take into Herpster's hungry
veins. Minds spun and mouths
got louder. Hot-Shots,
affadavits
and Pig-Latin Passwords
couldn't help Frank,
Andy, or Bill
when cheques from Herpster's files
came up wrinkled and audited.
USF&G took it straight and hard.
Up the ass. They were now
giving it back.
Twice.
State
Attorney General offices buzzed,
hummed and weeded bait
through long wires. Lydia,
Connie-Cog and I were questioned
under blinding lights
in the gleam of gold
shields. Lydia and I
sat, white-faced,
pressed and pissed
our ignorant pants.
Connie
took the fifth,
packed her bags
and assumed another name.
In some other place,
on far western shores,
she borrowed the highlife
of sunsets and drifted.
Clean.
Out of sight.
Out of mind, Andy & Bill
back-stroked in the back wash,
laundered boxers and briefs,
turned tales. Against the other,
each divided took the ride.
Bill on twenty-five, easy
from the federal pen
while Andy, drowned
in Catholic Confessions,
still bleeds drunken
excuses for his life
in the extreme.
Memphis
(A Diary In 4 Parts)
The Lead
Streets are always soggy
in January In Memphis
Shy for warmth
of some sub-tropical
triangle
Hidden behind glasses
Cat eyes Gold flecks
a bored survey of tired streets
His leathered arm Bomber
bait to his face poised
Stoic on boulevard shoulders
Where's the beef plays
circles in her brain
She smiles that wet
Come & Get It Grin
as dark glasses glide
on frame to alley-wide
hips Sub-tropical triangle
of masculine Culinary art
She licks her lips
flicks her cigarette
Blowing blue Garbo-style
Passing him up
is like passing Versace
on sale but the watch taps
a fragile pulse of
late Late LATE
Phuck Late
Lunch
follows a coy mark
of questions He nods
Still playing Brando
or Dean with post-humus
surrealism She draws
gold keys from cashmere
pocket Leads to the third
door down A red door
with gold letters Her name
and a number He'd swear
was 666 before Lunch
was through.
Fragile manicured hands
hold the door as he waivers
Healing in slowly Catching
shoulders on the jamb
As her coat slides wicked
over sweater Over taught
black skirted hips He licks
his lips and follows
her slo-swish lead
She leans like spring
on the oak of gold
bolted doors leading
way to sanctuary
Hers
His for the moment
for the afternoon maybe
If he's lucky
Just maybe
If he's lucky
The Play
Does he feel lucky
He feels like Luciano
and she looks like
Like Harlow-Blonde
Green-Eyed Gusto
She looks like lunch
She leads
Hand to brass
belt buckled over balls
of steel Kissing him
with martyr's ardor
Her tongue
the dagger to his panting
Lips in concentrical
circles lead to his neck
His shoulders as She
undoes his branded
oxford
O
she loves oxford
and the smell of sweat
Leather like lunch
She leads him to the bed
A bed for the afternoon
If he's Luciano-Lucky
He feels
for her throat
Her breast heave and quiver
Hard Oh they are both
Hard
and ready Skirt to hips
blouse a winded sail
to the silk seas
He drowns
in Opium In flesh
slowly
between white
gartered thighs They move
with the baptist gace
of Salome beneath urban veils
He swallows her mouth
Begging for the last wave
to break over gilbralter
Does he feel lucky
Luciano never had it so good.
The Close
The closer you get
to steel You know
what its like to be
Luciano-Lucky
on a Friday afternoon
After the checks cleared
and the dollars are flying
into Vegas via express
She was hot like nothing
and she was his Laid
waste on his hand
He had
But not like this
He had it all
in the back alley Had it all
from the square
But he never had it downtown
like this And this
he was keeping
His
for now or until her cell phone
blared him right of rendevous
with dare Damn technology
Connected-He'd like to dis-
connect the wires from her
for at least two weeks
She
felt for the phone
Cleared her cum-sticky throat
Murmurred her name into
the back of her hand
Touching out
that same manicured hand
that figured the freeway
of his belt 0-60
flat She coughed
she was in a meeting Whispered
She'd be home in an hour
and now he knew
what it was like to be
Luciano-Lucky
when the boys were in town.
The Ventricular Reprise
If Luciano had it all
wrapped up in luck
Maybe
Luck lived in lying
low for a little while
After the last cellular
sign-off glow
faded
She
sat back facing walls
Her hand playing chords
on the worn guitar
between tense shoulders
that shuddered Staring
away Far away
Back as far
as where-ever
Maybe
Fingertips
played softly to her spine
warmed her Drew her
into the narrowed space
between a sturdy elbow
and his chest A tear
wavered Fell silent
The lone tree
Fallen
in proverbial forest
Lingering long
on matted floor
Decaying
to dust like afternoons
in January crumble
to evening She laid
long Silent
Intense
electrons of soft-wired
communication blathered
in rhetorical reprise
Echoed ventrical rhythms
Slowly winking to close
like red eyes
Sometimes good is lucky
Other times its lucky
to be good.
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