tough choice
"i love you," she says
it wasn't quite light out yet
through one eye
i see her one eye
looking at me
waiting for my reply.
"i love my truck," i say
"then my airplanes
books & beer"
the blinds were rattling
cool morning breeze
& canadian geese
in the landing pattern
between the apartments
their feet out like skids
necks bent
the squawking harsh
"but your truck
can't suck your dick,"
she says
true enough
but if it could
casting doubts
on my sanity
the cold metal
up against my pubis
plastic aluminum
oil and gaskets
warming to the task
& stretched out
on my front seat
stick shift
between my legs
i think this over
she stirs up against me
hair in my mouth
both long ones
& curly ones
the scent of woman
on my lips
the warm flesh
still heated & red
the husky voice
and i think it over again
"maybe just beer," i say
she laughs
i'm just teasing her
by not saying what
she needed to hear
but my truck sits
outside
inviting me to
start it's engine
push in the clutch
stroke the knob
through the gears
caressing the dash
& buttons
tough choice
i'm thinking
about it
charlie
had a problem
with the bottle
because he made
too much money,
played in the
Olympics,
bit his nails
& believed
what the papers
wrote about him.
the great american pastime
isn't drinking
before the game,
it's for after
when sitting in
an out of state
$1000 hotel room
or booed off
the mound
the last three
starts.
it didn't occur
to him to call home
& see if his
wife could help
him out
because his
other lover
didn't talk back
& had a stronger
grip on him.
now he is in
the minor leagues,
hitting fungoes
& terrorizing locker rooms,
a months supply
of mouthwash
to hide the sweet
smell of success.
anorexia
she held back lingering around
the edges of the crowd
trying not to catch the eye
of the man who gave her life
his hat cocked rakishly
jeans faded and patched
the large hands cut
strong and dirty but caring.
she hadn't eaten in days
stood off by herself and didn't join in
the klatches after meals
noting the fat broads gleeful in their ignorance
and blinded by the axe glare
the sharp blackout and scalding bath.
she didn't feel good
dizzy spells made her walk in circles
arms dragging the ground
drinking water to stay alive.
late at night she could hear the Perdue commercials
coming from the house across the yard
the laugh of soulless children well-fed and insulated
from the long winter nights.
day after day she saw
Helen Rita Doris and Emily and all their kin
make the long ride out the front gate
never to return and not even saying goodbye
smug in thinking they were going to meet
thin boys strutting around in browns and reds
multi-colored dandies from Rhode Island.
but she had a plan.
there was a hole in the fence
no one knew of and tomorrow before breakfast
she'd make her escape and run wild.
see the city.
gain weight and feast on
all those young studs
not destined for the grill.
television
Why can't we
turn the TV off
& read a book-
plug into music?
why can't we
turn the TV off-
and not conform
to the will of executives
making the money
to drive Wall Street
to feed the media
to keep the people
in the inner cities
& not think of
the rumbling bellies
of children
the rumbling bellies
of tanks
the rumbling bellies
of soldiers
massing at the gates
of Sanity
save energy
& save our minds
instead of listening
to tele-evangelists
trying to save your souls
from yourself
Why can't we
turn the TV off
& escape Reality
by holding warm bodies
close in the dark
connecting the dots
of gooseflesh with
thoughts of understanding
& passion
tongues wiggling in mouths
instead of at a screen
of a mute uncaring box
the ads coming every 3.5 mins.
& boredom being a word
you never hear on TV
that Magic Lantern Show
of Freedom-
the baby sitter
of the young & old alike
the nanny everyone
can afford-
Reach down
& pull the plug
place it in the closet
lock the door
& listen to it scream
in the dark
calling your name
& deal with the withdrawal
by listening
to the silence
by listening to the
weeping of children
who never talk
to their parents-
those Zombies who
work
shit
eat
& sleep
by what is said
on the News Hour
& Oprah
& One Life To Live
who spend Quality time
with their children
in the park
talking on their
cell-phones
Reach down & pull
that motherfucker
out of the wall
mail the remote
to ABC/CBS/NBC/PBS
tell them to ruin
their own lives
& their children's lives
& their parent's lives-
stop buying TV Guide
& highlighting your life
into easy chunks
of time
Stick you head
out the window
to smell the weather
instead of watching
the lady on channel 4
for what is coming-
pick the phone up
& call someone
to hear the vibrations
or just go over there
& see them-
talk to them about
something anything
other than what's oozing
out of the tube -
& go for
a walk around
parks
lakes
or the neighborhoods
arms are made for
holding babies
lovers
& books
or something created
with your mind
& hands & heart -
not remotes
Kill your TV
Kill the cable
coming into your home
Kill the urge to vegetate
grazing on Green Acres
Seinfeld
Dharma & Greg
throw that fucker
out the window
& turn on the
pictures in your head
Kill your TV
make it a fast death
with a hammer
make it a slow death
sitting in the sun
& grass outside
you forgot to mow
because of a SPECIAL
on the Discovery Channel
KILL YOUR TV
KILL YOUR TV
KILL YOUR TV
before it kills you
Twin Bed
Because the bed
is too small,
our feet try to
become knots in the finish
rubbed smooth
from playing footsy
and move to the floor,
listen to music
between the speakers
barely audible,
dream of gigantic oceans
of silk and foam
floating on crushed
pile rugs and sponge rubber,
the view that of a
little dog licking the ankles
of toddlers learning to crawl.
We are learning
to crawl again,
giving up the desire
to run headlong into walls,
stubbing toes on bad promises
and vows like dust bunnies,
trying to speak again
in words we both understand
and mean the first time,
starting with "cat"
in the primer
and working up to "airplane",
then the words "trust"
and "patience"
before moving on
to more difficult things
like complete sentences
and finishing each others
thoughts,
a slow climb to adulthood.
indelible
it was easier
forgetting her
the first time :
the talking
myself into
fucking her,
the amateurish
blow job bordering
on cannibalism,
the loaning
of money and
favors promised,
the first time
she called me
a fucking asshole,
the fear in
her eyes when
she caught herself
wanting to see me
instead of needing
to see me.
now it's easier
hating her
than myself.
I just can't
get the stink
off my hands.
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