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SPIRIT OF 69
We stepped on the moon that July. Cut it with green cheese scraped off
some harsh crank. Demythologized baloney. Split the silvery light. Sank
romance. Turned around to gawk at this particular pinhead.
Now, today - Xmas Eve of the Big Halloween - I wanna screw the moon.
Screw it over to the ground. Wedge a thumb up a rift. Jam a tongue down a
crater; say Copernicus, maybe Tycho. Nip the clit of Plato. Lollypop Mt.
Pico. Drain the Dream Swamp. Erect over the Marsh of Clouds a bordello. Howl in color at the rainbow Bay. Jazz the witch's cheek with jizz.
I'm gonna grab those rocks, blow that power, gobble my fill of
substrate. Suck plasma off the Sea of Fecundity.
We stepped on the moon. Even dusted the stars; because they hung out
over Da Nang - we under orders. Took 'em out with rocketfire, willie peter,
sweet M-16's.
So do you get the spirit of 69. Go ahead - skull the moon, eat the sun,
lick Andromeda, nuke the yoke of that everlovin' Cosmic Egg. Wash your face in Apocalypse. C'mon - go with it, be with it:
Catch the Spirit of 69!
SAFE CRACKER
I'm a safe cracker. They call me the Saltine Kid. I kid you not - my
perfect kid. I spread just the fingers. My disease is in the wrist. I don't
need no latex, Tex. I don't need no damn dam. Cause I'm a safe cracker, yes
ma'am.
You just feel a stethoscope, a tickle, then a twist. Cause I'm a safe
cracker, yes I am.
So let me spin the dial, till you click.
You got my word this confidence constitutes the sole contact. And the
only dance I do is when I crack the nut - then waltz off with the mice, to
leave you high, loose and swinging by the hinges.
I keep you on the edge; because I hang on the fringe. Oh, won't you
sashay me through the combination, do-si-do the bolt, sesame the sucker?
Get crackin, wench - iron my shoes, while I take out the trash and
steal the cash. Cause I'm a safe cracker.
I walk you from the car. Straight past a star. Right to the bar.
Doesn't matter who you are.
I jump you through a hoop. Blow a kiss off a knuckle. Disappear through
a door - nevermore to kneel at your vault, dealing numbers for that click.
Cause I'm a safe cracker.
I'm the Oyster Kid. I leave you empty as a crack. I don't need no
latex, Tex. I don't need no damn dam. Cause I'm a safe cracker, yes ma'am.
Hey, c'mon now - spread that jam!
A DATE WITH DEATH
Got all dolled up. Hair done. Eyebrows plucked. No idea where going.
Over the phone, he guaranteed it would be nothing like the movies.
Occupying the rocker, I contemplated the overhead parlour globe glisten
on my new nails. Listened outside for the honk. This our first.
He'd always been around. We'd just never gone anywhere. He said we'd go
for a spin, try not to talk about the office.
I smoothed my dress. Tightened hose. Dabbed at shoes. Read, reread,
memorized the comics. Cinched belt. Picked lint. Unraveled in the crossword
the last few impossible clues. Endured the blues of fingers drumming
whatever daydreams under the skin.
Till on the wall above, the cuckoo Dad brought back from Iceland - ten
years before his arteries clogged - squawked midnight.
A tear welled. Trickled across the cheek.
I smiled slightly - to channel the drop onto the tip of my barely
extended tongue. Licked the lifeless liquid in. Mixed it with spit.
Stood up, again.
I swallowed. Plucked pins from hair. Stood. Pressed to my chest an
intangible corsage. Drifted upstairs - once again to love myself to sleep.
FAST
I was taking myself out. Hadn't eaten in a week. Not even one roach. I
clutched - to engage the nerve - the divine mushroom, the sacred cactus, the
holy tokay. Loaded relics - via esophagus - into trunk.
Hopped into my vehicle. Got the hell gone to the fast.
Ordered a bucket o' knuckles, cheese abortion burger; tub o' blood on
the side; somebody's brain fried french. Dove in to heart's content. Licked
the skin off my fingers it was so godawful good.
Dumped the styrofoam, polymer straw, napkin overkill out the window
onto the tarmac. Also the armada of packets of ketchup, mustard, ersatz
mayo, fake relish. Then the white plastic spoon, the white plastic knife.
Kept the fork; take home, use for foreplay.
Got out. Stepped over the arrangement of who-gives-a-shit.
Got out my Glock. Sidled up to the acolyte behind the window. Had him
peer down the mouth of my firearm. Asked, did he dream last night?
The fish tank the boy worked in began to stink, stench working through
the slots in the plastic through which me and the punk communicated.
Said he couldn't remember. Mouth too dry. Eyes giant.
Apparently he didn't have much experience of a loaded gun in his face.
A lotta people work at the fast like that. Or maybe too much.
Love it when they crap jeans! Makes me crave another abortion burger,
tub o' blood, strawberry kiwi shake. Nothing like the bouquet of bowel
movement smothering griddle grease scorch plus oil bubbling in deepfry vats.
I blew the fucker's head off. It was only a dream.
And who could deny the miracle? The disciple was there. The reason was
not. Physics happened. The disciple was not.
Left on the counter the Glock. For the crucifix is but a symbol the
believer in the end must transcend.
The cops - arrived on the scene in a panic - voiced other ideas.
I went peaceably. I had just had a very happy meal. I felt completely
full of myself.
When they applied the cuffs to my hands behind the back, I belched.
Shame I couldn't cover the mouth; but that was the fault of the police.
They loaded me into the backseat of a cruiser like a round into a
chamber. Maybe there was hope.
We drove downtown awful damn lickety fast split.
[Index]
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