Tag Archives: Skidding Through the Mud Incognito

Any Robot Would Have to Agree

You cannot
let go
of something
you were never allowed
to hold.

(Click picture to know where it came from…)


The elderly women in their laminate
covered chairs knit with thin
and nimble fingers, wearing
floral summer dresses as a breeze floats
through the nearby window, top pane
propped outward with a book.
It’s cliché, I know, one has a sweater
draped over her shoulders, but she does
and who am I to call her typical.
Outside the mud stained door
of the brick building where the ladies visit, dust
floats as particles made visible by the violent
sun, carried nowhere by the gentle wind.
Each one passes me by. I cannot
gather them together for knitting.

Now I Know How He Felt

One night after closing
the head shop where I worked,
I met my dealer in the parking
lot to buy a bag of weed.
We were friends,
practicing on occasion
an innocent flirtation.
He was a bit younger,
taller than I and his car
was much nicer than mine.
I waited inside it, breathing
leather and vanilla little
tree while he made
a telephone call on the pay phone
outside the shop, dark inside,
neon blazing on the glass storefront.
I lit a cigarette from a stolen pack
and watched him speak, hand overhead
bracing his slouch against the booth,
voice rising in apparent agitation.
He began to scream, “You don’t care!
You don’t care! You don’t even
FUCKING care!” as he slammed
the phone into the receiver again
and again, then released it to swing,
innocent victim in a lynching.
As he made his way back to the car
I averted my eyes
as you might from the pants
of one who pissed himself
in a drunken stupor, pretending
not to notice his tears.

Summer, 1986

The pages of the old Playboy magazines
we had in stacks
in my father’s cluttered garage
were flat, muted moth wings
with wholesome milk ad faces
smiling up at me from their covers
before the days of rampant plastic
surgery; pointy nippled titties
small and high or supple
breasts attached to women arching
their backs, ringless fingers draped
across the delicate curves of their
untucked stomachs.

At age twelve,
I made my living
by selling them to boys
out my parents’
bathroom window;
an underage Playboy drive-
through of sorts.

There were other magazines:
Hustler, Cherry, some nameless
without covers stashed
beneath the bottom drawer
of the bathroom; battered publications
found by accident
when I pulled the drawer
out too far, smashing my toe
as it landed on the floor.
I remember in particular,
one with a brown haired girl
who traded a Tootsie Pop
for the cock
of an old, bald man;
her mouth and eyes
as lifeless
as the blow-up doll
she resembled.

Even at twelve, I knew
better than to sell
those ones
out the window.
But I got five bucks
a copy
for the Playboys.