Striving toward a Ph.D in your anatomy is enough to keep me sane
until the seventh of March when you finally touch down
we shall dine finely filling our bellies with egg-whites and home-fries
in the corner of the local, grimy diner
you know the one you hate so much
yet we always find ourselves there sharing a toast over burnt coffee
spiked with my native Auld Stag
courtesy of the flask buried in the privacy of my bag.
I am starting to fear that Hathor is a distant relative of mine
but this is the nineties and
The Bayonne Beauties ruled by the pool.
Taking long drags off their Virginia Slims
dripping knowledge from their tongues
soaking-up as much of that dying sun the sky would allow.
They always seemed to have glamor surrounding them
even in ninety degree humidity
those ladies always left me drowning in modesty.
One of the goddesses looked up at me from under her sun hat
the Cupid’s bow of her lip was inverted when she said:
“Doomed you are sweetheart, it’s true….”
Then took her perfectly painted, acrylic-infused fingernails
brushed the hair from my face and told me to own it.
In-return,
I ran from it,
unworthy of the menat,
until the eve of my twenty-forth birthday.
I love you in the sort-of-way
people don’t love each other.
It is too advanced for flesh,
beyond bone.
Such a bond doesn’t believe in time;
we are endless and of no origin.
We kiss and lilac trees are born.
It’s quite clear we left our egos on the floor.
I look into the eyes you currently own;
they always save me a dance with your soul.
When all of our karmic debt is purged,
The two of us will fuse back together and return to the ultimate.
“Humans originally were combined of four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces, but Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spending their lives searching searching for the other half to complete them.”
If you were here right now
I’d let my most powerful uppercut explode in your face
and as you wallow in pain and bloody gums
I’ll pay you no mind as I
collect each of your disarranged teeth
to finally lay the seed for my garden
where none of butterflies go and
all the flowers reek of manipulation.
Then I’ll bask in my newly planted solitude.
Molten hot coffee
a fourteen hour shift.
Having money in your pocket
spending it mostly on drinks.
Freshly brushed teeth
cigarette butts.
Rollerblading
on shitty streets.
All your crude and educated humor
Realizing just your friends get it.
Chewing gum
gnawing both lips raw.
Family by choice
not bound by roots of a half-dead tree.
Saturday night
Sunday evening.
Love letters
death threats.
Daughters
born to cheating men.
Knots
kite tails; stability for proper flight.
Beautiful you say?
Beauty is for the 1950’s movie stars,
Greek goddesses,
female monarchs
and Marilyn Monroe.
I havent once in my life
felt beautiful.
It was always this feeling of
a piece of shit
or
a piece of meat.
that is
until I met you.
My personal favorite was The Egyptian Magician action figure issued in 1958.
He has since then been discontinued.
He donned a black mustache,
equipped with a detachable welding mask and sauce pan.
He spoke several languages and
his veins pump the blood of Ancient Pharaohs;
and I heard once
he may have even killed a man.
The comic book never confirms it but
we all know it’s true.
There was always a pot brewing. Black, unleaded, Maxwell House as if it were going to disappear.
I always wanted a sip to see what all the hype was about but it was out of the question.
I would clear the table after our three course fill of shooting-the-shit.
No elbows on the table-no hats- no cursing-and keep your feet on the damn floor.
I convinced myself,all those colorless cups of Joe are what gave my Grandmother such a sharpness of her tongue.
No cream-no sugar-just flat.
“The Battle Ax.” my grandfather said, giving me his crooked grin for the stab at my Grandmother.
It always made me laugh but I had to ask,
“why does she drink it black?”
As soon as I did, I was transported back to the cusp of the Great Depression,
whisked away to a time where cream and sugar where a luxury and coffee alone was “just-fine.”
the Dust Bowl,
child labor and the lack of laws,
trying to find a steady hand to draw your nylon seam on straight,
my piss poor grandmother,
living through World War II with her family intact,
and being at “this here table today” she said.
“No matter what just work hard, it’s always good for the soul to wear-out your favorite pair of boots.”
I’m glad to be at this table too.
She and my Grandfather
are truth.
I took my youth through a square mile town and wore it the fuck out.
It was an odd section of the Burbs with an escape route in every direction.
Taken by foot or bike,
a car if you had a friend who was on the same bullshit as you-
but the savior of that mind numbing town was dubbed The NJ Transit Train.
New York, Philly, South Jersey and anywhere in-between
flat.
The bus was always the last option.
Stopping at every other corner always cramped up time
and I simply didn’t have time for that,
usually because I was running
and I’d be damned if my parents ever found out.
The Raritan Valley line and I where bound to be together
and the small few who were always running away from that shit hole with me too.
A train ticket, my music and a pen,
is all I ever needed to travel on the locomotive and never look back.
I still do not understand why more members of our cramped quarters didn’t live by the tracks.
Staying still breeds disease in close quarters
and that is exactly what Suburbia did.
Keep it movin’ right on out of the Railroad town.
Although we should be in Memphis, Tennessee,
a dream-like state of 103 degrees
sittin’ pretty on the Mississippi
live music blaring in the back,
rock and soul
cheers to the good ol’ freedom ring
over half lit Marlboro cigarettes, whiskey and beer.
Bring it back to 1776.
buzzin' 