V. 2, #208: October 23, 2013 ("Night of the Werewolf's Wife")

Lawrence, we have to talk. Tonight the moon
is full, and I just have to have my say.
If you don't stop this foolishness, and soon,
I swear to God I'm calling it a day!

I've heard the story half a hundred times:
the beast that bit, the gypsy, blah blah blah.
Let's face it--that old hag's panhandling dimes
and mocking you, halfway to Omaha!

That silver star she said you ought to wear
is tin. You're not a wild, bloodthirsty cur.
And plus--you're bald. I said it! Yes! So there!
That's why you yearn for supernatural fur!

Now come inside and get back in your clothes.
Don't make me come out there and smack your nose.

V. 2, #161: September 6, 2013

The way it was, was this: I'm at the bar
with Willie, when the guy walks in and smiles.
You seen that gravel parking lot. We're miles
from anyplace. We never heard no car.

He steps right up and plops down on the stool.
He spoke--I can't remember what he said.
His voice was low. He smelled like something dead.
And all the time just grinning like a fool.

That grin--too wide, too many teeth. It grew
until his nose and eyes were just three slits.
He disappeared behind it, like the cat
in Wonderland. Willie gets up and splits,
but I'm plum froze. He gapes. His tongue is blue.
I don't remember nothing after that.

V. 2, #53: May 20, 2013

You boys go on ahead and have your fun.
I won't try to convince you not to go.
Some things won't let you rest until you know,
and in your eyes I see that this is one.

The key is on a ring above the jamb.
Be sure you mind the loose boards on the porch.
There's been no gas for years, so take a torch
or flashlight. It's not like a give a damn,

but if you're fool enough to head upstairs,
the room's third from the right. Set up your glass
and wait till one, not stirring from the spot.
I'm old. There's not much in this world that scares
me now, but I'll say this: I've seen the lass
before. Another time? I'd rather not.

 

V. 2, #30: April 26, 2013

I used to be a simple plumber, see?
Clogged toilets, leaky faucets, sluggish drains.
I never showed my crack. Not once. Took pains
for modesty (the overalls are key).

So when the weird stuff started, I just shrugged.
Sure, cleaning flytraps out of pipes was strange,
and turtles, mushrooms...still, it made a change--
I stomped 'em down to pulp, and wasn't bugged.

But then they had to go kidnap the dame,
and that was something I could not abide.
Maybe it's just that old Italian pride,
but I was steamed--my brother felt the same.

So off we went. The rest you prob'ly know.
Now, where's that tub you said was draining slow?

 

V. 2, #17: April 13, 2013

This afternoon, it's just the two of us:
kids are away with grandparents or friends,
and we're alone to reap the dividends
we're due on our account of pent-up lust;

Let's rip each other's clothes off, feel the sun
on our unmentionables! Let's christen each
and every room, make such love as would teach
Eros a thing or two 'bout how it's done!

What's that you say? Come on, housework can wait!
No need to do the dishes now. Oh please!
I'll scrub the toilets later. Let's just--jeez.
No, never mind. It's fine. In fact, it's great.

You take a nap. I'll tidy things down here.
No, I'm not mad. Why would I be, my dear?

 

V. 2, #4: March 31, 2013

Hey, pardner! You--the one with mutton chops!
The lady said get lost, so let it pass.
Don't make me come down there and kick your ass!
Somebody's sure to freak and call the cops,

And neither of us needs that--least 'ways you.
(I figure you're no stranger to the law.)
So if you like the way God made your jaw
fit in its place, take my advice: go screw.

There's always one like you, can't let it be:
some rooster thinks his tail's the best in town,
till some other old cock spurs him right down
to blood and feathers. Friend, that cock is me.

That's what I thought. See, darlin'? He's all show.
Could I buy you--goddammit, where'd she go? 

 

#461: The Old Detective Waxes Philosophical Over a Pusher's Corpse, While His Young Partner Listens

"There's two ways you can look at it," he said.
"First, maybe he was only passing through.
Got tangled in some drug deal, lost his head,
and wound up here. Old story. Nothing new.

"The second way is metaphysical,
involving destiny and fate, you see?
Some cosmic, strange gravitational pull
brought him to where he was supposed to be.

"And so his death is like a sacrifice
to gods we have forgotten. If not that,
chaos, to which no meaning can adhere.
So, one or two, son? Neither's very nice."
He lit a cigarette and grabbed his hat.
"Well, anyway, he's dead. Let's get a beer."

#448: The Green Revenger (Ret.) Remembers the Incident that Ended His Career

When you've been wearing tights as long as me
you know just by the model of their boots
if it's a joy ride or a killing spree.
You read it in the bloodstains on their suits.

This guy--the long black gloves, that leather mask?
He really meant it. No role-playing games.
No banter--stayed relentlessly on-task.
He didn't bother coming up with names.

My sidekick at the time, Flag Wavin' Kid,
tried some big action-hero kind of kick.
He never knew what hit him, but I did.
I saw it, and it made me kind of sick.

He laughed--a chilling sound--and leapt the fence;
and worst of all: nobody's seen him since.

#427: Sonnet from a Begging Dog

I don't need hugs or lips-to-muzzle kisses;
I don't want walks around no parking lot.
Don't need to piss where Ralph the Beagle pisses;
But one more Milk Bone sure would hit the spot.

I don't want none of them hand-knitted sweaters;
Don't need a collar weighted down with bling.
No fancy house like Pat the Irish Setter's;
But liver snacks is my most favorite thing.

A goose-down sleeping pillow then, perhaps? No--
The hay bale where I'm bedding's fine with me.
Car seat for trips, like Frank the Lhasa Apso?
No thanks--I knows the bestest gifts is free.

So clear my bowl of them dry, crunchy pellets:
You're cooking roast tonight, man. I can smell it.
_

#420: Artists' Model, at His Local Bar

Each Wednesday night the university
art teacher calls me up to have me pose.
Say what? Professor? Yeah, she's one of those.
Her students sure ain't seen the likes of me
in any of their textbooks! It's the burns.
She says the texture--ridges, pits, and whorls--
are good for shading practice. All the girls
stare hard; I don't mind that! The platform turns
so everyone can get a look.
                           The boys
try not to check my dick, but always do.
I wink and tell 'em I've had no complaints.
"A ribbed one's something every broad enjoys!"
I whip it out. Sometimes one of 'em faints.
Ten bucks and hour for that!

                             She's pretty, too.

#417: Not Looking for Answers

What? Set 'em up again? Yeah, might as well.
It's not like anybody's keeping score
or waiting up at home, so what the hell!
What was my last, a whiskey? So--one more;

At least the one--we'll see what happens next,
then judge what course of action suits us best.
If cured, we'll say good night, but if still vexed
by life or love or--well, you know the rest.

It's clear the riddle's answer that we seek
will not be found in bottles, vats, or cans;
we are not fools. We have not come for such.
For now, we're done with mysteries that leak
like icy water through our blistered hands.
So pour--I'll tell you when I've had too much.
_

#379: The Philosophy of Disappointment

Babe, dig it: everyone will let you down,
you give them time enough. That's in the bank.
The world keeps turnin', leaves go red and brown,
and nothing changes. Got no one to thank

but Nature, babe. That's just the way we're built--
can only keep it steady just so long
before we wreck. Then nothing left but guilt
and shame, and who was right, and who was wrong.

Your friends and relatives, your lovers too
(especially them), whoever gets your trust
betrays it, baby. That's just what we do.
What you expect? We're made from clay and dust.

God could have made us out of stronger stuff--
but then the test would not be hard enough.

#378: Handler

You know, they're only ugly; they're not mean.
But people still assume the worst--they see
those curling claws, skin cracked (and worse yet green)
and jump to foul conclusions. As for me,

it took some work, and lots of sleepless nights
(and countless liver snacks, of course) but now
I've gained their trust. Sure, I could show you bites
and scratches--but I'd sooner show you how

they purr whenever tickled on their chins
(just mind don't touch the tusks, they're sensitive),
or how they love to nudge you with their fins
(but don't nudge back--not if you want to live).

But folks will hate, with no reason nor rhyme.
Come on, best lock the cage. It's feeding time.

#354: April 12, 2007

"Look, I'll make you a deal: just shut yer trap,
or else I'll shut it for you. How's that sound?
One way, you keep that dame across your lap;
the harder way's a hot date with the ground.

"What now, a heater? Second time today
some gunsel's thought the gat in his right hand's
the whole world by the tail. What can I say?
This type, a beatdown's all he understands.

"Here, gimme that! You're gonna hurt someone.
Now what to do, since Plan A just got scrapped?
Somebody's always giving me his gun.
Punk, you'll take it and like it when you're slapped!

"C'mon, let's see if Gutman comes across.
This'll put you in solid with your boss."

#327: March 16, 2007

I want to eat your brain. Is that so wrong?
Or so surprising, given what I am?
You'd not begrudge the wolf a leg of lamb,
and my innate hunger is just as strong;

You think it's fun to be the walking dead?
To have your flesh and limbs drop off this way?
We did not choose our state, nor you for prey--
so be a sport: give us a little head.

Civilization's grinding to a halt;
our hordes like locusts overrun the earth!
Those not yet dead already curse their birth.
The end is here--but that's none of my fault.

I'm only trying to spare you needless pain.
So stop being stubborn. Give me your braaaaaaaaaaain!

#322: March 11, 2007

See, J. C. was a fuckin' rock star, man!
He laid down all the moves, knew all the tricks.
That long dark hair, that sexy Dead-Sea tan--
no fuckin' wonder He got all the chicks.

This one girl used her hair to wash His feet!
Some fought to touch the collar of His shirt.
That crazy, man! The babes lined every street,
so blind, devoted and naive, it hurt.

Don't get me wrong--J. C. was cool to me.
But some among the others in the band
got jealous of Him. Jude especially.
If you'd been there, you'd almost understand.

Still, someone's got to play the front man, see?
And looking back--hey, better Him than me.

#310: February 27, 2007

The night wind blows like death across the moors,
the last black breath of this sick, gasping earth
whose dank, already rotting corse is wrapped
in cerements of fog; let us not speak,
but silent as the stones round ruined kirks--
we shadowed sentinels with naught to guard
but darkness--let's yet find joy where we may.

I'll show you mine if you will show me yours!
Take off your velvet cloak (which must be worth
a lot), and from that bondage where they're trapped
spring free your thingies! Here among these bleak
and shadowed woods, safe from those preppy jerks
at school who laugh and pull my Vlad cape--hard--
let's show we can go Gothic--all the way!

#268: January 16, 2007

"I don't know who she was or where she went to
after that moment we locked eyes and smiled;
I stared at her much longer than I meant to,
those cloudy eyes, that hair--I was beguiled.

"Beguiled's a word you don't hear very often,
but here I swear to God it fits the bill;
and had my ice cream not begun to soften
I might be standing, staring at her, still.

"But people only do things when they've got to,
and so I paid the tab and walked away,
thinking only how much I'd rather not do
those other things I had to do that day."

Grandpa sighed. "After I finished that cone--
well, kids, I never felt so damned alone."

#256: January 4, 2007

Forsooth, milady! Say what thou wouldst think
should I, a lowly shepherd of the moors
approacheth thee, and thus present this drink
from my hand (O, unworthy hand!) to yours?

Acceptance! Such delight cannot be told!
And, by success made brave, now should I press
advantage, like those generals of old,
whose small vict'ries engendered greater--yes?

See here, your hand in mine--oh, be not shy!
'Tis like a beauteous bloom cradled by earth!
Another drink? But if thy lips be dry,
a kiss to wet them is of greater worth--

Ambrosia! Thou dost cause the sun to shine!
Barkeep, the bill! Now love--my place, or thine?

#232: December 11, 2006

Oh, you don't have to get me anything
this year, 'cause heaven knows I've got enough.
I don't know what old Santa Claus would bring,
and I don't care to be loaded down with stuff.

My shoes should last another month or two
if I tape up the tongues and glue the soles;
my hat--why it looks practically brand new!
If I stuff dryer lint in all the holes...

My TV (as a planter) works just fine;
my car (on downhill slopes) runs like a dream.
My watch is stuck at twenty-two past nine,
but that's right twice a day, so it's just keen.

No, I'll be fine--don't worry about me;
I just wish I could afford a Christmas tree.