Fire Breathing Moron
Maybe he was part of some
subtle mind control experiment
gone wrong or a longitudinal study
on the perverse effects of a lifetime
of stimuli provided by nothing but
what cable television provides.
His signature act could be traced to
that scene in “True Romance” where
Patricia Arquette is trapped in a shower,
six seconds from certain death from one
severely pissed off heavy, played to
perfection, a future mob boss like
Tony Soprano. Somehow, she
accesses a can of hair spray and a Bic
in time to blast poor Tony wannabe
in the eyes and the rest is history.
Best not to ask where the lighter
came from.
Or, maybe he’d been stuck in a time
warp as a ward to a traveling circus
side show couple, all pro fire breathers
and sword swallowers, and he thought,
“Yeah, I can amaze and dazzle folks
with my talents.” Which he did.
But it isn’t like this act was nuanced
or laden with layered meaning.
Quite the contrary. In fact, the show made
quite the indelible impression and several
folks were able to provide detailed
descriptions to the authorities.
Let’s face it, fire breathing with Aqua Net
has a limited shelf life, roughly two weeks,
and three public appearances.
Charges against ranged from creating
a nuisance in public to endangering the
welfare of a child to, acting out as a clown
without a license. The latter is a hanging
offense in some states. Word has it
prosecutors are considering extradition.
The Renegade
What was left of
his formerly white
t-shirt said something
like: Cafe Racing Champion ’69
Ducati Lover. It Never Gets
Fast Enough for Me.
The lettering trailing off,
lost in a mixture of dried blood,
burned skin, motor oils &
high test, as if he’d come off
some Himalayan K1 thru
K 9 Interstate of the mind
at impossible speeds
without a helmet. The rest
of his gear: Army surplus
goggles left over from
the First Great War,
his bare legs and arms
almost on fire, raw from spilled
gasoline & vital engine
fluids, kept from reaching
total combustion points
by rapid air cooling &
thin air. His brain, befuddled
by a bad mixture of hypoxia,
& magic mushroom souffles,
he’d been pounding down
at each rest stop along
the way from wherever
he started beside that
long & winding path to
wherever he was going,
one speed bump ahead
of the pursuit team from
Hell, burning rubber on
the tarmac, trying to keep up.
Carbon Based Mistake
Everything about him said:
Carbon Based Mistake.
Had a face that looked as if it
had been used as a speed bag
by heavyweight contenders.
Had a body gone soft from
misuse: chemicals and beer.
Wore sweats that said Palookaville U
and no one doubted that aptness
of the logo thinking, “Maybe it
was a family name.”
Was the kind of husband whose
starter wife killed herself and
the first-born male child followed
suit once he realized heredity
was destiny. Had better luck
with the second wife who lasted
six years before leaving town with
anything that could be converted
into cash. Was last heard from in
Parts Unknown. The third woman
proved that experience was not
the best teacher. Finally, hooked up
with the one who would last,
a woman who could stop traffic in
both directions for all the wrong reasons.
Spent the rest of his working life
in the wash and wear business,
laundering money for shaky silent
partners. Even briefly fronted
a restaurant that got reviews like,
“They somehow managed to perfect
the difficult act of cooking a chicken
so that it could retain all its fat and
juices just beneath the skin.”
A sure recipe for disaster.
Narcissus in Black with Rings
“I am deformed with beauty.”
Joelle, Infinite Jest
If there was an antithesis to beauty
she would try and find out what it
was and be that person. Self-loathing
in her life, was expressed by piercings,
nose rings, lip rings, no doubt nipple
and clit rings, plus multiple pin piercings
in each ear that looked more painful
than decorative. The way she looked,
though, belied her sentiment of total
self-hate, a state of mind that could easily
have been defined by ugly, cheap, impossible
to remove neck, chest and facial tattoos.
but wasn’t. The lack of body art suggested
a hedge against that day, in the future,
she’d wake up in bed with someone so totally
disgusting, someone she’d convinced herself
she had loved but really hadn’t, their naked bodies
sticky with sweat and dried bodily fluids,
knowing this would be the day to undo all
the self-inflicted damage and become, again,
the person she claimed she never was.
Stalingrad Revisited
Standing outside Price Chopper,
shielded from the elements,
he’s a tall, unkempt man
with mismatched trainers,
barely able to remain upright,
a cigarette burning down
to the filter in his right hand,
yellow stain fingers in black
gloves trimmed to near
the knuckles, besieged by tremors
that a more than one beer thirst
might not stop.
His eyes beneath a ragged
watch cap are barely open,
nearly hidden by swollen,
blackened mounds of flesh
on a face pulverized by living
rough in a place near enough
for walking.
His reusable shopping bag is
stuffed with essentials:
six packs of Tall Boys,
sticks of vacuum sealed beef jerky,
boxes of Ritz crackers and Cheez
Whiz for holiday celebrations.
He’d call a cab for a ride
but none of them will have him
after the last time; two interior
washings of the car could not
erase the stench he left behind.
Six blocks is a long journey to
a place like home when you’re
wasted, barely ambulatory and
waited down with supplies
for the siege, for his personal
Stalingrad, for holding back
an enemy only he can see.
Dumpster Fire Press 