The styptic pencil of the mind having written,
in blood, moves on, becomes a hand, opens wide,
slaps the mind in its face, then squeezes tightly
into a fist of mystery.
You try to unclench it and reveal its wonders.
But it won’t be unclenched, so you
wander in search of fulfillment or doughnuts,
whichever comes first. But the nearness of Park
Pizza woos you away and you enter its environs
with bliss and fortitude on your mind.
The proprietor has only one eye. You assume his
name is Tony. He is fat and bald and wears a
filthy apron. Beyond the one rickety table, a cat
plays with a rubber ball. You recognize that ball.
Or so you think. It is the one with which Bobby and
Ritchie and you played stickball on a dead end street in
Jersey City. Or is it? Things are cloudy now. It begins to
pour rain outside as a beautiful woman in a slit yellow
raincoat reveals some leg on entering the pizzeria.
You smile, she smiles, and tells you her car has
hit a mailbox and is no longer drivable.
Before you can speak, Tony takes her to the back
room, where you cannot see them but hear sounds
of mad, passionate lovemaking.
Smoke and the smell of burning pizza emanate from
the oven. You fear an explosion
You rush out, cutting your face on the mezuzah hanging
on the door. If only you could get back that styptic
pencil of the mind. But the hand that holds it
is clenched tight in a fist.
A presumptuous chlamydia overtakes me, sends me spinning, whirls me into your arms, when all you are, cantankerous nap chick, enfolds me in your simmering stuff! Give me more when all I ask for is you, and all you do is sock me the rapturous tenderloin and wow it to the end of the earth.
The paladins of dead kings
shore up crumbling fortresses
in a maelstrom of doubt and change
unleashed on a discomfited elite
by an immutable wave
of the deplorables,
“the great unwashed”,
the rabble,
us.
Go search out and find
the dreams you left behind
when the time came to scratch out
a living, and pay the bills for the lifestyle
you chose instead of following
the dreams that called you
like sirens in the sea.
But now it is time
to hug and kiss
those patient dreams
which have never
deserted you.
Dumpster Fire Press 