There’s a rooster
that runs around trying
to ****
every hen,
goose,
guinea,
and
sometimes Super Dave Osborne
will even make a pass
at a close-enough finch.


Occasionally Super Dave ****** off
the Rhode Island Red.

Red measures twice
the height
and weight

of Super Dave Osborne.

I told myself,
while we were in the subway
that i wasn't gonna have a beer
or grab a pack of cigarettes.

I had a beer up here

and it ran me 7 dollars.

I bought a pack of Marlboros

and that ran me another 13.


I spent twenty dollars
and didn't even get a good
buzzzzz.



New york is a good place to go sober.

It's a cool place to meet.
25 cent wings.
Nice, tiny booths
Lit by tiny electric lamps
In the guise of candles,
That give everything a nice, golden glow.
It's a Corona light,
And Corona-colored light always makes me feel
at ease.

She pulls up in a silver acura.

Gets out of the car and I can
see her ***
from the front of her
as she syrups over.

She’s got on a Black tanktop;
black bra straps showing
against white-pink
puerto rican skin
all while holding up those veritable C's.

Her hips burst against
a
long, beige
d
r
e
s
s,                                                                                
and I'm wanting to slide my hands all the way up her shirt to that black bra, and snap it off.

We have conversations about feeling older than
eighteen
and twenty-one
respectively.

Our lips are saucy
and oily. Tiny chicken scraps
can be felt in our teeth.

"I just started reading Starship Troopers."

"Yea, I love that movie."

I've never seen the movie,
but it endears her to me

that she loves it.

"Do you have any plans?"

"Plans?"

"After college?"

I plan on finishing my wings
before you, then I'm hoping
you'll let me hold your ****.

"Not yet."

"You know I've read some of your poetry."

"What do you think?"

"I like it," She smirks,
uncomfortably.

She ladles a wing in a slick of sauce.

"Truthfully, it was too much for me,
you really shouldn't talk about things like that."

She brings the wing
to her lips
and smacks it down
with a loud ******* noise
of a working, pink tongue.

I’ve wanted to hold her **** ever since I met her.
Now I’m lost.
Because she’s got black eyes
and I’m not even thinking about her **** or her bra.


I start thinking about how white her teeth are,
and how much two people can never know about each other.

"Eat me."

"Eat me."

"You're not using
enough tongue."

"Put it right there,
then hum,
the vibration really helps."

"If I put in as much effort
as you do."

"Just come up here
then, and put it in me."

"Oh."

"Oh."

Quiet.

It is always a quiet five minutes
from me.

The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.

The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.

The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.

When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.

It might be a bomb.

The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.

Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.

The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.

Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.

You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.

******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.

This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.

Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.

A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.

The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.

By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.

Hers are the awful kind of lips,
like a flounder split down
it's flat middle,
with it's tiny intestines
licking outward for more salt.

This is the broken sea
of love.

Your love is the kind
that makes a fish out of her.

Her lips are mercury-colored
and mercury-shimmering.

Inside that fat head of yours,
while she kisses
your belly full of hair,
you are constantly
swerving and shivering
looking for the sharks.

But you are comfortable,
in a way.

There's a part of me,
that you have never seen,
it's large, burrowing, dysmorphic
and it tells
me that this is okay,
this is natural,
that the cold rush I feel
is the thermometer saying I'm cooling down
and that love that kept boomeranging
won't be able to reach me
because that part of me
is digging deep for the both of us.

And so,
stuck inside that soggy center
it burrows for fun and survival,
because it knows it can go as deep as it wants,
and no one will ever see it.

"Oh my god,
mane,
this girl
she just broke apart,
so soft too."

Heck takes his hands
and makes this snaking motion
in the air.

He starts at the top,
his hands shaking
where her **** would be
then he curves inward
moving down her body,
his tiny, reddened, scabbed knuckles
shake at the invisible waist of her
then his hands flash out
wide,

"Oh mane,
this girl had a big one,
thing was big and gorgeous."

Heck stares
off,
lost in the reverie
of the soft girl
that just broke apart for him.

He stares off
as his drink gets warmer
and the tiny yellow bubbles
at the bottom of his mug
wobble to the top
and pop.

I take a few more drags of my Marlboro
and snort some more of my drink
and as we sit at that bar
where there were girls everywhere
Heck sits in his stool turned toward me,
his hands massaging his thighs
and staring up,
thinking about the girl
that broke herself for him.

Just to be with him.

I actually tried that poetic
Rico suave **** with a girl.
We were both naked
Lying in bed, her messing with the hair
On my chest and me lying there
Trying to come up with an excuse
as to why she couldn't stay
or why I had to leave.

I like her enough,
but the way
she looks at me,
she's inviting something bad.
She's so lonely in her eyes.

She twirls one hair in a pink fingernail
and looks up at me.

She says to me:
"Give me some poetry."

I says to her:
"You've got green eyes like the Mediterranean, I think I could mine
something out of you, your eyes are just that full of something beautiful."

It sounded fake
and corny as **** coming out of my mouth.


I hated her for even asking me
To sell out like that.

But she smiled a hungry,
ravenous smile, because she hadn’t had love
or even flattery
In a while and she was
hungry for that kind of poetic
Hollywood *******.

I'm a sucker for
girls going weak for me,

and me going even weaker for them.

It's a form of humiliation
and a bad way to end something good
like we had.

I’m  at work
Buzzing to get out of there
Out of the fluorescence
And the din of screaming children
As it downplays the howling heads
Of their mothers who
Dream of their children’s exposed
Necks and getting out of the grocery store
Before it starts to rain.

I am Bobcat Goldthwait
underneath
The large hanging lamps,
pale green as barge lights
I make little sounds with my lips
And tongue, little incoherent sounds
To push the time forward .

A man comes through
My line holding a beige patch
Of cloth
Over his exposed trachea beneath,

with a voice like he crushes cement
puts it in his coffee
and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw.,
He drops some
Toothpaste and a brush on the counter
And says to me with that mutilated
Voice:
“there are only two types of *****,
Big old *****,
And old big *****.”

His skin is blotchy in the cheeks
like the husks of craters seen from the sky,
and the corners of his mouth
are dry and cracked
snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.

For a second I want to laugh so hard,
That people will think I’m crazy, and
Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have
Me committed.

If he says any more, it’s this:
“You’re young, enjoy it,
if you worry
About the fuckups now,
you’ll Be worrying
until you’re an old ******
and that doesn’t do you any good,
***** hates the old **** ups.”