She sat in an empty booth. It was a Tuesday, mild, with a thin veil of cirrus clouds on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barked. Outside, the Commercial Street Flower Market opened for business. A ******* stood on the corner.
        With one the sitting woman opened the menu, scanned it, and dropped it back on the table. A bleach-blond waitress arrived. Before the waitress spoke, the sitting woman cut in.
“I’d like home fries, fruit salad, and a cup of earl grey, please.” The waitress nodded, slightly wary, and scribbled the order on her yellowed order pad. The woman went back to staring at her fingers. The waitress left.
She opened her purse, rummaged around, and grasped a worn paperback of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. A small likeness of a snake twirled up her left index. She wore beige eye shadow and a full set of fake lashes. Her nails were lacquered candy apple red. There was a large scar on her neck. Sighing, she settled in to read. The snake ring’s eyes were rubies; as she turned the page, they glistened brightly. The café’s door jangled. Seconds later, a man slid in to the seat opposite her.
“You’re late,” she said. The man smiled. He had lidded Egyptian eyes and a set of straight, white, fluoridated teeth.
“So terribly sorry. Pressing issues.” He tapped a finger on the plastic table. The woman licked a finger and turned a creased page.
“Still reading that blasted book, are we? How many times has it been now, Laura? Twelve?”
“Fifteen, to be exact.” The waitress arrived with plates of bright fruit and steaming potato. She waitress had poorly tattooed eyebrows. They rose.
“Can I get you anything?” she said to the man.
“Strong cup of coffee. Two cubes sugar, slice of lemon on the side. Thanks.” The waitress smiled.
“Certainly. Your tea will be in, miss.” Laura nodded. The waitress sashayed off and the man leaned in, breaking the barrier between them.
“Why are you still reading that godawful book? Wasn’t once in Junior year enough?”
“No, it wasn’t. If you don’t mind, let’s get to the point. What are you doing here, Jack? I know it has nothing to do with harassing me over my literary opinions.” The book closed with a muffled snap. She slid it back in to her large purse and adjusted her dress.
“I got the part.” He said the two words with barely veiled excitement; they sounded unnatural and foreign.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” she asked. She stabbed a home fry with her fork and sprinkled it with salt.
“I’ve made it in, Laur.” He said. She dragged the fry through a small puddle of ketchup and smiled. She leaned back and drew her hands through her hair, bit her lip.
“Who’s directing?” she asked. The waitress arrived again and they both leaned back, away from each other. He nodded his thanks, blew on his coffee, and drank deeply. She dipped her finger in the cup of tea.
“Some guy by the name of Cranston. Will, I think. He’s good. Directed a film called The Devil in Whitethorn. You might call him an artist.”
“Oh, Christ. You’ve made your big break, have you? With a ****** arthouse director no one’s heard about? I’m impressed, Jack. Real impressed.” She sipped her tea. “What’s your deep, philosophical movie about, Jack?”
“A man dragged wrongfully in to hell who has to prove to the Devil that he is a good man,” Jack said. His chin rose slightly. “he goes through his life as an invisible man, observing all of his human mistakes. Eventually he discovers that Hell is just another version of Heaven and it’s all a test to get him to look at his life as an outsider. I play the college version of the lead. I’m third-highest billed.” He reached over and snatched a strawberry from her plate. She smirked.
“Wow,” she said, “sounds deep. Almost like one of the sappier episodes of The Twilight Zone, twist and all. Tell me, does Shatner play a PTSD-riddled man who sees monsters on an airplane? Is the Devil a fan of billiards? How many aliens are in this movie of yours?” she smiled at him, exposing a line of somewhat crooked teeth. “A movie, huh? Congrats.”
“Many thanks. I thought that someone who appreciated the subtle insanity of Vonnegut might appreciate a good deep film. Are you going to finish those?” he gestured at the fries. Six of them remained. Laura slid them across the table and tucked in to the fruit plate. “No more awful local commercials for me, love.” She scoffed at that.
“You’re a crap commercial actor. How much money are you getting for this little highbrow film of yours? One K or two?” She stabbed a honeydew square and crunched it between red lips.
“Four, doll. More than you make in a month.” Her cheeks reddened.
“I don’t need much, Jack. You of all people should know that.” She coughed lightly in to her napkin. “You’re a tricky *******. How long have you known?” He licked a spot of ketchup off of his  finger.
“Oh… Five weeks? Six? Somewhere around there. We start shooting next month.” He leaned forward, lightly brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. “It’ll premier downtown on the seventh of July. Be prepared, since I’m dragging you out there with me. You’ll need a cocktail dress and modest makeup.”
“How modest is modest?” she asked. He surveyed her face, scanning with his eyes squinted slightly. Her face flushed a touch more.
“Hmm…” he said, “drop the red lipstick, add a few more spots of cover-up, light champagne eye shadow and less blush. Also, ditch the falsies.” She laughed, a light trill.
“I don’t leave the house without them. I suppose I can scour my collection for some more… What was the word you used? Modest pairs.” His fingers stopped rubbing the thin, veined skin on the back of her right hand for a short moment.
“In other words, you’ve said yes.”
“Yes, I have.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood up. “Call me some time. You haven’t forgotten my number, have you?” Laura grinned. He picked up the lemon, separated the meat from the rind, and rubbed the white flesh on his teeth.
“No, I haven’t.” He dropped a single white envelope on the table. She surveyed it, placing it next to the tattered paperback in her purse. He walked away.
“Oh, and Jack?” she called without looking back at him. He stopped mid-step. “I wasn’t wearing blush today.”
He grinned harder, waved his goodbyes to the waitress, and left. The door jangled. She finished the last dregs of her tea, dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table, and stood up. It was a beautiful morning. She walked outside. The bells on the entrance jangled, stilled, and their song died.

I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of  
the arthouse  
where we were reading.

His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same  
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.

I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level  
of comfort in calling the old gizzard  
this municipality's own  
Charles Bukowski.

The grizzled old poet  
is telling wanton tales  
of love and honeydew.

He goes on and on,
recounting the times  
that he's drunk  
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers  
in the backseats  
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties  
hosted by zebras and  
gazelles.

We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.

Seeking to continue  
the conversation with  
my salty comrade,  
yet knowing my own  
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.

His interruptions jam my  
traffic before I can even make  
it onto the onramp of his  
particular, peculiar highway.

His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.

He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.

And, now he's chewing the rind.

His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of  
zest.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017

You: a girl in high heels, a black shirt, and a light blue shirt. Your hair dark, your lips Taylor Swift red.

Me: a guy in a monster squad t shirt and a denim jacket. Brown hair, likely tosseled from the rain earlier in the day.

We both looked at the showtimes posted for the local arthouse theater. I crossed the street and you followed. We both entered the mall. I held the door open for you. You said thank you.  You held the next door open for me.  I said thank you and smiled. You smiled back. My heart melted. I sat my things down at a table as you rounded a corner. I decided to follow you to ask if you wanted to sit and have a drink with me. As I walked around the corner you were already gone.

Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.

I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.

I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.

And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.

When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.

I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.

I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.

The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.

Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?

The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.

I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.

My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.

As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.

As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.

I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.

I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.

I can’t believe I’m interested in this guy who
Took a selfie. Inside a ******* art gallery. In
The bathroom, because what?
There was nothing to see?

I asked if he wanted to get out of there,
He did. We went out, to some
Uptown clearance shop.
I saw a book by Joan Rivers.

I took a picture of the book;
Just some of the many illusions of rescue.
These days, nobody wants
Joan Rivers in their lives. And Khaki cargo pants,
Or classic momma-did-this braids.

You, a boy the same age as mine,
Might love me. Almost. It matters,
Even if you don’t remember, the words you said
To me, about my specific beauty. I’m a toothpaste
For vegans; an AZERTY keyboard, or an arthouse film
Only three people will see, but I am worth seeing,
Even if I’m niche, boring, and particular.

Because you said, mumbling in
Your sleep, that I had eyes beneath my bangs,
Which were Licorice black, with
A baby blue pool at the center like a still vacuum.
I already loved you, but really,
What I loved was the way you talked about my
Flaws in illusory grandeurs, granting
My oafish, ungraceful heart and body accolades.

Did you just want to have ***? Probably not,
I mean, look at this whole situation – I’m
Not exactly one to feast eyes on. I’m a wreck,
A dumpling mash of chopped cardboard and
Dead skin. So no, it wasn’t feral.

The thing is, though
I have wanted this love all throughout my
Life, which isn’t a long time, considering the universe ends in
What? A few billion years? And I already feel that end.
Tomorrow, we’ll be 25. Then in five years, 30.
Then 10 years more, 40? The rest is just
A blurry jetsam of reduced memories, and looking
At photo albums online, wishing
Your friends were still alive. We are officially
Dead now, thanks.

The thing is, I feel like
It’s never gonna end when I’m with you,
When I’m ensconced in your consciousness.
The truth, with your name included in it,
Is better than my regular truth, which is
Just painfully boring.

I said this to you last week, and yet,
You dismissed it, saying that all I want
– All I want –
Is stimulus and biological response.
But ******* very much; I know my body;
I know what I ******* want.

I don't need you anyway.

There are other people who might want me
Down the line, I just haven’t met them yet.
I just haven’t learned enough social
Jostling, or romantic politics
To get myself served.

Then again, finding the words
“Requirement” and “champion of his own interests,”
As the foremost concepts of my profile
On your personal journal really ****** me up.
Sorry to have broken your privacy, sorry to have
Entered that forbidden dimension. I am just.
So. livid. That you don’t realize I’m a thousand instances
Of constants in the story you’re weaving, leaving me
Out everytime.

And the thing is, I just can’t do it.
You took a selfie, alone, in the bathroom
Of an art gallery, and I just waited, outside,
Super dark (because it was also an art show)
With other people in line.

When you came out, like
A precious, untamed neanderthal looking
For light outside the cave, I was happy
That I was a touchstone in the dark, horrible
Place of cluelessness we share. I am a blanket of comfort
In this closed space outdoors, in public,
Where monsters are more willing
To eat us alive.

When I saw that picture, though,
You, mustache, brows, bags under eyes,
Adorable. I knew you were happy being alone,
And that I was a side quest
That didn’t took much energy, so
It was fine not to ruffle some feathers.

I knew what I want
As we went home, I knew.