i don’t want to be a hooligan, i used to get get yelled at at the pokies, I HATED THAT

i used to be pushed to being a shy person a shy old dogie,  I HATED THAT

i used to get yelled at in the towns centre tavern  I HATED THAT

people used to say i am shy,  I HATE BEING SHY

young dudes used to hide bullying me so mum and dad don’t find out  I HATED THAT

i hate people treating me like their mob, PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE

you see the guy who nicked my lunch was an iditio, I WILL NEVER GO NEAR HIM

I WILL NEVER TOUCH ANOTHER POKER MACHINE, WASTE OF FUCKEN MONEY

i feel people are trying to take my fun away I HATE THEM

PEOPLE ARE CALLING ME A WOOSEY, I HATE THEM ALSO

peop[le are treating me like a ******, I HATE THEM

i was getting teased at work, ya see i was told i was getting a job at tuggers ACTEW

and without explaining to me, they gave the job to someone else, I HATE THEM, ***** THEM

people want me to behave like a mature adult, I HATE THAT

i am expressing myself, i want a break, PLEASE GIVE ME A BREAK

support workers tease at work and when i tease, ya know just a small tease i get in trouble  I HATE THAT

a man was telling me i forgot to clean the hubcaps, when he could do it himself, I HATE THAT

I hear voices that people are truing to get me to do what i used to do, in every stretch of the imagination, I HATE THEM

i hear voices of people trying to get me to be an itchy hooligan, I HATE THAT

every time i hear a car or motorcycle i hype up by blowing my legs up, I HATE THAT

i hear my voices saying, your not a family person brian, or your still a shy person brian yer mate, I HATE THAT

i don’t want to get itchy feelings, I HATE THEM

the reason why i am not treating lyle like a mate, because he was crazy enough to put me in domestic violence, I HATE HIM

he had anger management issues  HE’S AN IDIOT

someone called me a great big ugly snout, I HATED HIM

you see i hate being involved in domestic violence, I HATE THAT

I HATE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

I HATE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

I DON’T WANT TO BE A YOUNG DUDE WHO LIKES DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, CAUSE I DON’T LIKE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

so in hindsight, i prefer to be a little young dude as opposed to someone who likes domestic violence

i hate violence in any way, i think i would know

don’t tell me to shut up, cause i won’t, got it, good

Delayed clock
Savio lays underneath unwashed quilts
Grandmother hand made
Savio lays with a woman
“Why are your eyes so Green.”
Savio said to her lips
She had painted them very red
and when they kissed
the lipstick smudged like a charcoal drawing outside in the April rain in Maine
“My eyes flicker green when you kiss me. When you are with me.”
Savio kissed her forehead
It was 1AM
Kansas
Down the street there is a church
the yellowish orange lights are on all night
When Savio buys 3 dollar wine
He walks to the Brick dressed yellowish orange lit Church
Pick up trucks that are thin with metal
rusted at the square gas tank
rusted at the curves of its wheels
rusted at the grill
rusted at the door handles
at the hubcaps
at the bed
at the windshield wipers
at the side view mirrors
at the belt buckles
at the radio dials
at the steering wheels
Flutter by
like children throwing rocks
like Winter
like rain at 7am
Savio sits there
drinking his cold 3 dollar wine
thinking of Mexico
thinking of the magical women he had made love too
kissed
taken out to dinner and lunches and breakfasts
thinking of Long Nights with his brother
Crossing streets with warm bottles of good beer
to Neon lit bars
to bars only lit by cigarettes and tiny radios blasting
Jazz or Rock n' Roll or The Blues or Billie Holiday
Never the news

Savio looked at the woman next to him in his bed
Her eyes were closed
He imagined her closed eye-lids as a moth
With its upright folded gray wings
night
standing underneath the warm breath of a Lamp

Savio liked The Moths
He read about them
He thought of them as the poets
as the painters
as the pianists
as the ballet dancers
as the violinists
of the insects

Savio also liked Boxelder Bugs
they do no harm
they sneak in through the cracks and door openings of homes in winter
They hide underneath sheets of poems
Van Gogh paintings on the walls
Savio woke to a Boxelder Bug on his lips once

The woman that lied with Savio
was beautiful
her clothes were expensive
her body was cruel not to touch
her life was good
Money
***
Beauty
Youth

Savio had none of these
He was handsome
His face was shaded with a few days of hair
His eyes were bright from the many days in the sun as a boy
His eye lashes were long like the docks of rivers from plucking them when he couldnt sleep
Youth was a long time ago for Him
and he sat at parks
watched the kids play
watched Summer
watched April
watched the Roses and the Trees and the Water
grow younger and younger
as He
Stood still as his fingernails grew
and his teeth yellowed by each AM cup of coffee
and each AM cigarette

Savio did not care about Money
he cared about ***, and Beauty, and Youth
yet,
did not wish these upon himself
he
Admired them
like a womans smile
like a Sunrise coasting over a cold morning with white Swans fluttering in the sky
and the Cigarette tastes like purity
and the cigarette has meaning
more meaning than Death
or Life
or being Wise

He admired the woman next to him in bed
he did not feel bad for her
or envy her

He envied on the ease of her sleep
The ease of her happiness
The ease of her
carelessness to beauty
or poetry
or music

He envied the Fools

Savio lied there
Her lips perfectly shaped like clouds
or the designs on a butterfly
or the moon's glow late at night
when the birds are dreaming
when the Dog is fast asleep
when the convict is tired
when the Sun has clocked out
24/7 Sun
like an immigrant

Savio looked at the alarm clock
3AM
the womans Dress and stockings and shoes and Bra and ******* were on the floor
along with her Class Status

Savio has always been poor
He enjoyed it
He liked long days
Reading yesterdays paper that he had found on the road
Counting the numbers of Blue Mini-vans that stop at the red light
He liked going to the park
Climbing a Tree
or sitting at a dock
letting his toes and feet prune
His skin red and the smell of dirt

He liked no Television
He liked his two pairs of pants
His few shirts
His red sweater that his grandmother made him
his pair of shoes
He had a little radio alarm clock
that he had since he was a boy

His father most have stolen it
Given to Savio as a birthday present

His Father was a good man
A bad man facing society
A good man facing his family
He did what he could to get by
He drank

Savio liked to think of himself as a good man
Though he enjoyed the Vices of life
That is why he could never be Religious
Savio was too brave to be told what to do
He was too wild to have his cravings and emotions held down by leather

He liked women
He liked Drinking
He liked cigarettes
He liked Cursing
He liked ***
He liked Humor and Thought about Death
He liked to Fight
He liked to contemplate Life
He liked to contemplate Women
Drinking
Cigarettes
Cursing
***
Humor
Death

Savio
was a good man
He kept to himself
Laughed to himself
walked to bars and parks and highway bridges all to himself

He was a Looker a Searcher a Wonderer a Wanderer

And Life
is a good place to do these things.


Savio got up from his small bed
looked around his small house
opened a small cupboard
grabbed a small coffee mug

Put on his one pair of shoes
Shined them with his old shine shoe case
that his Uncle had given him

He then put on his shirt
it was slightly aged
it was slightly *****
Tho
it was 5AM
and no one would be able too see this

He then put on his jacket
a dark brown swede jacket
it was stained at the shoulder
it was wrinkled
he had spilled gasoline on it last month
and it still had a slight scent of unleaded gasoline
Even though it had rained many times

His pants were strong
They were 5 years old
rough and thick with denim

He felt good
There was no wind being blown
His wine was cold
His eyes were clear
He had a full pack of cigarettes
and a book of matches

This time he walked to the Highway bridge
sometimes on the metal fence
there would be stale roses twisted around the fence

And Savio would pluck them off
dropping them over the highway
onto cars and 18-wheelers headed to Florida

Savio sat at the small cliff
next to the highway bridge
The grass was gold and tall
He took drinks of his wine
slowly the Headlights
turned to Taillights.

In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn  
                               across the forest's floor?

After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.

Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.

And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?

Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside                            
        the skiff.

Cross here with two pennies.

Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used ******'s mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air

Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
        does this not look familiar?

Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.

First we were here
Then we were not.

What is the Rust Belt?
Can we define it?
   - on a map, we mean -
Can we circle in black marker,
topographical green and brown, one mound,
from Canada on down to
Kentucky and say
well, there -
America’s sore fingers in old age
floating, separate, in the pond,
white and knobbed and wrapped around something
a lever, the haft of an oar,
the tuning dial to twist to Cavalcade,
the body of the eel which just keeps swimming away.

You said it in a message -
“Rust Belt” -
and a great blank region was filled
by old poets in corduroy
better than their surroundings
and if not better precisely
then at least when they drink
they drink in bars like smokestacks
with hubcaps on the walls, with weak plumbing,
listening to conversations, not having them.

Rust is something I know well:
I feel rust (but I don’t wear corduroy).
Rust like a signal ingredient
all through the cupboards.
Shot through, something you have too much of
and could never want to write about.
Rust in this message, too.

Format-Contests, word use, count OR time-constraint challenges... time limits - mind limits ~ people and self-imposed reach-for-a-brass-ring-through-the-cell-bars - to prove what?  Inadequacy-ability-mentality or the lack of just... humanity.  I guess when all-is-said-and-undone -Today I am 'something' that apparently yesterday or before the inquisition - I wasn't.

I would guess you can see how I really feel about doing 'challenges' - just for the sake of another's aggrandizement... notice I didn't say I wouldn't - just how I FEEL about doing them.  Chuckling here.  OK, 90 minutes began with the first word on a blank page - go...

"An Hour And 20 Minutes..."

An hour and twenty minutes… sigh.  I’ve an hour and twenty minutes til what?  What will it all mean - then.  The sun might shine or it could be rain, snow, sheet ice.  The heat might kick on all by itself.  A light bulb may actually glow.  I’m listening to the ticks…

Tick…tick…tick - an hour and ten minutes now… Where does the time GO when you’re having such ‘fun’… even pins drop as if encased in molasses pools - soooooooo slowly, barely turning end-over-end-over-end.  It gives an entirely new meaning to a drip-brew coffee maker, and the mind!  The mind races - RACES, in circles yet spirals too… in and in and round and around… but the thoughts - fragments and incoherencies, lost and found then lost and found again and again… threads, so many, many threads - interweaving…weaving…fading into the next construct… tick… tick…

An hour.  Just an hour, another lifetime passed and past and yet to come… a whole **** hour…hour…6o more minutes… then 59… now 58…eventually 57?  57 more minutes… each a little eternity.  Light a cigarette… the flame doesn’t flicker; strange how flames don’t really flicker after all… it’s all in the eye’s sight, what we THINK we see.  Watching the smoke move, inhale and exhale… how does smoke dissipate - expanding and expanding into a universe, a growing ball - ever fading, fading, fading… do we expand and fade-and-fade as well?…

Is it 50 yet?  50, 50, 50… come on 50…will someone give me 50, 50, 50 50…SOLD! - to the young-ole man sitting there in the back row… yay me… 50 minutes… and counting, counting… down and up, and down, and up…

Electricity doesn’t hum you know… it’s the wires vibrating to the electrons racing within.  Some would say it’s the ‘holes’ that flow and electrons just keep falling and falling within… like watching the hubcaps on a moving car - seemingly turning in the opposite direction of the tires motion… like living on the edge of our own universe… like living at all… life at all… flowing, racing, following all the holes, falling within and falling over-and-over and all to get - where?  What was the actual direction of motion?  Where did we go?  Did we go at all?  Threads and threads and threads " weaving, coalescing, expanding, fading… fading…

Its so not easy to lose oneself and yet we try… and find… ourselves looking back from all the mirrors that never were… cascading from all the non-surfaces back and forth and back and forth til we realize the fractals we are… such a pretty design that captures imagination and goes on and on and on til… 35… 35 minutes… 35… then 34.

Strange how coffee too hot to drink is so ****** cold the next instant of awareness… time isn’t linear to awareness ya know?  It has no set place to be or follow.  Awareness is NOW every moment you ARE aware, but not the one - the moments you weren’t.  I’m aware of being me - except when I’m not… threads and threads interweaving.  I CAN feel my fingertips… each ONE… and all of them at once… but not my toes… I can’t feel the smoke I exhale moving through my fingers… I can see it passing through but not feel it… but I AM aware of my fingertips and can still feel each one all at once… and I am aware of the smoke - moving… expanding… I’m thinking, am aware that I’m thinking I’m thinking…but what is it, what am I, in between moments of aware? Of unfeeling?

Tick…tick… 22 minutes… 22… Roses are red, Violets are blue, eternities last just moments - who knew?  22… 21…White noise, echoes without awareness… what really counts? And why?  And to whom?  So many ‘whys’ we have… whys for everything and anything - some our own and some are other’s.  Wise whys, shy whys, lost whys, because whys… ‘it-doesn’t-matter’ whys that ‘mattered-after-all’ whys… and cold coffee… 18…17…

I wonder
at the emptiness
with each breath

because -
its what we do
its who we are
its all there is

its all I have -
just each breath...

to wonder with.

Chris

Wireshell trash can sweep-brushed
by Fusion, Alero, Chrysler Something.
They’re filled to the brim like sepia-stained
skyscrapers with swivel chairs and water cooler
pow-wows. Boss’ talking fax machines
and projections for the second fiscal quarter,
flipping a stock EKG reading on its ***. We’re
all millionaires. All up like the NYSE at seven o’clock
in our living rooms watching the fireplace
playfully threaten our investments while CNN
sends money through the VCR slot. Cars, no
garbage trucks, cars, cars, scraping hubcaps off
the high sidewalks like beautiful harpsichords.
Neighbors. Suitcases and dresser drawers
packed tight with meat tape, paper towels,
and coffee mugs/fine China make heaped trash bags
seem obsolete. There’s no garbage here.
Downtown’s neon district makes enough
that they could afford a glowsign on every window,
every square inch of every lunch special, gallery opening,
or Salvation Army bell-ringer.

Forget New York,
we're the city that never sleeps.

She was smoked
salmon so spread
Like his creme of
the crop

Smoking hot circles
0-0 0_No-No
The points... Dots
And shoe size petite-
The whole website
To love and honor
Whats in her moves
The private Dancer

May I never be dropped
To be overly loved  
I am not asking for more
The score more or less
can be
The greatest dancer
O yes, so many pretenders?
More spread like__
Mr ((Mayonaisemeeting
Handsomely Hellman

Falling into your
embrace Tango-Tie
I- Apple creme pie
to phone U
May I tango  4-U
Sweet lips of mango
Don't shed one tear
Listen to what is said?
 How her dance step
to be read
next year to be wed
Like your hot rods
and hubcaps near
your bed choices
To sweep me off my
feet well said
The tango soprano voices
The Hub
Rubbing my
dancer's feet his treat
Wildflower Salsa beat
Emotional dance

*The Tango*
Graphically
Cool_ design
Contacts to sign
To his excitement
Steps are well
worth
the dividends
Drinking tapas
The fine tip of gratis
Sign sealed and
dance delivered
In an instant
dancing contract
Two bodies dance
as one__
Flaming intertwined
Brazilian Silky- hair
Mr. May-0 tango pair
Mr. Hellman
merci beaucoup

His desires came with the loop
The mixture mango scoop
May-0, not the May Day
No clouds passing
in grays
So festive never passive
Well made beaded

Peacock Miss Marrietta
The Birds of the feather
Expression of sensual faces
To impress the right man
Distinctly dressed
Explanation point
May I interject my
point__________
Tropical sandals high-point
Tango dancers have a
the certain way
The lovely maiden
Names day and age

Eyes engage contest page
He to her side fancy
May- 0  in her Prime
(Hello)
Another Day-Oh!
Don't move her dancer
days to sail away
Sea breeze perfect per day
Her fancy dancer
shoes not on
layaway
       *       *      *      
In the now a dancer
nowadays taking flight
Every day always
the dancer's way
You Amaze so blessed
Like your possessed
       *       *       *    
Titans in a blaze
How it may arise
He was dancing to her
movement ****** salsa
To her toes up to her
Tango lips amazing dips

In the cool
early hours
of a Thursday
in September
I find my way
into Big Sky
for a couple
of doughnuts
and a cup.

Just next door
is the Goodwill
employment offices.

There they find
sheltered employment
for adults and youth
with developmental
challenges.

As I park,
hoisting myself
from the driver’s
seat;
I notice her
trying the locked door
to those offices.

Thinking nothing of it,
I continue into the coffee
shop and begin breakfast.

Soon, she is shadowing
the Big Sky entryway,
eyes as big as
hubcaps.

Dressed as modestly
as possible in her
bright green hoodie
and ankle-length denim
skirt, she stares at
us all.

Her eyes are wide with
nervousness and a searching,
a yearning for faces known
and familiar, safety.
Settling for the security
of the donut-shop’s doorway
and the sunbeam therein,
she hovers still.

Her eyes come to rest upon me.

Having been in similar
situations for what is
too-quickly becoming a
half-century, I recognize
what this girl’s thoughts
must’ve turned to.

“There’s someone like me.”
“He’s different, and thusly
the same. He’s safe here.
I will be as well.”

With her owl-eyes she looks
me up and down, focused on
my outward-turned right foot
and the crutches leaning on the
chair opposite mine.

I smile.

So does she.

I wink.

When this happens,
her face flushes to
the color of roses
and her large eyes
sparkle like emeralds.

The doorway continues
to serve as her haven from
the unfamiliar, but she’s
relaxed a little.

Full of pastry,
coffee, and the desire
to finish the task,
I make my way outside.

Rising from my seat,
gathering my crutches,
I step toward the young
lady seeking solace in
the sunbeams.
Leaning in,
I cannot help but notice
that she is quivering
with apprehension.

I say quietly:

“You have really pretty eyes.”

Her unease dissipates immediately.

Her spectacular emerald eyes relax
and she smiles with her whole self
and says:

“I know.”


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

I like wool socks.
I like breathing cold air--
the way it numbs in my throat.

I like watching cars drive endlessly,
staring across an avenue at tires and shades of paint, windows and blurred hubcaps. I like catching the brief moments in time when the streets are quiet.
I like empty bottles and barriers and running my finger through a candle flame.
I like trying to capture the brief moments in time
when the house is silent.

Not exactly that swan
lifting white grace
to the heavens
Nope
but thud and tug and ping
and whipping thud again
taking flight out across the highway
in my rear-view
Scuttled dust  
fiberglass flattened
by the truck behind
White-knuckling wheel while
       mentally    compute
split-second sounds and feels for damage...

I guess?
everything's
okay...?

First it was that blowout
Then one by one
the hubcaps lost their grips, their minds
and went their ways
to join the trash
of butts and chunks of mattress
fast-food wrappers, road-****
by the guardrail
of another day

Most recent--
Antenna disconnect
Fixed with tape 'cause
Gotta have that music
heat, AC, tires, breaks
Ya know-- important things
like that steady humming engine

Destined to be--
buckboard to the beach or heaven
whichever's first
by the time its twenty
Much nearer than I'd care to say
Ode to Car and Driver
who get there--

in all good hope, together

             :)

VII**

The water starts easily, helplessly
licking my tires with passionate peace
As the current builds I can feel my hubcaps rusting
peeling away all those years of clacking British
pavement
and dogs taking a leak despite scolding
strangers
and children’s bouncy *****
gliding just short of an auto wreck

the icy ocean digs underneath my doors
it cuts my cushioned seats
like cobra teeth
Tearing away the midnight kisses
rides to dark places
and the beautiful dusk rainfalls
--If I think a while, in this bubbling
reverie
I can feel the sizzling raindrops
pattering

When the water reaches my wheel I
moan my engine
collapsing inside, wishing I could cry
but any oil would float away
and infest the souls I know will soon
surround me.
It isn’t long before I must hold my breath
and my wheels gently feel a folding of the floor
wood splitting shatters the still air that has
entranced me into my imminent
sleep

nothing, nothing
I all rust
looping bubbles and
twirling like a gumball down the
candy store machine
fallingfallingfallingapart
I explode on an ocean floor
with no hope of returning
even the memories they gave me won’t set me
free

so I only
watch the dust
settle


settle

The earth is black
on both sides.
The yellow bus
taking the living away
passes pile after pile
of rubble, of signs that
were once there:
the Harley Davidson store,
The Rogue Action Center-
a nonprofit climate change group,
the community bank -
it’s vault the only thing standing.
Indistinguishable from the ash
is the mobile home park,
which once housed the migrants
that harvested the town’s fabled pears.
Only their metal survived the wildfires:
aluminum lawn chairs, a barbecue pit,
hubcaps of cars long since evacuated.
Among the stranded survivors
is the aged widower searching
impossibly for his wife’s ashes.
He had escaped and settled
here after the Paradise fires took
his previous home two years back.
Crows on charred oaks branches
watched and mock his effort.
He looked all around him
and wondered to God
if he had paid
enough grief dues.
When the bus stopped for him
he did not get on.

Deep where daytime plunges I view images obverse rendered slight
wrung from a perspective when noon of day becomes noon of night
among **** whose hot water's cold & whose saggy ******* are tight
to show straight Venezuelan queers that head-wise they're not right,
as if to correct **** San Pedro dragsters who fist-ways can not fight
Charles Carroll of Homewood never trapped mice not worth killing
Charles Carroll of Carrollton signed free declarations Allāh willing
Charles Carroll of Annapolis wrote that Turkical gals were thrilling
in tropic moonshine French vanilla ice cream's quite filling because
for no Scandinavian ******* there's no Scandinavian-****** dealing
and so without Croatian moolies there's no Croatian-****** grilling
when stolen-hubcap rates rise with the rise of 'hood-hubcap stealing
con-ghetto markets are swamped with hubcaps spooks were trailing
while black markets are burstin' with cool hubcaps they like selling
before choco shops are flooded by hot hubcaps negroes be smelling
after flea markets go awash with hub hot caps ***** are concealing
their motivations that would be revelationary to crimes protocolical
that are as penetrative as contacts rated allopathically transdermical
so as to counter stimuli sprouting superficial growth sclerodermical
within mutagenical outcroppings phasically presumed hydrostatical
It was Ric Flair who had a stare what could scare a bear because no
one fixes fair hair in a chair devil-may-care with their *** in the air!
It was Sonny plus Cher who did dare to spare rare bikini underwear
'cause no Bono heir can compare to share the glare of 1 blaring pair
Mountaineers need rear gear to snare sheer facets & clear a bare ear
when fear is a mere sad tear in the career of chairman Norman Lear  
We need guns to **** fascists because in America it's live free or die
& we need guns to **** pizza thugs demandin': "Give me your pie!"
& we need bombs to blow up folks who claim Bruce Jenner's a guy
whose vehicular homicides are faultless on a California codger tour
that skids by a nursin' home that's home to washed-up Roger Moore
with his lady-killing libido that marked him as a bed-hoppin' *****
on the Sunset Strip & in East L.A. & along 9 miles of Pacific shore
where, in Speedo bikini trunks, upon a polite society, he waged war

I, too, dislike it.
However,

I was trying to not think
When out of the gaping wound
Of the car-detailing garage (smells like metallic ***)
Came a Nissan GT-R fitted with an oversized spoiler.
Backing out sounded like clearing the throat of God.
A gold snake zizzed around the license plate.
Sunburnt hubcaps, fancy undercarriage installation
Casting a pool of violent light on the pocket pavement
Of gum blots. Was this that filled me with desire?

☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎
Deep where daytime plunges I view images obverse rendered slight
wrung from a perspective when noon of day becomes noon of night
among **** whose hot water's cold & whose saggy ******* are tight
to show straight Venezuelan queers that head-wise they're not right,
as if to correct **** San Pedro dragsters who fist-ways can not fight
Charles Carroll of Homewood never trapped mice not worth killing
Charles Carroll of Carrollton signed free declarations Allāh willing
Charles Carroll of Annapolis wrote that Turkical gals were thrilling
in tropic moonshine French vanilla ice cream's quite filling because
for no Scandinavian ******* there's no Scandinavian-****** dealing
and so without Croatian moolies there's no Croatian-****** grilling
when stolen-hubcap rates rise with the rise of 'hood-hubcap stealing
con-ghetto markets are swamped with hubcaps spooks were trailing
while black markets are burstin' with cool hubcaps they like selling
before choco shops are flooded by hot hubcaps negroes be smelling
after flea markets go awash with hub hot caps ***** are concealing
their motivations that would be revelationary to crimes protocolical
that are as penetrative as contacts rated allopathically transdermical
so as to counter stimuli sprouting superficial growth sclerodermical
within mutagenical outcroppings phasically presumed hydrostatical
It was Ric Flair who had a stare what could scare a bear because no
one fixes fair hair in a chair devil-may-care with their *** in the air!
It was Sonny plus Cher who did dare to spare rare bikini underwear
'cause no Bono heir can compare to share the glare of 1 blaring pair
Mountaineers need rear gear to snare sheer facets & clear a bare ear
when fear is a mere sad tear in the career of chairman Norman Lear  
We need guns to **** fascists because in America it's live free or die
& we need guns to **** pizza thugs demandin': "Give me your pie!"
& we need bombs to blow up folks who claim Bruce Jenner's a guy
whose vehicular homicides are faultless on a California codger tour
that skids by a nursin' home that's home to washed-up Roger Moore
with his lady-killing libido that marked him as a bed-hoppin' *****
on the Sunset Strip & in East L.A. & along 9 miles of Pacific shore
where, in Speedo bikini trunks, upon a polite society, he waged war
☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎

I want to tell you about my car. I love my car. I can see her when I look out my window. She’s right there . . . the white one, the smallest one, the one missing all four hubcaps.

Why do I love my car? Confession: I have actually hugged her, walked right up to her cute, smiley, VW Bug face and hugged her in front of friends and others who may have been watching. Her name is “Jitter” and I love her because she’s got problems. Quite old in car years, she’s got rust in her creases and joints and her undercarriage. Her brakes grumble when it’s cold and the speakers rattle, even when the radio is tuned to the classical station.

I love her because of her frailty, not in spite of it. I love her because her condition and character match my own. She doesn’t quite fit in, and yet she fits in most spaces; she behaves younger than her years, tends to go over the speed limit when she can, and has a sweet disposition.

I’m single, but if I was paired with someone, they’d have to be just like me . . . only a little better at some things, evenly matched in most other ways, and slightly lacking in the few skills I am somewhat confident in—like meditating, staying equanimous when the ***** hits the fan, making do with very little, and . . . parallel parking.

███▬▬▬►███▬▬▬►███▬▬▬►███▬▬▬►███▬▬▬►
Deep where daytime plunges I view images obverse rendered slight
wrung from a perspective when noon of day becomes noon of night
among **** whose hot water's cold & whose saggy ******* are tight
to show straight Venezuelan queers that head-wise they're not right,
as if to correct **** San Pedro dragsters who fist-ways can not fight
Charles Carroll of Homewood never trapped mice not worth killing
Charles Carroll of Carrollton signed free declarations Allāh willing
Charles Carroll of Annapolis wrote that Turkical gals were thrilling
in tropic moonshine French vanilla ice cream's quite filling because
for no Scandinavian ******* there's no Scandinavian-****** dealing
and so without Croatian moolies there's no Croatian-****** grilling
when stolen-hubcap rates rise with the rise of 'hood-hubcap stealing
con-ghetto markets are swamped with hubcaps spooks were trailing
while black markets are burstin' with cool hubcaps they like selling
before choco shops are flooded by hot hubcaps negroes be smelling
after flea markets go awash with hub hot caps ***** are concealing
their motivations that would be revelationary to crimes protocolical
that are as penetrative as contacts rated allopathically transdermical
so as to counter stimuli sprouting superficial growth sclerodermical
within mutagenical outcroppings phasically presumed hydrostatical

I’ll ride you, flat tires,
broken shift. Me and you baby,
off into the sunset.

I’ll ride you rusted,
with dented fenders. We’ll just pretend
er, that we’re something better.

I’ll ride you without the hubcaps. I got a
Nightcap of Black Jack that’ll have us
loose as the skin around your neck, Jim

I’ll ride you without a muffler, so when
You puff er, the noise won’t be heard
over the broken stereo, Joe

I’ll ride you with the stuffen comen
out of the cushions, and the brakes down to
the floor. We don’t need to stop. I’m not

getting off. Hold on John; It’s gonna be
a bumpy ride!

In the Village you get the tang of dead pennies and vinyl
spinning on your Bourbon tongue
and everything’s ***** Roscoe with the jump kids
on Broad Street and the Blacks
polishing rimshots off of stars they can’t see.
Hubcaps vanish like wallets at a crosswalk-
and the rain smells like iron
binging Detroit with fume Kabuki
as falafels alight upon the caverns of asphalt
like a flock of agnostic Finch
migrating to the Temple
of your Migraine.

She’s gone now and nothing can stop you
from becoming a ghost, unless your letters
were never written on purpose
and your absence was the
Plan.

The Jungle is a
stainless steel fog
of Blown Cover
in a war on the
Senseless.

You can’t catch
a Breath
without Catching
Hell
in the Bargain
with a Devil
You Know-

Will Leave.

**** bottles
and
mummified diapers
countless
broken bottle shards
twinkling among
innumerable more
road beer remnants
long since tossed
hubcaps
random
other bits
of chrome
license plates
and the odd
abandoned
*******
America the Beautiful
echoes with
each passing
semi
laden with the
necessaries of
capitalist progress
and
good
old
Christian
morality
shining bright
in the tears
of the
bypassed Native
crooked crosses
and
plastic flowers
mark and
memorialize
those lost
to the pursuit
of the
dream

I desperately clutched
(the Peanuts stuffed animal) Woodstock
to help me absorb shock.

What invisible agent
provocateur née ghost in the machine
sinister force hell bent
to rob me of every red cent,
whereby checking account
incurred major dent
(albeit figurative) required
yearly vehicular ownership event.

Unavoidable collision course
with money woes does frankly zap
proud owner of car will soon
find her/himself on penniless track
after salesperson (usually a man)
intones memorized commercial spiel,
and won't shut her/his yap
until quota of cars sold
guaranteeing bear hug wrap
courtesy company president
gifted bonus and vacation to escape,
(albeit temporarily) rat race trap.

Yours truly crafts (courtesy poetic license)
mine trademark prevaricated write
crowing, invoking, and lamenting malfunction
advertises, enunciates,
and intones game over
(by Tracy Lauren Marrow,
otherwise known as Iced-Tea),
whose claim to fame 1. rapper round rhymes;
2. fleet (truckload) of motorized
hot wheels (burning rubber)
quite a fiery sight;
3. check engine light advertisement
especially fluorescent hubcaps
that glows (like the
pulsating nose of Rudolph) at night.

Most recent experience (mine)
dealing with problematic
"check engine light" tsuris,
taught me helpful object lesson
after bringing our 2009 Hyundai Sonata
to Norm's Save Station
(earlier today 8/24th, 2021)
551 Gravel Pike, Collegeville, PA 19426,
which mechanic on duty
informed me that within Pennsylvania
said mechanical setback NEED NOT
be troubleshot if car driven less than
5000 miles per year.

In the vernacular. Early 1980s.  New York City.


Some parts -
well, some parts
were third world countries really
not like the glitz in the advertising charts.
Unpolished banquets
of flea markets on blankets
selling broken light bulbs,
a bumper,
watched over with a bagged liquor gulp
and a mutt by the side
that when lucky was fed a slice from the corner.
Chain link fencing behind the stench
dented, climbed,
hubcaps displayed on ‘em.
The broadleaf weeds,
the miserable trees
their only nature’s gem.

Yeah,
some parts -
some parts
were cruel and shifty.
Far from the jewel presented
on a postcard and a 15 cent stamp -
wonderfully ******.
The city back then gathered up
washed-up teens or young adults
on the Lower East Side
not even knowing why they were there.
Misfits really
not fitting into a family or town -
no money.
Perhaps once church-going girls
who knew more than the native what a pine tree was
and plus, this is the place where stars are born -
now working,
squeezing,
cocking,
paid to do what they were disgraced to do:
parloring to get the moan,
******* to produce the white honey.
And this was before the crack
and vials crunched on the steps of the subway.

Men would squeegee for cents and cigarettes -
Marlboro or Kent.
A mix of Lincolns, Jeffersons
throw in an Eisenhower, a Washington.
A decade before Broken Windows
and a lord mayors attempt
to take back control of parts lost
to appease the nobility.

Yeah,
there were sections -
sections that you brought a gun to deliver milk.
“Protection.”
And people carried things:
broomsticks cut down,
crowbars in a city in neighborhoods with the motto:
“Do what you gotta do.”
“Wrong place.  Wrong time.”
Where grandmothers would be mugged on the subway
in a city on the verge of Chapter 11,
a city of pushbacks and organized crime
where everyone seemed fit,
gang patches
before Angels wore red berets
and offered a hint of safety
in light or dark
and guarded a canvas
of moving steel plastered with graffiti and grime
and the cement crime sublime.
Where one could still dream in a city of bleakness
before,
good or bad,
it all went theme park.