Old Mrs. Mae

Sits and waits for the bus to come
All day and every day
Sits and waits for foreigners
To tell her stories of distant lands
She has longed for so long to see:
The Charles Bridge of Prague
The Ski Slopes of Austria
Or her sister Betsy’s grave in Wisconsin
Frank did not let her go to the funeral
Maybe if she made the perfect bundt cake or
Ironed his shirts properly
He wouldn’t see the woman at the cheap motel down I-76 again
Or come home
Soiled in himself, looking for a reason to-
She knew she always figured out a way to set him off
Even without trying
But Old Mrs. Mae does not know
That bus route was canceled
Long ago
Long before she got the courage
To leave that man
Who never let her stray
40 long years
And so she waits
And checks her broken watch
To tell the broken time
Of her broken life
While she sits and waits
For the bus to nowhere
Tomorrow Mrs. Mae,
Tomorrow.

Bloodshot Lids of Pitch Black Blight

Raise your hand if you spy on your neighbors.
That’s such a lie.
You dirty little liar. I know the truth.
I spy on my neighbors at three-in-the-morning on my fire escape
With nothing but a sweater on and boxer briefs, elastic making imprints on my waist.
Trying to get comfortable on the window takes a bit of effort but it’s worth it.
They scuttle like turtles across their hardwood floors and big picture window
Half-naked, wow. He has a great body.
Do I freak you out? I hope I do. I know I do.
Why doesn’t anyone like to admit what they do?
We would all feel a lot better.
Our pupils would rejoice and not have to whisper secrets.
The secrets would not need to whisper back and nothing would be private.
But then I guess there’d be nothing to spy on if nothing was private.
Damn, I always have to find the circular argument and take the fun out of everything.
Raise your hand if you like circular arguments.

The Bubble Market

What are you going to do when you get dripped on?
You know, that mysterious midtown flesh-water that splatters onto your face
You have no clue what it is and you can’t control it.
What do you think about that Mr. Broke Stockbroker?
How’s that for a goddamn bonus?
That one drop of water, just hoping has an illness that will wrap you up for days.
You’ll sneeze and have to get some of that Claritin or Zicam shit.
I don’t mean you harm- or at least I hope I don’t. Maybe I do. I can’t really tell.

Oh wait, yes I can. You think you deserve everything. And while you downsize to a real apartment from your penthouse in the vodka martini sky- just think of who you’ve dripped on. Slipped on. ripped out. Taken out. Stumbled onto. Crushed on your way to the top.

The balance sheets have finally been corrected.
As for me, I have an umbrella.
And it was only an air conditioner, relax.

Off The Track

I’ve had a large redeye today, two waffles
And a pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese.
The dear couldn’t even slice it down the middle.
Who goes the extra mile nowadays? I don’t know.
I’m jittery and there’s a mountain of goo in my stomach ready to seep
Out, out into a great abyss of chunky pink fluid. I love puddles.
Racing minds, racing horses.
Curlin did it again. He made more money than you in half-a lifetime and he’s a horse.
Of course.

Caffeine dancers in my head like champagne bubbles rising to the surface on New Year’s Eve.
Great- another year to fuck everything up. Muck everything up. And do it all again. Keep promising everyone and yourself to lose 10 lbs and get laid and make a million dollars- without pyramid schemes this time around. Who the hell listens anymore? Who the hell cares? All I want to do is lay in bed and watch television until my brain rots and I can complain I never had the chance to do better. I think I should’ve used lie instead- I always hated grammar- fuck punctuation too- It’s going out of style, unlike your Blahniks. The only time I ever considered being a girl was to wear the shoes. Maybe one day, though. I have no expectations about it or of you and yet you’ve exceeded them

Good job- you would like a medal? A shiny one?
With ribbons of cerulean and shiny magenta. I think that’s what the drag-queens wear in Chelsea. Or I hope they do. It seems they might. Fierce ones they are.
Racing minds race horses grab a betting ticket and be the lucky person who never tried and makes it bigger than the Harvard grad. Besides, you deserve it.

This Safe Place

Carnal urges soar
through veins surging with olfactory
senses of that sweet smell of cologne and cognac
a finished fifth of Jack spurred
moments of gravitational ephemeral pleasure
His skin tastes like candy
Howling and eyeing prey
these wolves never stop
until sunrise
until daybreak
claws scratch at the cotton blend tee
hours move like seconds
trip slip with every touch of the hip
wild murmur of the heart
exploding growls of sensuous delight
No tame cat can
compete in the jungle of
misplaced belts and trampled crew socks
and then time stops and
they are glue
and nothing moves
not a sound
not a breeze
paw upon paw
this is animal law
inside a room of leafy green
His teeth bared into a smile
calms
traps the screeching sound of those who
yearn for what these creatures have
but still deny them their happiness
forget this savage noxious world
pull over the quilt of night
hibernate until the fright
is over, when we can
live in peace
where only God can see us
and they can't tell us
that animals of the same kind
can't love
paw in paw
and they've fixed the world
He created, but they destroyed
until then
all we can do is survive