Afternoon Grease

Potato chip grease on my fingers, decanted cheap wine on my tongue- On the table, a dollar store book with broken spine, by a forgotten-if-ever-known author . Cat hairs cling to pages in static disarray like tiny Pick-Up Stix. Cat sleeps asshole-close to my chip hand. Rain splatters the Cuban anole on the sill outside... he bobs approvingly. It’s a perfect Saturday afternoon. There was a dollar in the washing machine and a post card of big trees and canyons in the mail. A gaggle of butterflies looped and tilted in the steamy aftermath of negative ions. A double rainbow graced us with its presence, a prima-donna arriving late to the party, steals all the attention. A perfect Saturday afternoon. and the wine burp indicates a nap is in order. Cats join assholes away. Paws caress my face as rain starts again …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGgDjbW6_uE&feature=youtu.be

Frontal Lobe Failure – Saturday Syndrome

Dust bunnies form gangs and lurk in corners.

They multiply at my feet.

They have no shame.

Clutter closes in.

The implements of war against filth

are ready,  waiting for their Captain to call them to action.

They lean casually against the wall.

Mr. Clean whispers to the Kenmore,

soliciting a blow job.

The bucket bums a smoke.

I, Captain of the Domicile,

write fuck my life in the dust on my desk.

I edit the Drag Queen’s memoir.

I re-write then re-write the re-write.

I move towards the implements of war.

Passing the bathroom I wonder if

I’ve brushed my teeth today.

The Captain is AWOL.

The house is in chaos.

A flea hops a ride on my ankle.

I wonder about duct tape.

  

Afternoon creeps up on little cat feet

and leaves a trail of litter through the house.

I must dye my hair.

I will dust after I dye.

The flea sucks the Captain dry.

Mr. Clean has shot his wad-

Creepy, bald dude.

The Captain must dye.

The tiny, bloated flea rides

a dust bunny as if a rodeo clown.

The Captain, on the way to the front

has an idea.

I will glue flowers, and frogs

to flip-flops.

Dust mingles with E600 glue.

The Captain is incompetent.

There are old avocados in the kitchen.

I make guacamole. There are no jalapenos.

I am out of duct tape and

it is the first day of hurricane season.

When does ACE close?

The afternoon wears on

like a bad lover who won’t stop

touching the wrong place.

Perhaps there is time for a nap,

but the sheets are in the wash

and the bug spray hasn’t dried on the mattress.

Mr. Clean is bored.

The Captain should dust before

the bunnies morph to foxes.

Little Foxes was a movie.

I should Netflix it.

But the chaos is around me.

Morale is low.

The chifferobe threw- up clothes

that don’t fit.

It purged chunks of cloth into a puddle

on the floor.

While the Captain dyes

clutter wreaks havoc and

I check email.

Oprah has not replied … the bitch.

It is too soon to receive another

rejection from Sy Safranski at The Sun.

Sy Safranski at The Sun.

Sy Safranski at The Sun.

Flowers and frogs on flip-flops.

The Captain has gone mad.

I haven’t called [anyone’s name here] in a while.

I pick a number from my book.

I’ll talk for just a while. I’ll have wine.

The Captain has officially lost the war.

MAILING ERNIE

                                       

Monday I came home to a rusted tricycle, a paper bag full of empty cigar boxes, a large, crumpled garage mat, and a full bottle of white zinfandel. They were piled by my door like dead animals the cat brought home.

I knew Ernie was at it again.

Ernie is one of those rare individuals that warrants his own sitcom, or, at the very least, a human-interest story on PBS.  You may know the “Ernie types”. They are the characters among us who inspire long, speculative conversations.  These folks are the source and inventors of funny stories. They are the people you cannot ignore, nor would you want to.They are the people that keep life colorful.

I met Ernie years ago when I took a job in a factory … a print shop, to be precise.  It was a big, loud, dirty place.  I’d never worked in this kind of an environment. Mind you, I’m no princess.  I never worry about my nails, or getting dirt under them. I’ve pounded bottoms into hassocks with a rubber mallet, and pumped gas in a blizzard at the height of the shortage in the seventies.   I’ve had numerous waitress jobs, managed a blue jean store, written a little column for a town paper, and sold concrete, cosmetics, and rain lamps. I have driven to hospitals  thirty miles apart to review medical charts for Medicare.  But in all of these scenarios, I had never met anyone quite like Ernie.

I took the job at the print shop for the benefits. It was supposed to be temporary, until my massage practice could become more lucrative. I worked there for nine years…

Anyway, Ernie had worked in print shops all his life. He knew how to operate a multitude of machines from stitchers to folders, and all of the strange apparatus in between.  I always suspected that new hires were placed with Ernie as helpers to initiate them  into the reality of the print shop.

Ernie is a big, lumbering guy from Newark, New Jersey. He has thick, silver hair that he combs into a DA (Duck’s Ass) in the same manner as the Fonz.  While we’d work,  he’d tell a million stories … and some of them were probably true.  He liked to quote The Godfather. His favorite line was “Vengeance is best when it’s cold.” That was also his philosophy. He called me “kid”. I liked being his helper. I could hold my own and I knew it wouldn’t be a boring day. In short, we liked each other.

After he left that job, things began to appear on my porch. I moved twice, but the intermittent offerings would still find their way to my door.  It was Ernie’s way to make sure you wouldn’t forget him, as if anyone ever could. I knew the stuff came from him because many of the stories he told me  involved clandestine “drops” at the homes of friends, as well as enemies. There were no horse heads that I’m aware of, but for years … years, I’d come home to find old toys, boxes of rubber bands, a wine rack, rolls of shrink wrap, a vintage Royal sewing machine, old beach chairs, t-shirts on wire hangers, shoes, and the contents of drawers, or perhaps glove compartments, consisting of expired AARP cards, broken pencils, drink coupons from Casino Cruises, Doctors Appointment cards, and movie ticket stubs.

Enough was enough.   I had to get even. A few of my friends, who are artists by profession, provided the inspiration. They told me about a “mail art” gallery show they’d attended in Chicago.  Mail art consists of things that creative people send to each other in the mail. Some were artistically embellished postcards and letters, but much of it was outrageous items that was decorated in some fashion, taken to the post office, and mailed as is. You can mail just about anything, believe it or not.

The post office weighs it, slaps a label on it, and off it goes. Sometimes it gets to the destination intact, sometimes not. But it doesn’t matter. 

The point is that it went.  That was the fun of it…people never knew what they would find in their mailbox, or when.   God forbid a lucky recipient would actually have to go to the post office and pick it up.   The gallery show displayed examples of great things that made the journey, bowling balls included.

It occurred to me that I could do this to Ernie.  I started to save the things he left on my porch. Then I turned them into something else and mailed them back.  I wove rubber bands into an alligator post-card.  An old eyeglass case was doused with the anisette liquor that had been left with it on my porch the day before. It became a holder for an original little story, with a picture on the other side.  I made collages out of Ocean Spray labels from the empty bottles Ernie would leave, combined with other things I’d find in the bags with them.

He started to leave bigger things to challenge me. I’d  find a way to turn them into something and mail them back. Eventually, the porch offerings began to taper off. But I knew I hadn’t won by a long shot.  Ernie LOVED this shit.

It was during this time, probably inspired by Ernie and the Chicago gallery show,  that a few of us began sending mail art to each other. I received collaged plastic bottles, 45 RPM records with designs painted on them, and once, a plastic martini glass, which didn’t make it intact. (The postal people were kind enough to put the pieces in a zip-loc and deliver them…) I received Pez dispensers and plastic fish. Not to be outdone, I mailed a stuffed bra mounted on a board (like a dead fish) that was embellished with Hershey’s kisses.  I stood in line with it at the post office …at Christmas time. Mothers shielded their children from me.  Dunedin Postal workers were very helpful and have excellent senses of humor, as do the Safety Harbor postal people, where the bra ultimately landed (and had to be picked up by the recipient.)  The Hershey’s kisses were no longer on it, just tattered pieces of silver foil. I learned that a clunky high-heeled shoe costs $2.88 to mail, and postage labels fit quite nicely across the toe.

Then Ernie delivered a beat-up straw hat which he propped against my my back door.

I decided it was time to enlist the troops and do a “pass-the-hat” mail attack on him. I painted the hat lavender and wrapped it with a gold lame` band. I took it to the post office. I sent it  to one of my co-conspirators with an attached list of names inside. Each recipient was to embellish it in some way, then mail it to the next person on the list. The hat passed through several creative hands. About a year later it was returned to the last person on the list … Ernie. Last, but certainly not least. 

Ernie never made mention of the hat but sent a brief, scrawled note on the back of an old motor lodge post-card. The note stated he was going to Texas for the holidays to visit his kids. Life went on, the holidays came and went, and I moved.  

Monday I came home to a rusted tricycle, a paper bag full of empty cigar boxes, a large, crumpled garage mat, and a full bottle of white zinfandel … and a  lavender, embellished hat, with photos of it in every room of Ernie’s house.

Published in Volume XVI, Number 3/ Tropical Breeze independent newspaper-March 2006-Editor & Publisher, Floyd E. Egner, III                 Ernie passed away on 6/1/13.  Rest in Peace Ernie.

Soul Captors

Soul  Captors  

I have no place for birthday cards.

Sentiments became folly

scattered on the floor.

There are no flowers in my vase, [pronounced VOZ]

for they do not permit  it.

They insinuated themselves into my home

only to treat it with complete disregard.

What motives lie in ambush

beneath calm and sleepy exteriors?

Others are shocked

by the chaos they wrought.

They speak Fursee

and move with the shadows.

I no longer admire the beauty of

a Mexican bowl.

It is locked away for the eyes of no one.

There is no place for toilet paper.

It is shredded into clouds at my feet

And I must resign myself to Kleenex,

which is a brand name like Xerox. 

They do not believe in wine, fine or otherwise.

So they knock the glass from my hand

splattering the walls.

They mock me. They sit on my muse.

They want their demands met

or else.

I have no place for Christmas cards.

The Fursee rings in my ears

as they careen

through my sanctuary, ricocheting off walls

like little   hairy   bullets.

They make love on my bed

and force me to watch.

My jewelry is not safe.

They have a crow’s fascination

for shiny things.

They steal it … hoard it,

exchange it for catnip

in dark alleys. 

They intercept my packages

destroying the contents,

requisitioning the boxes for hideouts.

The big one stares into my eyes

demanding I stroke his long, stipe-ed  arms.

The little one, in training, more cautious

as she tentatively taps my face

and drools on the pillowcase.

She wears all black.

They belong to the same faction.

My house is under siege.

Nothing is safe.

I have cats.

Just Checking In

I've been neglecting my blog.

The last couple days have been a bad B movie.  I opened the door to the basement, knowing full-well there were monsters in it and I went down anyway.

As far as an excuse for the rest of the time there's been no update?  Just didn't feel like it. 

I will allow that recent events, and my usual lack of seratonin account for a little too.

However,  the monsters are gone for the time-being. yaaaaaaaaay  They left a nasty mess though.

And get THIS, I  ordered another fucking bottle of a "Dr.Oz sure-fire remedy."

Step Right Up Ladies and Gentlemen [Read SUCKERS] for this time we really do have the ultimate cure-all.  REALLY.  It's called Garcina Cambogia Extract.  It will totally get rid of your belly fat! ****with diet and exersise***

As I approach 173 pounds, (even after trying every sure thing the wizard behind the gray curtain has touted, given aire to, BUT HAS NOT OFFICIALLY ENDORCED,) I considered having a huge, black "L" tattooed on my forhead.

Also.  If there is anyone who actually visits the chute now and then, you may have noticed that I've been trying my hand at poetry.  I NEVER thought I would EVER be attempting poetry.  But there you are.  Never say never.  I really hate cliches. 

I have an enormous stash of really OLD stuff in the archives that await visitors ...like Puff the Magic Dragon, they've been alone and forgotten.  Please pop your head in and read one or two.


Hope all is well.   D.

Better in a Burka

Another Facebook picture ,

another ghastly pose,

I am not anonymous-

rather … tragically exposed.

Years attacked my body like

marauding,  angry,  hoards.

The pounds piled on so stealthily

that I want to scream out loud.

REALLY?    This FIT last week! JEEZUS.

I considered donning a paper bag,

I thought about logistics.

But the inside of a paper bag

has pretty bad acoustics. 

Then there’s all that stuff below the chin,

that everyone can see,

The years of hot  are  way long-gone,

sooooooooo …

this was my epi-pha-ny.

I’d be better in a burka!

A burka would be best.

Not only would it hide my face,

but also all the rest!

Better in a burka

of purple, plaid …  jacquard.

I might like to embellish it

with utter disregard. 

Tulle around the bottom,

a bird’s nest on the top.

I could  punk a few with safety pins

and sell them in a shop.

Burkaloungers?

Burkalesque?

Planet Burka?  Whaaaat?

I would sell them on the beach

from a little burki hut!

Abaya … Abaaaya!          (sung to the tune of Day-o)

Old age come and

me wanna lie low…

Burkas would be good

on more than just my frame.

Let’s examine possibilities

and even name some names.

Plummers would be swell  in them,

as would Walmart shoppers.

I’d be thrilled to see The Donald

in at least  a burka topper.

Sports Illustrated could do a shoot

atop a Swedish barge.

with super models rocking burks

in bathrooms where they purge.

I think Bieber needs a burka,

And Pat Robertson’d be grand.

His would be so holy

but never second- hand.

Mel Gibson … Charlie Sheen,  

Clarence Thomas,

On them they woule be keen!

One could hidethree misogynists

without letting out a seam!

I think Plastic Surgeons' works

would benefit from the cover

of  gracefully  draped burkas

so the rest of us don’t suffer.

Burt Reynolds, Kenny Rogers,

Prissy Presley, what a mess.

There’s almost more bad work out there

than burkas can address. 

And so-

as I wrap this little poem up, [no pun intended]

I’ll leave you all with this-

If anonymous is what you crave

A burka is pure bliss.

-D.Klein 3/3/13

I Am Curious [Cheese]

I get my endorphins from cheese.

The udder gooeyness,

the melty ecstasy,

the sheer, unbridled joy of it … cheese.

I get my endorphins from cheese.

The second the buttery

drug is dragged across my tongue,

pupils dilate and

I’m filled with a sharp,

unpasteurized rapture  .

I ask Aristaeus to forgive

my wanton gluttony

and udder disregard of

this mortally mortified body-

itself becoming a parcel of pastey,

cheesey curds.

I GET my endorphins from cheese.

No longer the slave

of a Kenmore plug-in,

and the constant threat

of carpal tunnel from

repetitive motion.

But the lifting of briny brie is a gentle exercise,

a delicate motion,

 a natural thing.

I get my endorphins from cheese yo.

It makes me crapulous,

noxious and lazy with

goosebump shivers and

crazy-assed dreams.

Yo momma’s candidum penicillin.

Fuck chicken soup.

I float away on udder

ammoniated  gasses and

cottage cheese clouds.

Tongue-tied to the

bloomy rind of camembert

and sharp cheddar chidings.

I get my endorphins from cheeeeese

and the body within the rind.

For beauty is far deeper

than what the eye beholds.

There is more to it than mold.

-D.Klein 3/3/13

Shooting Blanks

Too lazy am I for prose …

poetry’s what goes on the

empty document that

mocks my lack of imagination.

The glaring white square

scoffs and calls me a sprinter.

You can’t handle a marathon.

I have a notion,

an inkling,

a kernel of thought.

I tap with two fingers

and the page can barely

contain itself.

You call that a poem??

Word document casts

a pale blue light

across my face.

I wish you could see yourself .

It’s not your best side.

 

I power down

smug in the knowledge

that I can silence it.

I pull a sheet of paper

from the printer,

and a pen from the bowl.

I draw boxes ... spirals ... arrows.

The paper scoffs.

You think if you touch me

the words will come?

It will take more than doodling on me

to make them come, you word whore…

The pen whispers

stroke me.

I rip the 8 by 11 sheet in half-

then quarters,

I crumple balls

for the cats to chase.

I have the last laugh.

But the  balls sneer up at me

from the terrazzo

like a body-less dwarves. 

The pen laughs

maniacally and spits

black ink in my lap.

The Beautiful Truth

God handed a bunch of guys

(and one woman)

Holy Pens … and said,

TAKE THIS DOWN.

Spitting on nibs

the mortals poised pens

above papyrus and awaited

the Holy Word.

But the men did not fully

receive the Holy Word

because their minds

wandered to concubines and

roasted goat.

And so it was,

they put a spin on

The Word of God,

(to save their holy asses)

believing  it was sorta

exactly what they heard.

And thus was the

Word of God

transcribed … sorta,

on papyrus,  stained

with grease, mead, and

barbequed baaaaaaaa.

The woman handed

her transcription reverently

to the men

in order that they might bound

it with theirs,

and thus it be named

The Good Book.

They accidently left

her meticulous notes

in a terrible sandstorm,

because it was written … sorta,

that women weren’t

smart enough,

funny enough,

strong enough,

complex enough,

to be trusted with

The Word.

So it came to pass,

Australian students

on spring break made their

way up Mount Carmel.

And thus did they pass a bottle

of Sabra liqueur

amongst them,

praising God in the Highest

as the blessed nectar

was lifted to meet their parch-ed lips.

One took leave of the others

from out of the olive grove

to find relief.

Who amongst you have not done thus?

And his stream was strong

and sure,

and it wash-ed the dust from a

sheaf of parchment, exposing

the delicate symbols upon it.

And there was much

wonderment and joy!

For surely this holy relic

would justify

missing the tour bus.

 Again.

The learn-ed scholar pored

over the sacred document,

having deciphered the message

and carboned the dating …

dated the carbon?

Carbon Dated?

He verified it was old.

And the learn-ed scholar,

redundant as this title may be,

determined that this was The Word,

The One True Word of God.

And thus had dictateth the Lord of Hosts:

Play nice.

Follow your heart.

Be kind to animals.

Don’t scare the children.

Don’t wake me

UNLESS IT IS IMPORTANT,

And, if you want something done right,

ask a woman to do it.

Amen

Capture and Release

I’ve never loved a man

in a life-together way.

I love my man- cat,

my man-brother,

my man- friends.

I loved my man-Dad.

Never the men who peed around my toilet daily

or groped me early in the morning,

(closet necrophiliacs that they were.)

I never loved the man

who snored in great, gasping gusts.

Or the one who picked his nose,

gently rolling the thing before setting it on the night-stand.

Never loved the one who gifted me a statue of a crow for Christmas.

Nor the other who gave me a statue of a crow for Christmas.

Two men.  Two crows.

One plaster.  One tin.

No love to the second power..

I never loved the photographer, who loved juicy peaches,

and said peCANS  instead of peCONS  until I wanted to scream.

He loved taking portraits of naked women.

Convenient.   He gave at the office.

I never loved the musicians who loved to play

for [with] everyone else.

Else why would they be musicians?

I didn’t love the illustrated man with long, black hair

who freaked everyone out …

including me.

I never loved the soft-spoken man who wouldn’t fight

for anything …

or any one, and agreed with everything

I said-- even when I didn’t agree with myself.

Love is gentle and kind.

It does not ponder

pillows and poison

 and plates aimed at heads.

 If you love someone set them free.

It has occurred to me that

I may have loved them after all.

If this is the case.