Thursday, August 11, 2011

While We're Waiting

While We're Waiting

Tell me, he said, phoning from prison, what's not up for grabs?

During the intermission of a lecture on the Dust Bowl,
the audience was treated to rasberry-flavored protein smoothies.

Who wrapped bacon on the rungs of the social ladder?

By some estimates, there are no fewer than a thousand
rickety-boned, frequently raped, American backpackers
currently in the jails and madhouses of Thailand.

Tonight's wind is blowing the sound of barking coyotes
to neighbor's... a mile south... and I am unreasonably jealous.

A boxer I met at a run-down gym when I was a boy
foamed at the armpits from bar soap used in place of deoderant.

Are we now too old to hike the 40 Mile Desert?

Am I a Hollywood Insider because I know that the girl
playing the guitar, pretty half-smile, in that HBO movie
keeps sleek with a diet of carrots and boiled broccoli?

Please, kids, do not dance atop the goddamned dishwasher.

The priest yelped, The devil carries a black clipboard...
and he's cheering for you, for all your pleaure-taking.

How much of my desire for her was related to her
sweaty, post-jogging, skin tasting like lemon meringue pie?

Since I had never seen one, my Hollywood friend
drove me to a studio apartment in The Valley.
The residents wore sandals, kept an enormous TV on mute,
spoke of bleached hair, boob jobs they admired.
There was a small backyard, blown-over plastic garden chairs.

Once upon a time I soaked my fists in salt water.
There certainly were a slew of guys worth sucker-punching.

Yes, I am wary of chubby women sporting
sterling silver kitty-cat brooches on sweaters.
At least more wary of them than their half-bald,
pot-bellied husbands... walking sacks of canned TV laughter.

Syrian raincoat: kevlar bulletproof vest.  In short supply.

The barista in Burbank, noticing who I was with,
asked if I was who she thought I might be.

I am a displaced northern Nevada alkali lake... 
set to make a comeback.

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