Café Lucca, Very Late, on a Tuesday

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

The priests, close by, converse in Tuscano

Biscotti, cannoli, mouthfuls of bliss

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

You pull me in closer, seeking a kiss

While I stir sweet, thick, precious espresso

He pulls the handle, then a slow steam hiss

The priests, close by, converse in Tuscano

FSPA 2022 Triolet Contest - 2nd place

Moving Day

They empty my closet

sorting shirts and pants and dresses

into piles

for Goodwill or

The Women’s Shelter or

Some Memory Bear.

The papers and books get tossed

into a soon-to-be pyre.

Furniture, cookware, tumbled, trashed

The fridge. They remove a plate of cookies

cookies I made, cookies I saved

for you.

Cookies from a holiday party you never attended.

Another plate, another party of one.

The freezer is full of cookies

Saved from all the parties you

never attended. You were too busy.

Into the trash.

They divvy up ‘the good stuff.’

You take nothing,

click the lockbox as you leave.

Published in Poetic Visions Poetry Competition & Exhibition 2020 Anthology - Museum of Art - Deland

The Quest for the Holy Grail

Hot

Juicy

Toothsome

Sliding down my throat

Gooey stringiness

Accented with texture

Spongy exterior with a

Solid interior

Just a tad salty

Now that’s what I call

A perfect mushroom-swiss burger

Checkers

99 cents

Black Thing

im going to stay here until they go away

im going to stay right here in the closet

oh stop smirking not that kind of closet

no one in this family is in that kind of closet

im in a for real closet                                                                                                            

my favorite closet way up on the top shelf sprawled across the hatboxes of military helmets collapsible toppers berets fedoras souwesters and bowlers where i can inhale the leather scent of the mans jackets  

its quiet up here with the good smell of leather and man sweat

i dont like the hubbub the crowds in the living room kitchen bedrooms

even the bathroom where the man keeps my box

the apartment is full of people

the mans sister

his friend

his friends siamese bitch

yes i know a bitch is a dog but i am using the other meaning of the word

you dont insult my intelligence and i wont insult yours

at least ill try not to insult yours whatever intelligence you have anyway

so many other people that i am dizzy with the smells

i am too old and fat to avoid their legs

keep their heels off my tail and their hands off me

i dont like when they touch me 

i dont like strange people touching me

i belong to the man

 

im not even sure how i managed to get up here

its been years since i climbed the coats but now i am here

up on top of the hatboxes in the warm quiet

so quiet up here away from everything everyone all over

im going to stay up here until they go away and the man helps me down

i hope he comes soon

he should be looking for me i think 

such a long time since he fed me

since anyone fed me even the mans friend or the mans sister

they give me dry food but the man shares real food with me and I bring him presents

okay I used to bring him presents when I was younger

he even made a poster for the door with a scorecard because he is proud of my hunting

ill just take another little nap while i wait

its late

its so very late

i know its late because im very hungry and i want down

when the man gets me ill pretend to be annoyed and hiss but i hope he comes soon

maybe when he gets me down he will be sorry for forgetting me and he will hold me and give me treats and stroke my fur and play make believe and put me in the hats and take pictures of me like we used to do before when we were young and sleek and not grey anywhere

hes gotten so thin

i wish i could give him some of my fatness

i wish i could

im so fat now i take up his whole lap and the rest of the sofa too 

he pushes me off because his stomach hurts all the time so I go up on the back of the sofa to nuzzle his neck and watch the fireplace with him

i know what ill do

ill call him and he will come and reach way up and say come here black thing you silly old black thing what are you doing up there all alone and pull me down and hold me and take me to sit on the sofa with him

im going to call him now

man

maaaaaannnn

oh man come get me man

if you get me down we can sit in the living room and i will do the firefly dance on the windowsill and play peekaboo with the curtains to make you laugh and i will bring you a present

oh maaaaaannnn my man come get me please

i wish he'd come get me

im lonely up here

i dont want to be up here anymore

why doesnt he come

he always comes when i call

where is he            

where is my man

i wish everyone would just go away already so the man can get me and sit on the sofa with me and watch the fireplace and eat sardines right out of the can and itll be me and him and everything will be okay like before

Sushi: A Fish by Any Other Name is Still a Fish

Cunt.
Lying, cheating whoremonger.
He’d rather sit there, staring, contemplating a ‘relationship’
with her. Not me.
I scroll my email logs, going back.
Fourteen months, twenty-three days.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
It made me not like myself, the me I was with him.
The needy, whining, shutting my eyes to truth, ignoring the elephant conga line snaking around the room, head pounding me I became with him.
If I don’t respect myself, why should he?
If I don’t value myself, why should he?
Why should anyone?
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
The last trip, the test trip which I didn’t know was a test and was doomed to fail, questions written on decomposing paper with disappearing ink, letters rearranging themselves faster than a speeding bullet which stops in the cinder block wall behind my head, which ended in a bout of hepatitis A for me after eating oysters in August.
The realization that he was emailing her from my computer and clearing the cache in a futile attempt to keep me from knowing he was making plans
with her. Not me.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
You want her, you want to fill your belly with sushi?
Go ahead. Eat. Eat as much as you can.
Eat, and when you are hungry an hour later, eat some more. Enjoy.
But she won’t take fourteen months, twenty-three days of broken promises to move on.
I have lost my taste for raw foods, for duplicity.
Give me hard-cooked eggs, pasturized milk, blackened catfish and grilled bok choy.
No more broken promises. Ever ever.

The Meaning [lessness] of Life

One more in a long line of one mores
Aphorisms swirl through the brain, trite and treacle,
knitting a shawl that wouldn’t keep a newt warm
No, not even a newt
There is so much rejection before "I can’t take it anymore" sets in good and hard
So good and hard all I want is to be amontilladoed in
before I hear dirges of accept and utilize, accept and utilize
Accept and utilize is a curse, not an inspiration
before the good cop bad cop shuffle has me confessing to crimes
I haven’t even heard of and couldn’t imagine

If I turn it inside out, struggle, nails claw chalkboard, to make this another learning experience
I am too old for this BS anyway
But if I do-
There is a truism, that fishing is like life
Not the cast your reel and you will surely catch something
Not even the teach a man-or woman-to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime
but my own variant,
My own, "If I don’t do what I’ve always done, I’ll get something I haven’t already got"
Maybe

Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for life
There is no bait
There is no hook
There is a broken reel
The ocean is so dense with salt, so full of tears, it cannot sustain life
So teach me to fish, hookless, baitless, broken
Let me cast my reel into barren water and watch me pull in a 1978 Bridgestone tyre
Watch me

Amabo te, fame deliria. Videro finem, exitum...
Da mihi piscis, piscis, amabo te. Lac humanus beneficii, amabo te.
Just give me a fish, just for now, to fill my mouth with sweet
calm the spasms for a little while
feed me enough for today, I won’t ask again tomorrow
I know I’ve worn out whatever welcome I had

Amabo te. I am the chum. Please.
　
Even if life is perfect in chance, in equity, in fairness,
[Who said life was fair, anyway?]
all the skills/training/certification/experience
when chance or unspoken paradigm intercede
and move a half meter to my left for the catch du jour
while all around, dozens doing pretty much similar with similar get
nothing
again

Life is a banquet, but most poor fools are starving,
while mouse rejected crumbs litter the table
and the Maid of Honor, never a bride, is the designated driver of a limo,
gas tank hovering on empty, who can’t even numb the hurt with Patron


translation:
Please, I am delirious with want. I see the end, the final end...
Give me a fish, a fish, please. The milk of human kindness, please.

Who am I? Not who you think.

He doesn't love the public me,

pinstriped, pinned up, buttonholed me
or the decked out deshabille pimped out me
or even the "I can do anything" uber-competent me.

He loves the baaaad me.
The one splashes in puddles and loses her keys
and rips her clothes and breaks her nose,
and stamps her feet because she wants it RIGHT NOW.
The stuck at eight-years-old, mud-smeared, gap-toothed, scabby-kneed me,
leaving a trail of broken cups and crayoned walls,
hiding under the bed, afraid of the monsters she played with in the morning.
The me who bites her lip so no one will see her cry.
The me who stole a chocolate bar because she was hungry.

Yeah. That one.

Chef Salad

Hunger spills over, wraps around strangers, eager to respond.
Waiting to take a bite, taste, chew, press against the upper palate,
smooth or gritty on the teeth, thin as water, thick as an oil slick, bubbly,
sweeping up to shore, covering random pelicans and otters.


Sauces, meats and tofu and vegetables all diced into interchangeable cubes,
heated surface a rumpled, now-neglected bed wondering who'll be next,
so ready I can see the waves rise up to me, beckoning.


Nursing my drink, I watch the chef, thinking,
He doesn't have to do that. Not for me, anyway.
All I need to feed my hunger is already here.

Fifteen minutes of Fame or Maybe Less I Hope

She has this ‘thing' for vegetables. No, she's not a vegetarian or vegan or, god forbid, one of those weirdo raw foodies, smug in their disdain and ecoclaims, driving miles and miles in their itty-bitty hybrids to pick up ugly organic produce.

Segue: I don't care how ecofriendly your car it, driving eighty miles round trip is not green except for the auto industry. You might get 55 mpg, but driving still releases fluorocarbons and rubber particles and emissions, nocturnal and otherwise, and causes wear and tear on the asphalt/concrete/dirt roads way in excess of walking to the corner grocery store. You just doesn't see the bigger picture, but why should you? Your telescopic mirror reflects the narrow sanctimony of your own world, which is fine, just fine, and excuse me for screaming.

Anyway, she has this ‘thing' for vegetables. She likes to find heirloom breeds, what was lost and now is found. They're knobby, colorful, deformed when compared to the usual supermarket beauties, but she arranges them on hand thrown plates or wooden canoes or in blown glass bowls and drizzles them with bottled low fat bleu cheese dressing, pasty, chunky inedible crud that it is, or sprays them with imported first press rapeseed oil. Then, she snaps photos of her ‘art,' like those food porn writers everyone is so fond of, oohing and ahhing over fruit waxed to a tenth of its life, instead of the free website blogger she is in reality, ignored even, no, especially, by her friends and family.

Until she switches from bottled drek to handmade aioli. Aioli, made from garlic mashed with a mortar and pestle, whisked with vinegar, an egg yolk and a pinch of mustard until light yellow and thick, transferred to a blender and the olive oil added one clear, green drip at a time, finished with a dash of sea salt and one single grind of white pepper.

She plates her garden glories and this delicate mayonnaise variant, kicks that food porn up to notches previously unknown and hooks herself a book deal, with the requisite guest appearances on Oprah, FoodTV, followed by interviews in Cuisine and the New York Times Style Section. Carrots; new red potatoes; eggplants Italian, Japanese and white; various gourds and squashes; alliaceae from shallots to leeks to scallions to vidalia; broccoli rabe and all its cruciferous cousins flexing their muscles; mushrooms, bold and dreamy. All these, anthropomorphized into a triple X of desire under the cornstalks.

Man, I hate that bitch.

Veganism

"I can see it, the vegetable man. There are a whole bunch of pieces, people portrayed by fruits, flowers, precious gems I think, but my favorite was the vegetable man. The cherry tomato eyes, onion cheeks, cabbage ear and the eggplant forming his beautiful Roman nose and brow. I can't remember the artist's name, Giovanni Archibaldo or something like that, but we can google it later. There are many examples of his work on artmuseum.com and artchive.com and folio.com. I think there's a folio.com anyway, I'm not sure about that either, but I know there's a artchive.com." I sighed and rolled over onto my stomach.

"I can think of other things to do with vegetables. If you'd like." His fingers slither over the veins in my arms and pause at the scar on my shoulder. "Fruits, sauces, ice cubes and, of course, eggplant. We can go shopping at the farmer's market. I'd like to roll a kiwi on you, drizzle honey down your thighs and just imagine the ecstasy you'll experience with an eggplant. Or two." He smiled wickedly.

"You're silly. I'm talking serious art here, museum art."

"We're naked. It's hard to be serious when we're naked. Besides, it's vegetable art."

"It is hard." I run a fingernail along his skin. "Never mind the farmer's market. Let's just toss a salad with what we have here."

Little Bird

Little bird, little robyn bird,
Come out and play.
I'm waiting for you.
The world isn't so big.
We'll find pieces you can handle.
Perch on my hand, little bird, and peck my earlobe.
It'll be okay, I promise.

A Bowl of Cherries

She holds the bowl, scant amount of cereal and milk inside,
holds the bowl with two hands, laps at it, laps at the dregs.
Then turns it over into a hat, so proud, as a few drops of milk crawl past her eyelashes.

"Oh baby, why'd you have to go and do that for? Look at this mess!"
Hush, I say, hush.
Look at her, not the floor or the counter or the shirt.
They'll wash, they'll be fine.
Look at her.
Look at her before you crumple her face.
The shadows of those creases will always be there, haunting us.
Hush, now. Give her another bowl to wear. Let her have a layered hat, a confection hat
And another to be a different drum to beat with her forgotten spoon.

Thinner

Fingers down the throat
He vomits dreams, wants to lose
one more pound. Just one.

Monkey Song

O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!
O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!
O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!
O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!

Guards chant.
The monkey priests process, swinging censors.
I look up at my friend, high up, hanging there.
Sun hurts my eyes.
Incense feels like bugs under my skin.
Greenman bleeds away, fertilizes arid land, dried up rivers.
Meat is butchered, doled out.
Pass it to me!
I want my share! Mine!
Smell of roasting meat, mouth waters.
The others, they glare at me, holding their skewers at the pit,
while I, starved, chew raw blessed flesh.
For another year, I will live.
Next year, it will be my turn.


Nota bene: Wizard of Oz, 1939: winkie guard chant
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0032138/faq#.2.1.4

Where?

Roll over. Alone. Pillows confuse me,
pile pushed up against my back mimic you,
somewhere else tonight.

Palms dance on papyrus flesh, serifs and punctuation marks.
We savor the sentences we write.
Quotation marks fighting sleep, searching the other.

Drink it black, regular, sucralose, decaf. Coffee whore.
Anything goes in my mouth,
indifferent to the taste.

But tea? Sultan of this harem,
clarity, aroma, texture, taste.
It is another facet of a diamond in the making.

Carrot and Stick

Dangle that carrot!
Tell me everything I want to hear, have ever wanted to hear.
But I know. The carrot is poison.
Behind that smile are teeth.
Easy to swallow that carrot.
Open wide, bite, chew, swallow. Status quo.
Push down roiling bile.

Check the chains, ropes, locks.
Ask the Korean torturer,
"Please sir, I want some more."
Ground absorbs split water.
Oh! He saved a few drops for me, just for me!
He DOES love me.
Prostrate myself, roll over, expose my soft underside, mouth open
to receive the life giving fluid, drop by drop, grateful not to be kicked.

And he wonders why.

Pittance

"I love being with you
I love feeling you
I love the way you make me feel
I love how you look when you do that
I love the things you say to me
I love everything about you."

but you don't love me.

Pen's Oil

"Synthetic oil is better, but not for the reasons you said. Its smooth on the engine, minimizes wear and tear. Mileage? Well, that might show some improvement, but not a significant amount, not like the wear and tear factor."

She adds a packet of natural sugar to the teapot, pours some into a cup and nods. "Perhaps some synthetic oil will minimize wear and tear on me," sipping her tea.

The waitress stood next to the table, a pot in each hand. "Sir, can I hot that up for you?"

"Yeah sure, thanks. The decaf, please."

She filled his cup from the orange handled pot. "Creamers?"

He nodded. She took a handful from her pocket, dropped them on the table and turned to the next booth. "Ma'am, would you like some more coffee?"

He continued."Perhaps. Don't count on it. You need more than oil to minimize the wear and tear on your moving parts. Lots more." He broke his muffin in half, then in half again. "Would you like a piece?"

"No. I'm fine."

"You are that." He picks up a segment and eats it. "Muffins are an oil-based cake. Real food oil, canola oil, corn oil, olive oil. Not synthetic oil. Not margarine."

"True. You can't make muffins from margarine, from products containing trans fat."

"No, you can't." He nods, still chewing the segment of muffin. "No. Muffins are muffins. Why did you say we have to talk?"

"Because we do."

"Talk, not do?"

"Talk, not do."

"Oh." He takes another bite, swallows his coffee and stares into the empty mug. He swirls the grinds up the side of the mug, but cannot read what it says. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well. What about? We haven't even seen each other in weeks. I thought we elected to forego discussion."

"I think we need closure. I think I need closure."

"Did somebody die? You disappeared, not me. We need closure? You need closure? Psychobabble. Closure. Huh. You are so full of it." He breaks up the last segment of muffin. Crumbs litter the table.

She licks her forefinger and picks up some of the crumbs, then sucks them off her finger.

"I thought you didn't want any."

"I don't."

"You don't want any when I offer you the whole thing, but you pick up the crumbs? The garbage? You can have it all and you take trash."

"Uhh... excuse me, sir, ma'am. Would you like anything else? Or will that be all?" The waitress stood, uneasy.

"No, just the check. We're done here. Thank you." She places the check on the table.

He glances at it, pulls out his billfold. Selects a ten and a five, hands them to the waitress. "Here. No, keep the change."

She listens to this with half an ear, thinking. Why was she picking up his crumbs, his leavings, his cast-offs? If the wear and tear left her worn and torn, were crumbs all she deserved?

He stands, glares at her. "I don't get you, I don't get you at all. Why did you call me? Why bother? Why engage? So you can keep me hoping? You like holding the leash, don't you? Yeah, psychobabble, it's what you do, put labels on things, on feelings. You'd rather label than feel. All the time, analyzing, defining. Fine. I'm going to throw it back at you now. Why?"

"Why? I don't know. I thought you'd want to know why I dropped off the face of the earth."

"Six weeks you don't take my calls, answer my email, nothing. There's a reason? Besides the usual chaos of your life? Another reason? What story are you going to tell me this time? I know you. I've known you how long now? What is it, two, three years already? I know what's going on. You think I'm stupid? Do I really need to hear this? Do I?"

"I dunno."

He drops his napkin on the table and walks out.

She licks her finger again, presses it against the table. Pour tea into his mug and drinks.

Tazo Haiku

He drinks my tea, hot
not iced, when I am not there
to feel me inside.

French Bread

Biting through the crust, eyes closed, to the soft chewy interior, you wink at me, suddenly, sharing your pleasure. Sip my tea, already full, full of tea, of bread, of you, watching you. I smile at your pleasure, indulgent, holding the cup in both my hands. So cold. The cold never goes away, no never, but sometimes when you are...I don’t feel it as much.

Another sip. The scalding tea lands in a bog, rivulets in cracks of putrefying fear. Shakes me. Pouring sugar to cover it with sweetness but the granules miss, bounce, scatter like the headlights of an oncoming vehicle on a rainy night. No matter. I travel to the funhouse, absorbed by mirrors of distorted self, endless loop, trying to breathe.

Where did it go? When did it change? Knife slowly breaks my skin. Seppuku. Look down at my spilling insides, at my cup which holds no answers. Glance up through the veiled lashes. Your fangs rip bits out. Chew. Swallow.

I shake myself back to the now, hearing a muffled voice. Whose? Yours? Hey, do you want to try a piece? Here, have some. The end. I know you like the end. Break off the heel of the bread, a sacrament you hold out to me, then place on the communion plate.

Stare, turn it over slowly. Schoolgirl withdrawn, refold my hands in my lap. Biting my lips, muffled voice fills my skull. Can’t you eat? It’s really good, sourdough. Plugra butter. Smearing butter on the raw open insides, broken off piece filled with dead ends. The melting butter makes its own path through the pockets, seeking an escape. Sour aftertaste. Ultra high fat butter. Blood fear pounds, pulls me under, throat too tight to swallow the tea held behind my teeth.

Your arm around me, not a comfort, a prison. I shrink from your too-long fingernails, the glossy, deep red polish. Sweetie? Are you in there? Hey, is anybody home? Avoid your eyes, avoid you, what I see. Beloved scavenger, beloved predatory beast. I stare at your coffee, milk fat, grinds floating. My tea, clear. Read the leaves, read the grinds. They all say nothing. Nothing except seeping cold.