Jubilant Bob

Jubilant Bob
loves you 
and describes this love in tiny notes
on the backs of postage stamps which he then uses
to send you empty hatboxes.

"Within, infinity," the eeny little card reads.

Jubilant Bob
hates it
when you sleep with a boyfriend.
He hangs himself in the vestibule of your building,
making it awkward getting to the mailbox.
a minuscule note folded multiple times
explaining his despair.

You and your boyfriend look at each other, sigh, run upstairs, do it,
then hate yourselves, but not that much.
Love is strange.

Jubilant Bob
finds you with a girlfriend,
writes a best seller about his near death experiences, 
both from the noose and from you.
Bob requests his royalties all in pennies,
using some of them to weigh down roses
he leaves for you
on the stair.

Will you never have pity?
Will you never stop fucking around?

Jubilant Bob
gets religion,
forgives you as you stand there blinking.
"Oh for fuck's sake, Bobby," you say, stamping one boot on the pavement.
"Wake the fuck up."
He thought you were better than you are,
hates it when you curse,
and keeps a microscopic cameo of you under his tongue.

In the vestibule,
his fans,
your lovers,
and enough flowers for a parade or a funeral.
Go on, marry him.
File a sharp tongue on his stupid postage machine.
Let him feel you up every Sunday.

Feel free to regret all of it.


Angie said…
Oh my God Shay! I’m laughing over here. It reminds me of the poor invisible man in the broadway show “Chicago”— it’s all so plausible— especially the eeny infinity cards and microscopic cameo, but morrso the fucking around. Love that he thinks I’m better than I am. Love is stranger than even this freak show you dialed me in for today’s listening pleasure. What a tart. A sweet dish.
Sioux Roslawski said…
Shay--The tone. The rhythm. The levity. This is wonderful (as always).
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Oh my goodness. Poor Bobbitt. I love the miniscule tortured notes. God, I may have written some of those myself back in the day, before I traded in humans for dogs, lol. You do tell a tale like no one else. I love them. Keep 'em coming. (We are SO enjoying your retirement!)
hedgewitch said…
Something very human as well as disturbing about this no win situation--the dog in the manger, the controller, the rebel and the residue of truth that somehow gets swept up with the dry rose petals in the vestibule. Brilliant, Shay.
Gillena Cox said…
Cameo under his tongue and notes on a postage stamp. Great giggles

Jazzbumpa said…
you always amaze, and frequently baffle me

this is so deliciously weird and surreal

i almost think i understand it

but then know i don't

Rommy said…
I am here for this testimony from a woman tired of misogynist bullshit.
Magaly Guerrero said…
The thing that gets me is that it is that one can almost be certain that the speaker is going to go for that waste of flesh and bone wrapped in social guilt-tripping. Some kinds of guilt are an insult to soul, and they usually come accompanied with an extra large order of just as valueless regret.
Sanaa Rizvi said…
My goodness this is good!💘 It got me thinking that love has the power to drive absolutely anyone insane.. its all consuming with its baggage and incessant need to feel fulfilled. What an amazing character you have birthed!💘
tonispencer said…
I hope she holds out and doesn't marry. That she tips her hat and sails on. I didn't marry for the first time until I was 39 but by then I was ready for it. I think this woman is tired of petite Bobbie, I really do. Fun poem and made me smile hugely.
Susie Clevenger said…
Fuck the marriage! This story is so disturbingly accurate.
Kerry O'Connor said…
Am I the only one who feels Bob's pain?
Other Mary said…
I thought this was disturbing too. And I did feel sorry for Bob, sort of. Then I wonder if after finding religion he will also find the NRA and come back and shoot up her building.
Anonymous said…
Oh, I think you have at least a 300 level class in blasphemy here, which is OK because it is a required course.
Brendan said…
It was like reading a fractured fairy tale from someone's book of modern dreams. Brilliant as always. Bob was for me our idiot id, radiated beyond repair by the blaring of radios.