Ink Ribbons

 

This is not happening, does not exist

any more than Bogie on the flat screen smoking Camels

and looking world-weary at the bar.

Bogie's dead, eaten up by cancer,

liver hard and beaten-up as a gymnasium medicine ball.

And yet, here I am, and here is my heart

like a twin engine monoplane on the tarmac at Casablanca.

No smart suit and fashionable hat for me.

I want my father's old fedora and his jacket I used to wear

because I loved him, and we both

drove my mother to razor blades like matching bookends

around a collection of Hem and pulp novels and every page

read to her like THE END THE END THE END.

This is prop whiskey, the gin is Dasani water but the lime is real.

This mood, though, it's the view from a blacked-out liner

at night and I can just make out the lanterns at a cafe on the shore

where they drink the real stuff,

spread lovely lies like butter on bread,

and the solitaries read James Joyce with their works in their pocket.

The off-duty ferryman raises his glass. To me? Not possible.

I am the woman with ink ribbons in her hair, erstatz ether bows

imaginary like the humming presses in a 1940's movie scene.

Edit out the brassy blonde coming through the door,

there's only room for one hard case here

with a PI license and a heart of paper, cotton, leather,

but never even around the corner from silver or gold.

So bottoms up, sobersides, please rush in from the rain I've drummed up

and say something nice. It's always 3 a.m. in these scenes

and I long for morning,

                                       and lanterns lit

                                                                 like my father's smile. 

___________________

for Desperate Poets "I wake up screaming: Desperate Noir." 

Image at top: Bing AI

Music: Billie Holiday Willow Weep For Me

Diving Bell

Give a girl a diving bell and she'll get the message
that you think she walks on water, or dances on it, or
some romantic fah-de-lah like that.
There was whiskey on the wreck out by the sand bar
and the barkeep went there in waders, then wondered
how he'd get back to the tavern with all those bottles without drowning.

I said, hey ho, here I am, a girl who owns a net.
There aren't a lot of us left--
not since that weird with a beard came around
and everybody wandered off to do open mic about looking up, not back.
Here's a confidence, Mr. Barkeep
(I'll bet you hear a lot of them)
I'm not forgiving those assholes.

Give a girl the time of day around here
and she'll think you walk on water, or waltz across it, or
some low self-esteem rigmarole like that. 
I'm not that way,
but I'm willing to help you get the hooch.
Alls you have to do is come around and fix what needs fixing,

Including the broken window, 
and my child who needs to hear a dopey joke.
Do that, and I'll lend you my net, and all my old boyfriends, too,
to help you stock your larder, as it were.
(Like how I said that? "As it were.")
So let's just be real, okie dokie artichokee?
Fortune favors the bold, and I'd say
it looks like I'm your lucky starfish, Captain,
ain't I?
_______

for Camera FLASH at Toads.

local girls

Don't be an idiot.
The whole of the ocean
is a fool's desire.
It teems with men and ships
hauling who knows what
to who knows where,
and, really,
who the hell cares?

Dreams are better drawn
from the little
local
bit of wet
at the tips of her fingers.

Once, a lady of advanced years
told me, dear,
every fox goes gray;
every beautiful face 
must give its grace
away or lose it for nothing.

Look out at the water, honey.
Let's leave it,
it will still be there
should we care to come back.
For now, I only desire
the little
local
bit of wet
at the tip of your tongue--

a tide that rides from me 
to you
to me again
sweeter than anything 
any selkie
could pursue.
_____

for Susie's "Bits Of Inspiration" at Real Toads. I pursued a water theme.

photo: from a 1957 issue of Playboy, or so the source says. 

 

Dybbuk

Oh loosen up--
go ahead, go crazy,
open the mail on a Saturday.

Angel,
I can see that you're gonna need my help.
Pop this--
you'll relax in a jiff.

Mama said,
"A girl's reputation is all she has got!"
I've got a whopper,
but don't believe everything they say.

F'rinstance,
what would happen
if you didn't buy that PR about the Red Sea
and how it turned into the fucking Dixie Highway
just cos Moses needed a fire exit?

Ooooh, you know what would happen!
The Dybbuk will get ya!
Well here I am. You peed your panties yet?

I've been misrepresented, yanno.
Mind if I sit closer?
See? I'm not some stenchy horror from a nightmare.
I've got French nails
and fishnets.
Nothing but class here, honey.

Lemme in, lemme in, lemme in!
What've you got to lose?
What're you gonna do--
keep the inventory at the family business
until you kill your mother in law or she kills you?

Almost asleep?
Let me rock ya.
Just let go and I'll slip into your skin.
We'll be together and then the fun begins.

Did you hear the one about
the Hasidic rabbi and the massage therapist?
Baby?
Aw, she's asleep.
Time for me to make my entrance
and for the crickets to sing:
Dybbuk
Dybbuk
Dybbuk.
______

for Izy's Out Of Standard challenge at Real Toads

 

The Woman With Five Hands

She had five hands, this bible-dark babe next door,
and though some called her "freak",
she was not that. No,
she was an ordinary marvel, much as we are,
us goddesses of the neighborhood--
doing what we will, when left to our own.

Two of her hands, such slender-fingered hands,
such that we all felt a little breathless when she would
smooth her windblown hair back,
were used to do the devil's work--
depending, of course, on which devil's
kids were in school til three, or husband gone
til god knows when, maybe forever--
a devil's work is never done, so they say.

Two of her hands were used to pray,
and when she prayed, the saints themselves sighed
and crossed themselves, forgetting to answer back.
Saint Sebastian no longer felt the sting of the arrows,
and Saint Cecilia lost track of her breathing right in the middle
of her hymn to God.
Prayer can be, should be,
a two way street, and she lit up the lines
at her very first whispered word.

One hand left,
an idle hand perhaps, you'll say.
This hand traced its lineage back to her Romanian high-wire ancestors,
knife-throwers, artisans of every stripe.
She told us once, laughing, that past midnight,
this hand became possessed of magic and did the most astonishing things,
all of its own accord.
I don't know about that,
but what I do know is, she knew how to crook it--
just so--
angled toward true north,
and when she did, on those fine afternoons,
I no longer had a choice, and just like her devils and saints,
I came,
calling her name as if the window weren't wide open
and the seasons, at her bidding, changing gloriously on a dime.
_______

Chickamauga Sharon

Chickamauga Sharon was a licensed mortician--
she could rock a back-tied smock
and cook the books, too.
Her lips left long enough to the ear of a stiff
would have them up off the stainless steel and gone to the liquor store,
picking her up a snort
to get her through the afternoon.

Sweet little me and Chickamauga Sharon--
what a hot mess that was,
both of us all over the place and warm to the touch.
No telling where one began or the other left off--
just us
setting the drapes on fire,
filling the flaming heart of the best June on record.

Chickamauga Sharon stayed sweet until July--
that's how I learned that what starts out hot
doesn't last very long.
She got cooler, and came back to herself
like a candle burning backwards,
gathering its wax skin and going out,
down Lee-Gordon Mill Road
to a meeting.

Every night at 8,
she sat at a table in a church basement--
straight and cold as an unlit taper,
with only the tip of her tongue to play
the innocent wick;
not telling who she really was,
or where she'd been--
just a jasmine-scented girl
waiting for the right red-head to smile and be
her next struck match.
_______

At the Aviary

There is a woman screaming.
She snaps her compact shut and asks, "How did I get so fucking old?"

"Cry me a river," says GorgeousCrazyGirl.
She and the World's Most Brilliant Unemployable Violinist are sitting on some concrete steps at the bird park.

"My fingers hurt," complains the Violinist. She has arthritis in her joints.
"Quit bitching, darling," says her companion, serenely.

A peacock calls.
oh OHHH, oh OHHH.
His spread tail makes the Violinist think of a Japanese fan.

"I played Tokyo once. They loved me. I played them a program of Bach and Vivaldi."
GorgeousCrazyGirl says, "Are they the ones who bind their feet? 
How do they get to their seats? They must be like Weebles."

"You need treatment," says the Violinist, sitting hip to hip with her.
"Treat me, baby!"
They kiss. There is nothing wrong with the Violinist's lips.

The Violinist says, "When I was young, I didn't know there were lesbians."
"There weren't," replies GorgeousCrazyGirl, as calm and smooth as new snow. "There were just dinosaurs, and covered wagons and shit."
The Violinist smacks her on the shoulder, then says, "Ow" and inspects her hand.

It has been a long time since the World's Most Brilliant Unemployable Violinist was able to perform in a professional venue.
It has been almost as long since GorgeousCrazyGirl has been socked away in the bin, or gotten her pretty ass arrested.
They are arcs,
moving in opposite directions,
together. 

GorgeousCrazyGirl is wearing a ginormous cowgirl hat, a white tee shirt with a quote on the front, and cut off jeans. 
Her bare legs could stop an army in its tracks.

The Violinist is wearing dark glasses and a Burberry rain coat. She might be attending a funeral. 
"What do you think happens, when we die?" she asks her friend.
"Don't be morbid, honey, "advises The Girl, untroubled as a blue sky in May.

Once, The World's Most Brilliant Unemployable Violinist was reasonably famous, financially well off, and as lonely as the last Great Auk, if it lived on a precipice surrounded by a shark-infested moat.

Once, GorgeousCrazyGirl got her dinner out of dumpsters, and believed the wacky shit her head told her. She didn't have a nickel, or a clue, or command of her own mind. She knows what terror is.

There is Aleve, and Wellbutrin. 
At the bird park, most of the birds are paired off, making babies like Detroit once made Packards.
"They have wings. There's nothing to stop them flying away. Why don't they?" The Violinist is looking up, into the April sky, as if it were the steps to a stage.

"Maybe they like it here," suggests The Girl, as zen as a zebra in a hay factory. "Maybe they have everything they need."
"You really are awfully beautiful," says the Violinist, playing tenderly with The Girl's long black hair.
"That's the rumor," she says, wearily.
"No," the Violinist continues, "you would be beautiful in the dark. To a blind person. With no hands."

GorgeousCrazyGirl snorts loudly, then laughs, a sort musical braying. "You're crazy."
"So was Mozart." The Violinist looks quite young when she smiles.
Then, they are intertwining their fingers and saying nothing at all, 
and everything;
like rests and notes,
which, together make peacocks and people go oh OHH...
oh OHH.
______

Dedicated to Dana, wherever she is; the first charming crazy girl I fell in love with.

I bear this in common with The Girl: I frequently wear a ginormous old cowgirl hat.

Linked to Real Toads Open Link Monday.

Chokecherry's Kiss

November is the lover who leaves--
December is the long nights, after.

Doors lack kindness--
women are windows, trusting fools.

Hinges hold the weave of hand touching skin--
Chokecherry's kiss is the Mistress and the Master

Of sugar-boned lovers gone by dawn,
leaving only absent laughter.

< 3 Story

3 celebrities
die in sequence.
3 funerals in the afternoon sun.

A 3 fingered priest
makes the sign of the cross--
3 children run across the cemetery lawn.

3's a crowd, so they say.
2 will send the third away.
Be civil at the service, for the sake of the kids.

In a 3 room house, I turn 3 times--
let my 3 wishes all come true!
My taxi stays idling beneath the stars outside.

There are 3 things I love most about you:
your eyes, your eyes, your eyes.
3 chances in 4, you'll leave the door unlocked tonight.

3 in the morning, 3 ghosts appear--
famous once, 3 sheets in the wind forevermore.
Now, honey, now's the time to love each other sore.
_______

for Real Toads mini challenge #29.

I was trying to make one of those emoticon hearts for the title, but it wouldn't accept the  < and the 3 together, so I had to leave a space between them. It's supposed to be a heart.

Tanya

Do not rely on time.
It recedes unendingly--
There is less of it now, even, than there was when you began to read this poem;
The grave yawns.
Do not rely on time.

Do not believe in your own wits,
Or that yours are sharper, somehow, than others'.
Once, you believed that lost teeth were boughten by fairies,
And that only old people died.
Do not believe in your own wits.

Religion, causes, various grand undertakings--
Do not live for these,
They come and go.
Do not live for fame or wealth--
Every third chump on the street is famous, wealthy, and echoingly vacant and hollow.

Only these things matter-
Tanya,
Tanya's thighs,
Tanya's face,
Tanya's breasts
and Tanya's pleased smile.

Take my advice--
Sell everything,
Compromise everything,
Forget position, principles, pride--
What good do they do you?

Find Tanya at the place they call
La Maison de L'oiseau Vert.
Kill or betray anyone who gets in your way.

Leave now--
The things that matter matter only for such a short time.
Go to her,
She is waiting.
_______

Texas 9 To Utopia

On the road to Utopia that night,
You pulled ice house ambrosia wrapped in a napkin out of your clasp purse,
And a plastic flask of nectar from the air
Like a master magician.

"That's quaint," I said through a smile, and gave myself the indulgence of
Straddling you and sucking on your ear.

I wish I had a photograph--
I could have used our thick buzz for film.
I miss your slant look
And your penchant for burning down whatever begged for a match.

These days, I dress for work, keep a schedule;
I menace truants and make inquiry over matters of no consequence at all.

You were the field botanist in boots and boho.
Your herbarium could have gotten us five to ten--
I'd have had no reluctance to do the stretch and ask for nothing more than your kiss-this laugh,
A little taste,
And one more hour on the road to Utopia.
______

for Flipside's word list #7: penchant, reluctance, slant, menace, clasp, master, indulgence, distraction, utopia, inquiry, quaint, photograph, herbarium

jargon note to non-Texas speakers: an ice house is a party store.

confidential to STWIASD: I used the picture I found for you. I cannot be trusted!

 

Rachel

Gilled creatures,
go back.
Back to the sludge-depths,
down where the dead-roots rise.

What were you thinking you could offer me?
I wear white lace gloves
even while shucking oysters.
They must be bought live, in their shells,
so that they may whisper to their conquerors
at the fateful moment.

All right.
I'm being ridiculous,
but you didn't know me back in mushroom days.
We took our German professor
down to the cold beach.
I have his accent still, in a jewelry box, in a drawer,
a little trophy for me to keep.

Back then,
I admit it, I was toasted most of the time.
I have a lot to answer for,
but I'm not sorry for the road I took.
I had a cute top I made from hurricane flags;
when black-haired Rachel ran her fingers up under it,
I blessed her for it, as the gooseflesh rose.

My universal veil and my bullshit affectations are gone.
I'm sober these days,
no shrooms, no Schlitz.
Listen, I could give a shit less
for the dead things
and the depths.

Let me just stand here,
sailor,
mermaid,
woman of my dreams...
when I sing to you, let me do it in daylight,
facing into the wind
like a sea bird.
______

I got some of my words HERE. Flipside, do you like that picture? I knew you would!

Earnest Twang

wrote a letter
to miss abby blue
and here's what the letter said--

earnest twang can't sing for you
cos earnest twang is dead.

nippin' on a carob cake
in a vegan coffee bar
earnest twang wrote his last song
about the wrongs there are

in this world, baby
down here on the ground
nothings's right
nothing's sure
except a righteous sweet note's sound.

abby blue,
he asked for you
in the hour when he was dyin'

he sent a prayer
through the ozone layer
that he was still your brave orion

earnest twang
was loved by some
and some thought him a star

but earnest twang
will sing no more
about the wrongs there are

in this world, baby
down here on the ground
but it was you
miss abby blue
he wrapped his heart around.

wrote a letter
to abby blue
but decided to call instead

earnest twang can't sing for you
cos earnest twang is dead.

_____

for Marian's music prompt at Real Toads