Sunday, July 13, 2014

See Susan Fuck

Black-eyed Susans,
biennials, they
die after
2 years...

2 years, hmmm
if people knew
they would die
in 2 years...

or 20 or 40 or
be dead, definite, then

things could be 
readied, prepared,
with no expectation 
of more than allotted!

Life could be played,
be viewed so that
yellows and shapes
could morph... colors, shapes...

by choice
without fear,
since all time would
be accounted, 2 years

or 20, 40, 80 eee.
To think like a 
flower, like a smelly
lovely, attracting this and that!

Flowers are women,
not men. 
Attractants all, 

Nourishers, nectaters
never without a 
welcome to any and all

Made up so that
the circle of life
completes, replicates,
even fornicates, hmmm...

Why not??

Flowers, no Susans,
not even can
But they must or

there would be no more
after 2 years!
The circle would
cease. No!

Tonight, go out
at AM 2
with a flashlight
and flash-flash their beds!!

And you will see flowers

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Memories are Killers

A window, in and out, represents a pass through. It was there maybe fifty years, maybe more, surely it would have been called a picture window but for the fact that it was only a foot or two off of the ground. Perhaps a basement apartment, probably illegal, things like that were common here in this beat out shore town. A town, I might say, looking ready for a gay takeover. What with the nascent glitzy little shoppes and sushi restaurants amongst the decrepitude, look out lower socioecs! Tear downs on the way... Move out!

Breezy and 70, it was a nice day to push-pedal up and down the promenade. Filled now with expensive cars and white haired old men trying to act like their hard-ons were natural, not blue or yellow, l'estate era arrivata. Ha, fools they are, looking stupid driving German cars with so much refinement and power that their Buick reflexes would be overcome with ease in the event that they had the balls to drive like men. There is no pill for that derring-do.

Odder looking, that window now, for I saw it first in January when the thermometer recorded 1 degree F. F means fuck when the ambient temperature is one, at least that seems a fair equilibration. Indeed no pedal play that day, rather I cruised by in a toasty Jeep with heated seats. Some old men express their age discomfiture in other ways than in pointed projections. And so what?

Then, there was ice in the corners of that pane now slightly distorted with age. Glass is a liquid and in time gravity has its way. Without a double layer, windows allow condensation, heat loss and obfuscation by what in the old days was called fogging. Peering in I could smell that inefficient oil heater plying its mission, I sniffed that heavy odor pervasive without actually being in there. My long dead Aunt Jenny lived in such a similar place so long ago... No so long ago, not long enough to be forgotten. The sun shone brighter then. Memories are killers.

I wondered why the image of that winter flat flashed me now, now on a warm June day when there was no ice to be found anywhere but in a convenience store for sale at $4.59 a bag? Cozy I thought were they then, the two of them, renters, working casino jobs. I saw them once, together sleepy eyed in a nearby WaWa. It was six in the morning and the smell of their sex filled the air as I brushed by them as I stumbled to the coffee kiosk. Tousled, her hair, deeper black his beard...

She, lithe, hairless in all and smooth and he, dark and mysterious, respectively. White hair was a joke to them. Knowing about that partially dug out lair, imagination explained how they ate and played, diddled and ate and how those two had become one. Raw sex and deep passion, the evanescent addicting kinds were theirs then. When it's so cold what else is left? Heat always wins.

But today, bemusement forced me to halt the push-push. For no reason, I stopped to look into the window. Without any ice, any fog, the interior of the place appeared stark and off white, not well appointed and dogeared. Shore furniture and paint are easily humid frayed and unfortunately moldy to the core. Somehow that greasy oil heated air neutralizes that spore-ific whiff in winter, but today in June my nose curled mycotic as I peeped like a Tom. Passion, hmmm. Mold!

Empty, maybe they moved out, moved on. Were they still together? For one, I wanted them to be like mate-for-life birds, penguins? Woodpeckers? For two, though, no. Nothing lasts, not that kind of heat, not to be confused for love which is more of an acquired tolerance of mutual bullshit. Those guys in the Porsches, BMW's and Benzes, on the hunt with their pharmacologically supported pokers, they know, they hope. They of the last chance power drives want to feel lithe, hairless and smooth just one more time. Fools, dolts! Chumps...

Push-push, I moved on, thinking. Two weeks ago, the memory of her, Ashley? maybe, burdened me anew. Twenty-two maybe three; she, tender and wistful, looked at me in a way, inexplicable. She had a lonely sensuality as if she was unrequited, seeking... Surely I would have missed this signal, this invitation twenty years ago, but not now. Too bad, though, the evil masters of exhausted time and lost opportunities ruled that day and indeed this one too. Yet I could imagine her, side lit, midday, white sheets... Too slow and too soft to move then, a recent memory is no less draining than an old one. Curses! As it turns out... Memories are killers, more for the missed opportunities than the loss!

With the afternoon sun angled, I stopped at Stewart's and ate a hot dog slathered in yellow mustard. Bright yellow, that mustard, it glowed like it was high noon. Hope!


Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Tubo Catodico

"Hai già visto questo stupido film dieci volte. Perché lo vuoi guardare di nuovo? " Chiara era arrabbiata.

"Perché mi piace!" disse Fabrizio con la saliva agli angoli della bocca.

"Ti piace!" rispose lei. "Credo che ti piace guardare Belen Rodriguez e il suo culo, il suo culo grasso."

"E allora, quello che mi piace sono affari miei fatti".

Sospirando, "Dovresti guardare il mio culo con desiderio?  Perché lo fai più?

"Aw, Chiara, non ora. Tu sai che io sono depresso per il mio infortunio alla gamba. Un uomo che non può fare il suo lavoro è solo un mezzo uomo. Non sei tu, sono io. Sei ancora sexy. Inoltre mi fa impazzire come quasi svieni quando tu vedi Balotelli in TV.

"Ah - ah, Balotelli! No, io preferisco Stefano DiMartino. Ironico che lui è con quella puttana, tua puttana, Belen R-o-d-r-i-g-u-e-z. Odio Argentina!"

Infatti il rapporto tra Chiara e Fabi aveva colpito le rocce. Certo, per il momento due persone stanno guardando la TV insieme, il fuoco della passione si spegne. Tra due persone soltanto il calore è importante. Il resto è la jibber jabber di dentro e fuori della vita. Una televisione, in particolare, è una cattiva notizia. Il piccolo schermo è tossico, che tra l'altro è una buona ragione per non mettere uno in camera da letto.

Chiara Zilli aveva intenzione di rompere con il poverino, cercando le parole giuste. Purtroppo questi tipi di parole devono rabbia a loro carburante. Rosso di faccia, i capelli scuri quasi troppo rossi, sbottò , "Forse dovremmo affrontare la realtà, il nostro matrimonio è morto! "

Due aborti spontanei e senza figli agiscono sempre a discepito di un matrimonio. I bambini sono la colla. Appiccicosa, colla tenace che tiene un uomo e una donna insieme al di là della infatuazione che incitava la febbre. E' il desiderio caldo, la cosiddetta prima fase, che è ricambiato con la nascita di un figlio. Senza il bambino mette irrequietezza mette nella relazione, l' infatuazione svanisce come il blu, nei jeans lavati . E la TV non può risolvere quell’agitazione.

Ogni rapporto guastato  può essere definito dal punto di rottura. Spesso si tratta di un evento insignificante come una tosse durante il coito o un debole bacio labbra sottili. A volte può essere una bistecca bruciata o una camicia perduta. Ma per Chiara e Fabri si tratta di un argomento insipido della TV. Così triste. (: (:

Alcuni dicono che la TV è il soporifero delle masse. In breve, un istupidimento di percezione per alleviare di mezzo il dolore di vivere, il dolore della vita. Forse è così, con le immagini e i colori, i suoni e lo sfrigolio del "tubo catodico" è un ciuccio. Nessun pensiero necessario è il motto del mezzo.



"You already have seen this stupid movie ten times. Why do you want to watch it again?" Chiara was angry.

"Because I like it!" Said Fabrizio with spittle in the corners of his mouth.

"You like it!" she retorted. "I think you like to look at Belen Rodriguez and her ass, her fat ass."

"So what, what I like is my business."

Sighing, "You should look at my ass with such desire. Why don't you - anymore?

"Aw, Chiara, not now. You know I am depressed from my leg injury. A man who can't do his job is only half a man. It's not you, it's me. Besides it makes me crazy how you almost pass out when you see Balotelli on TV.

"Ha-ha, Balotelli!! No, I prefer DiStefano. Ironic that he is with that whore, Belen."

Indeed their relationship had hit the rocks. Certainly by the time two people are watching TV together, the fire of the passion is extinguished. Between two people only the heat is important. The rest is the jibber jabber of life's in and out. A television, in particular, is bad news. The little screen is toxic, which by the way is a good reason never to put one in the bedroom.

Chiara Zilli was planning on breaking off with the poverino, searching for the right words. Unfortunately these kinds of words need anger to fuel them.

Red faced, her dark hair almost red too, she blurted, "Maybe we should face the reality, our marriage is dead!"i

Two miscarriages and no children always act to the detriment of a marriage. Children are glue. Sticky, tenacious glue which holds a man and a woman together beyond the infatuation which incited the fever. It is the hot yearning, the so called first step, which is requited with the birth of a child. Without the baby, restlessness sets into a relationship as the infatuation fades like the blue in washed jeans. And TV cannot solve that agitation.

Every failed relationship can identify the breaking point. Often it is an insignificant event like a cough during coitus or a weak, thin lipped kiss. Sometimes it can be a burnt steak or a lost shirt. But for Chiara and Fabi it is an insipid argument about TV. So sad.

Some say TV is the soporific of the masses. In short, a dumbing down of perception to ease the pain of living, the ache of life. Maybe so, with the images and colors, the sounds and the sizzle the "boob tube" is a pacifier. No thinking needed is the motto of the medium.

Monday, April 21, 2014


Solo sole solo, lei! Sometimes he thinks in Italian although he is not fluent. Half baked, potato, mostly sums him up. Nobody knows him or so he thinks. Nobody knows everything about him. Odd, a bit, but isn't everyone a bit odd. Why else would he come here ogni giorno to the rock ledge overlooking a Sargasso Sea of weeds, hoping for salvation. A place where he has always come...

The small beach is rocky, but people here in Essington think of this as Amalfi. Across from PHL, the air resonates with turbulent burps and it smells a little, too. Jet fuel is aromatic, more so on bright days. Has it something to do with ozone? Magical is the sun, indeed!

Principessa, he would call that if he could. Oh, she reflects the light, making it beautiful for the privilege of kissing her. So stunning, she dries his mouth as if he put pure desiccant up his nose. Cocaine. Looking, a-stare, speechlessness leads to his bereftment. Today he looks older and haggard-er. Men, like ladies, have short half lives. When the decrepitude of age makes brutto a middle name... Hobbled and ... Yeex!

Once in another lifetime he came here, skin supple, he hard at will; then he prowled like a feral cat. Then he never felt pain, no discomfort. You might say his body fit him, but now, well, a fat suit better said. Memories flood him, looking at these people thinking they are Europeans. In fact, he once thought that as well. Tight and contorted, do they eat? He moves his foot, a few pebbles cascade towards Principessa two meters hell-ward, beached below him. Unnoticed little stones still pitter. Patter.

Once, a while ago, he had a telepathic thing with a skinny sylph, who went by the name, Lisa. Really her given was Doris, but people from sensual European countries are not Dorisses. Is Doris a Greek name, Dorian derived? Certo! No matter, only a person with a small heart could be a Doris. Between them, Lisa and him, no words needed. Too bad she had a flag in her umbilicus, planted by some guy from Llanerch. Who knows, words might have been tossed between them leading to... Whenever he reached out to her telepathically, he squeezed his ears together and he thought his pituitary was an antenna. He forced his energy up into his noodle by Valsalva reversal.

Looking at Principessa he decided to try his telepathy. Ears tight in, forehead furrowed like a cold scrote, he thought. Ti amo! TI AMO! TI AMOOOO!!!! A man his age shouldn't telepath so hard. Push! Oh no! Woozy, first his bad knee buckled, then his head went forward and like those pebbles he went... Off the wall, onto the beach, arms and legs akimbo. Pitter. Patter. A face plant is quite a thing to watch.

Bleary eyed, he awoke in the emergency room, whereupon some green doctor told him he was lucky, nothing broken, just scrapes and contusions. Mostly il medico wanted to know about a tetanus immunization.

"Yes, yes last year when I slip stepped a rusty nail, yes!"

"Principessa, is she alright? Hurt? Oh did I hurt ...." he trailed off.

"What? Princip, what?

"My love, did I hurt her?"

An old man, seemingly confused, can't recover. Deemed pazzo, credibility is lost and everyone pets you as if you are a dog. Nobody to call, no friends, he had to stay the night for observation. So to speak. As for Principessa, she left the beach shortly after la stella è caduta dal paradiso. She is a dancer, lithe and quick. She and her friends are contracted ballare nel video di musica. Professionals, yes. If the old man YouTubed he would find here there, moving so deftly, tears would wash his face.

Purtroppo, there is no happy ending for him. Should there be? No! Each person gets a chance, some more, some less, lucky or luckless. Oh well, it always comes down to the small things, some irrelevancy or another, upon which life is fulcrum-ed. Boh! Maybe he should have talked with Doris. Telepathy be damned. Would she seen have him differently, say in red, green and white? Imagine! At least she or one of their kids could have come to get him after his o-b-s-e-r-v-a-t-i-o-n ended. He should have married, eh? He should have planted una bandiera. Ovunque...


Sunday, April 13, 2014

Occhi Scuri

Sunday evenings are the worst, the weekend is overrrr... La Scala is on play and replay and then againnnn. Little known here, here in Margate, Giusy Ferreri has the kind of voice a guy wants to hear at that moment, when there is a god. Oh yeah, that certain inflection, her burning occhi scuri, ehhhh.... Sicilians!

Finding himself here, still a little drunk, right next to a freakish beachfront elephant people make a big deal about. Tin and wood, the outlandish structure is a tourist attraction. Tourist, the word, always reminds him of diarrhea. Once Buford Peel got the shits so bad from a trip into Mexico that he blacked out in the aisle of return Flight 50 American - from dehydration. To this day he remembers some piano legged lady in aisle 6 saying he had turista. Funny how odd her legs looked with his nose an inch away from her right foot.

Oh, between lives, Buford wished things were better for him, but who doesn't? Mid life ennui is a hobgoblin. Nobody would sign up for the routine if the consequences were evident. No matter how much a guy thinks he knows, he is destined to repeat the mistakes and end result just like all of the skinners before him. Call it the way of the world, call it fate, call it bullshit. You call it!


Judy P's midwestern accent was cute once, not Sicilian inflected in a drawn out oh sort of way. Yet, that was then. Time is the ultimate saltpeter and 22 years is about enough in and out to render a carrot flaccid and numb. Now those oh's, her oh's, are askew chalk on a blackboard, not that anyone nowadays knows what a blackboard is and what chalk can do to the blood.

Getting on to 7:40, the light was fading, but the pachyderm's red carpet coat shone as bright as a heated woman's choch. Heh, yes indeed, if there had been enough light in the wee hours he might have seen hers, whatever her name. Shore pick-ups often go nameless or mis-named - to protect the innocents. The kids and the cuckolds need their anonymity. Certo!

Time was moving on, time to return to sobriety and ho-hum. But the ho-hum makes the thrill of the pick up all the more addicting, like the chocolate ice cream off of her belly. It ran into the cavity of her flatness, her button... he pushed it up into her thick hair, the salty heady her. The sweet of the chocolate still hung on his tongue. The feel of her softness, her natural self. Without recourse, he jerked the Toyota onto Atlantic Avenue. Bye Lucy...

With his egress from the beach, the insipid air of the mainland displaced the sea air, his life. In reality a guy's life is a long series of nothings, no accounts, with only a few uplifts. Sadly age dictates that those respites become fewer and fewer. On he moved back to oh, light after light, stop after stop. Seems as if a lot of other schmos were headed back to shirts and ties, when he spotted a sign - airport. Ever see a possession?

Buford turned right and he pulled into long term parking. Maybe he knew he wouldn't be back. Atlantic City has a rube airport and he was lucky to catch a last flight to Fort Lauderdale. There he will take a room, wait till the morning and take half of his and oh's savings and send them to a new solo account at Scotia Bank. Then the train to Miami, where he will jump to Rome and then a few days later, maybe by Thursday or Friday, Palermo. Sicily. Then... oh! No!


Saturday, March 22, 2014

Played Out

Played out is a term of hopelessness, senza speranza if you will. Life gets played out sooner or later even if a woman can live to 100. Eventually, give or take a few years, dust to dust as the saying goes. Recently reminded by her forehead splotch of an Ash Wednesday ago, her mortality was all too clear.

Perhaps the ticking of the clock and the shortening of a person's telomeres hearken the proverbial tunnel train. Who doesn't know the one with the single light pushing at each forward walking individual. Each in kind gets stuck in that narrow, a so narrow tube as they walk towards that beam. Is that light god? Each person gets to ponder the issue, but sadly nobody knows for sure. Where is Thomas Aquinas now, now that the world needs a deep thinker? By the way, Aquinas died in 1274 at the age of 49. Plenty of folks wish he would reappear!

With the world a-twitter... Malaysian planes vanishing and (the) Crimea going Russian... a rational person might think death dwelling would be apropos of less than nothing. Who has time to think of dying when any itchy triggered mahoff could spin the earth towards the sun. How many nuclear explosions would it take to off-orbit the third rock from the sun? But Grace Pike can't help herself in her maudlin mood. The blues are a powerful force.

Maybe if she had had kids... then grand kids... then... Once she had a husband, a fat no-goodnik, who had trouble earning and more than trouble making non paralytic, peppy sperms. Yes indeed, Grace called them sperms; in fact to this day she says that Beveredge Pike only made bad sperms. Weak, sidewinders were they, she tells friends and others, rattlesnakes... the besterd filled me with only rattlesnakes. If only she had taken Wilbur Reddy up on his offer. Why he said he would give her his swimmers for free, wanting only to touch her breasts as he released himself into an ashtray, clean of course. What she would do with his effulgement would be her business. Turkey baster? Men can be like that. Unaffected with their own spew.

Haunting her is the idea that she won't be here anymore, there will no more her, no nothing... gone. Being dead was making her stay up at night and sweat, night sweats; but not the kind she had few years back when her estrogen fell to negligible levels. This sweat was different, it smelled of nervous bitter, the kind that is full of pheromones. Was her body bonkers sending out sexuality signals? Maybe fear and sex go hand in hand, but physiology be damned.

At sixty-five she was old and dry. No longer did she get wet there, like she used to when Bev was a lot thinner; when he could trip her circuit, albeit the snakes. That was so many years ago, but memories linger like acrid cigarette smoke in a low ceilinged gin joint. Her body was still lithe and agile, thinness can take years from the reaper. Small titties are always a joy, as opposed to those generoso granny sagamores pointing south. Grace had and still has sweet little tomatoes.

Relationships are tethers or better yet life-lines. While tethers keep a person grounded and stable, the vital nutrients of life-lines are the ticket to health and sanity. Poverina Grace had neither and consequently her life will likely be foreshortened at least ten years, maybe more. Be clear, foreshortening is in no way akin to a foreskin which is a whole other matter of vitality, This nerve rich scabbard is often times peeled off like a banana skin, cut really, from those unable to protect themselves. Whether a foreshortened or a foreskin-less life is the worse is debatable, depending...

A few nights back Grace, who was thinking more clearly and certainly not in her dusty-ash fugue, met a man named Hugo. Names can be false in promise, but Hugo was as genuine as Lebanon bologna. Although she had never done it before, a bingo night at St. Swarthers turned into what the old people called and still call a one night stand. A few niceties back and forth and before you could say Hop-a-Long Cassidy, Grace was lost in the longest foreskin she had ever seen. That isn't saying that much since Bev had been circumcised and her two other lovers were mere, now nameless, boys taken in the 1960's. Smooth and silky, moist good, she slid into that wonderland feeling the head, equally soft and inviting. Ample Hugo took her there and there and there, three theres... Who said old people can't have new experiences?

Too bad the sweats and the dreams of doom returned a night later, for on Hugo's night she had slept like a log or a baby or the dead. In short, she reached the stage of sleep when the eyes move rapidly from side to side, a time where neural transmitters are replenished and the brain rejuvenates. Could it have been related to Hugo and his adventures, his Cialis? Indeed... Sex is a soporific stupendo.

Well, it is another cold, damp early Spring day in New Jersey, an ugly state all in all. But Grace lived in Atlantic City, where the beaches and boardwalk were precious and lovely. As she walks down the open wide wooden expanse, she sees no single beam light ahead; there is no close quartered tunnel. Remarkably, with the Atlantic Sea to her right she could see forever. She rolled her right index finger against her thumb, smooth silky, slightly lubricated. The mystery and joy of the uncut Hugo surged into her brain like a hard breaking wave floods the shoreline. She stopped and turned right to look out to the horizon. Feeling oddly excited down below, she carefully moved that index finger and that thumb to herself. Skinny people can always touch themselves with ease, jeans be damned. She was wet, wet and slippery... cummy. Youth springs eternal!