PROSE POEM / A JOKE FOR GINGER
The exposition’s lights are pale and diffuse through the condensation, the trolley cables and pylons are lightly dusted with snow outside the big shed, downtown St. Louis, the mechanical chicken scuttles off the cutting board and the thread of gold at her ankle throws light off its turning key. The snowy streets record the trails of unnaturally bulky particles that splinter and fuse in millionths of seconds though, elsewhere, and more indigenous to this version, his prints lead to the door of a household, that he opens. “Ooooooh,” she shivers, “this earth shuttle is lonely.” “Pass over that bottle of Sniggering Walter,” he says, “Daddy’s home.” Mental months spire into the air and swerve as if pulled by the oven fan. It’s hard to forget this scene that plays and replays so often. He goes and sits at the piano and she follows and stands behind him with her arms around his neck. And they sway together as he plays. Dinner burns, giving off a warm ocher glow. In one version the woman is someone I know. In another version their bodies look like decoupage-covered wood. And although in some versions the piano is electric and they’re literally bottomless, the only one with a provocative conclusion is the version in which they affiliate themselves with a community theater’s production of Special Yearnings which ends with the fiery crash of a red convertible that in turn detonates a domino chain of underground nuclear reactors from St. Louis to Worcester, Mass. And in this version, I’m visiting someone in Worcester and I’m too blasted to make love, so I find a station I like on the radio and go lie on the rug. Get it, Ginger? Too blasted.
KING PLEASURE’S MOOD / A FABLE FOR LAURA
The guy smoking the cigar used to be a stunt man, sunlight glaring off the missile’s warhead, as he slips an assortment of pamphlets about cryonics into his wife’s purse. The town had just instituted a pee-wee football league. He had to drop junior off every Sat. afternoon, 1:30. The field was ten minutes away and the car had to pass the community pool’s parking lot — the side with the basketball hoops. Even the Russians knew his route. His daughter rides on top of the car, straddling the hood, with white vinyl boots on and a men’s thermal undershirt as tight as skin, she has no breasts yet, her nipples are dark wide ovals. At home, his wife draws a bath. The mirror fogs. She tests the water with her foot. They’d lived in the house for almost a year. For years before that, a For Sale sign remained jabbed in the hedge. The missile scared off prospective buyers. “That thing,” they’d grimace, turning on their heels. Walter waited in the bushes by the hoops, loosening up his wrists and readjusting his grip on the rope. As the car passed, he lassoed the daughter. And reeled her into the shrubbery. “What’s this about?” she coughed. “King Pleasure’s in one of his moods,” he said. She curtseys. “King Pleasure.… it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she says, blushing. “I’m sick of the dehydrated pussy all my available girlfriends offer,” he says, stamping his feet. “Sing this:” she says, “Don’t think about the future / don’t think about the used to be / here’s a feeling that’s growing / feed it orally … you fool.” He kisses her. “You’re too young for any more sex,” he explains. He pats her head. “When I used to see you on top of that car, I thought you were older.” “I’m old enough! You wanna see?” she whines. Her expression is sullen. “See what?” Walter asks. “Follow me” she says, slipping the rope off her waist, emerging from the bushes onto the street. She takes him home. The walk takes about twenty-five minutes. When they arrive she leads him into the backyard, putting a finger to her lips as she relatches the gate behind her. “Shhhh … quiet, my mother’s still home.” She gets a lawn chair from the shed and unfolds it for him, “Watch.” She walks up to the missile, opens a panel, tinkers with something and dives behind a mound. With an ear-splitting howl and a dense circle of white flame at its base, the missile begins to climb. It lifts slowly at first, rising above the roofs, tree tops, and telephone poles. And then it seems to accelerate at a more severe angle and, in a matter of two minutes or so, disappears from sight. She’s crying hysterically, ripping at her hair, kicking clumps of dirt and grass out of the ground. “See what you made me do?!” she wails. Walter feels sick now. “Me and my moods …” he mutters.
UNTITLED / A LULLABY FOR SHARON
The anonymous citizens of Targetgrad conduct business as usuaclass="underline" the saxophone student with overbitten embouchure squeaks throughout the early P.M. & I’d rather be with you in the fields of meadow mushroom and sundew where antelopes in sapphire blue satin regimentals slide on their asses across the unrestricted downgrades — jews can play there — did you remember to bring the Bloomingdale’s bag with the box of marzipan fruits that I, and don’t ask me why, bought for judy — there’re ants getting in my boiled picnic lunch! — Quiet. Quiet! I thought I heard something funny. Funny ha-ha like Joan Rivers? — Quiet! Shhhhhh! Like a jump rope cutting through the air. Like a tea-kettle whistling on a distant stove. Like a wheezing daughter coming to me. It’s chillier. Quieter. Maybe dustier. Where will you tell me you were? Now how do I put you at ease at this conjectured distance? Dark clouds with cartridge bandoliers slung across their chests escort the sun to its remote place. Now how do I smooth your hair, or refold the sheet under your chin, or pour the inky ointment from that unmarked vial in a river between your breasts and yodel and beat my chest and swing from a vine and share a cigarette with you and twirl the revolver around my finger and cajole you into shutting your eyes, and sleeping through the racket this’ll make? Undoubtedly you are somewhere dining with a gentleman of considerable means. His head is as sparse of hair as an insect’s. Picturing spittle at his lips is no problem. You ask someone at an adjoining table where a phone is. They direct you. You dial my number. I answer and proceed as rehearsed. Sleep, I say, shut your eyes and shut everything but tranquillity from your mind and, if possible, wake me up tomorrow. It’ll be early, I know, barely after dawn. I’ll drag myself out of bed, look out of the window, see the snow and say, well, judging from the looks of things outside, I guess I’ll take a train to the today factory. Now, farewell. From my vantage point, in this fusty room, on this stiff carpet, watching the battle-ax and pike rattle against the wall, discerning that sound’s approach, farewell, farewell. Tonight will be a false bottom. The water you gulp down will taste like a mountebank’s elixir. In the corner of the sky, his necktie glows like a filament. The trees are momentarily flamboyant.