Normal Wash Cycle

Modest 6:55am knock gets a pause,
a pause in which I
give my throat a good clear my
eyes a good wring my
face a little splash when
WHAM WHAM WHAM
the searching 6:56am knock
gets an answer, “Oh, yeah! Yep yep!
A second!”

7am, door-jam Smitty,
arms crossed and leaning,
says, “this has got to be
the smallest place,
I’ve ever seen.”
“304 square feet.”
“When’d you move in?”
“March”
“cold!”
“yeh”

I’m two valid blinks in
when Wayne,
curse-bundle wrenching,
under sink explains,

“oh yeah dude,
you’ve no idea,
I find bodies ALL the time.”
Anxious Smitty
shifts and casts,
all too familiar
with Wayne’s continue,
“Just earlier this year,
front of the complex —
“THIS complex, this building?”
“Yeah dude! apartment uh –
one six –
little old lady,
dead for like a week,
nobody noticed,
until I knocked,
hard
six, maybe seven times,
and in every knock since
my first find, the thought
has alway-just-kinda crept…
hey, dude, your floor is nice,”

“yeah? I swept and swept.
Felt bad like I needed a mop,
maybe a swiffer.”

“hah, nah, most people,
it’s like, I’m lying in shit,
groping for their shit,
reaching into their shit,
and, Smitty, shit,
we’re in need,
the tube cutter,
it’s in the tru–
“Sure thing Wayne,
Keep doin’ your thing, Wayne”

Smitty, baby-faced and
like lightning, no longer
blocks the threshold
separating us
from the hallway and
therefore the world,
so feeling exposed

“like they didn’t
give two thinks
to the fact!
I’m’unna be there,
fuckin’ bustin’ my ass,
wrenching under sinks,
y’know, dealing in shit!”

and as Wayne reorients
for better leverage, I see
his forehead,
freshly un-squashed,
has gathered impressions
from the wood-frame
beneath my sink,
and they’ve mixed
with Wayne’s very own
life-long furrowings.

Studying this roadmap,
old ‘n’ new, I wish to ask,
“How many times, Wayne,
did you think you’d
happen upon the departed,
and, my guy,
how many more times
do you think you will?”

“Anyway, there it was,
staunch in the air.
I call the cops,
they bust the lock
and it SMELLS, dude,
like really smells.”

Finally some sense:
earlier in the year,
say April, I float in,
buzzing like a bee,
give or take midnight.

A musky smell,
one open, splintering door,
first floor (my floor),
one weary, pacing cop,

a father-daughter quatrain
salting dingy carpet steps,
scanning me, bated breath.

Peering into them orbs, I
confuse, maneuvering a shock
I’ve not yet named, like
the “I’ve just been robbed!”
shock seen so oft.

But now,
permanently
reified is the:
“for like a week?!” shock;
the, “I really did mean to call,” shock;
the, “she was still so with it” shock,
and still, say November,
on unit one-six’s
not-so freshly
painted door, is some
chicken-scratch taped,

“Locks changed,
to access unit,
call Jeff.”

Successful Smitty,
guardian once more.
The tube cutter’s cutting,
a realtor’s smiling and
unit one-six is waiting,
just down the hall,
for it’s next

“Three or four times!
This building alone,”
Wayne admits,
“Lot of old folks here…
this pipe,” free from the nether,
held to the light,
“been here, for like,
70 years. Is retirement sweet,
old friend?” set gently down,

and Wayne, with a laugh,
removing this like, 70-year-old
dishwasher; hooking up this
brand-spankin’ one, instructing me,
as green lights blink on, to

“let it run
*beep*
a normal
*beep*
wash cycle now…

*whirr*
‘cuz sometimes,
*woosh*
after an install,
*WOOSH*
they gitta
*woosh*
shitload of standing water
*woosh* *WOOSH*

and it SMELLS, dude,
like really smells…

Anyway,
I’d run it again,
when you get home,
just to be safe.”

As Wayne packs up, leaves,
Smitty already gone,
I think helplessly of
the package stalling
‘gainst unit one three.

Been there
for like a week

I happen to know
an older gentleman
occupies one three,
one door across
from one six

and I try, desperately,
to ignore the musk,
mounting urinous
in the hall

hoping to hell the
older gentleman,
only and simply,

discovered the
bottomless benifits
of urine therapy

as I slink, youthful
to the train,
impending.

back two feet and left

Seeing you roll up through the fog
was like seeing a ghost
I long let haunt
to its usual spot,
far and above,
back two feet and left,
smiling like
I know you motherfucker,
I know you.

O! we once were derived,
magnetic guile neither
devils nor gods denied;
our union guilty pleasure
for yin and for yang
so deeply we’d sang, each
from out of our own
within the other
brother
I yearn for difference.
For difference
I yearn
you wish.

Srsly

 

dam.

i wnt u so bd.

u wnt me?

wsh thr was

sumn bttr thn

txtin

‘u feel’n sexy?’

jus cuz

im lustn

srsly lustn

bt mor thn tht

i thnk im luvn,

n i no i no

‘no luv,’ n

i no i no

u dnt no

wut ur doin or

whr ur goin

bt dam…

i wnt u so bd.

n i no,

‘gtta b carefl,

u finna hrt me,’

which is k

rly lol,

thts k,

but u shuld no

im lustn

srsly lustn

n dam

u no wut?

im luvn 2

im srsly luvn

u 🙂

 

(With tech thickly in skull, the writer got to thinking, does real love survive this truncated nuWorld? Can lust be separate with all this instant gratification, this less-than-skin level dopamine addiction? Does real love break through from heart to brain to tips, from screen to screen, then screen to eyes to brain to heart?)

Formicidae

Formicidae

no different than an ant
in love with the sterile and wingless,
whose pheromone touch persists
whispering with insistence,
“I miss you;”

no different than an ant
refusing bed with queen industry,
wandering out to see
all ants fatally
possessed and how, 
my,
how industry hive thrives.

to reach to touch: old news, so,
hard to warn, like,

“you,
with the oil escaping taction,
that forever-in-your-sights,
predatory piece of the wrong
social stomach 
is
gluttonizing your input!
fattening your data!
all wrong.
god can’t you tell? it’s
the hard stop summons, it’s
machine baiters, it’s
the end of touch to grow.”

answering, an ant becomes a crane
tethered to all but fleeting glow.
shrunken, black-eyes go
this way and that
this way and that.

if my skin touched your skin
and your skin touched mine
i’d know your oxytocin,
you my oxytocin

then we could purchase,
with good data,
where this fine world should end.

Good Man One: Gas Points

I wake hearing a big one’s rubber feets screaming smoke into the air,

Spit-coughing a warning call angry to the Greens. No better way to

crack the lids. Little eated one, director of the coffin nail lush gush

red herring shared there, gas points won proper. A tremendous union.

No thing more smart than this battle against the sorest loser: green hell.

“Green hell is all around,” our Good Man warns, “take back our air!”

And green hell is so much bigger than those sinful pukes coming out of the ground.

Big ones run their rubber feets on the blood of dead old beasts.

Everywhere everywhere always all days all nights goading great gas points

Towards the little ones’ breathers. Waiting for Scrape Day, great day.

1 million gas points on the Good Man’s Good Faith Wrist Watch™

Come Scrape Day means pay day, Travel Day, THE DREAM!

“If you dream it, you can do it!” our Good Man cheers.

Dream I had

Me and the smell

of my shit. I sit,

throned, defamed,

fusing with porcelain,

botched bionic blob.

Hurtin’ like a motherfucker

would, had they

licked a little

too much sour

atop the hour.

NOW

bowels all howls,

no cowl growl

but relief waves,

“Hellooo, beautiful.”

AND

when I peel myself

from such devices

I swear (!)

I hear a tear.

here to there;

nether to tether.

(how’s the weather?)

(pretty nice)

THEN

every body

is all ears;

leering peers,

sneers ‘n’ jeers.

Were I dog,

would this feel

SO

em-bare-assing?

Forced! Me!

good dog,

piddle a puddle.

Shit missile

aiming humans take

me on the beat,

affronting those we

meet; please

DO

excrete, excrete!

good dog,

I wipe myself.

hurried, worried

street-side porcelain

was not the

way for me but

the high way for

YOU.