NEKO CASE TRIED TO RAPE ME IN A DREAM

he said he had been waiting 50 years for something.

he made himself very heard, and moved slowly to the bag.

his long ashy fingers revealed a washington redskins letterman jacket, deep within the bag.

he put it on proudly, beaming with delight as we stood there awash in awkward silence.

“so you from D.C.,”i said.

“yup,born and raised baby!”

it made me sick.

the man had been waiting 50 years for garbage.

i haven’t seen him since.

 

 

he said he didn’t use weapons over the phone he borrowed from the gutter punks.

said he was going to an underground fight club where the winners got money and the losers got broken noses.

he eyed me down as i stood there inhaling my cigarette, the fight always there in his eyes. he had given up drugs. a shredded up sleeveless jean jacket, bad tattoos, lifting weights and fighting was all he had.

 

 

she weighed at least 500 pounds.

she had a seatbelt on her rascall, or whatever it was.

i walked toward her smiling and asked if she needed to take a shower today.

i knew she probably needed it, but she was too big too walk.

her boyfriend was there in his tweety bird sweatshirt, skinny as a rail with balls of hair rising off the back of his neck, standing out in a room full of hairy old men.

she said she didn’t need to take a shower.

i’m still not sure if she could have fit through the door.

THE EXTENDED JOURNEY

VODKA TO THE HEAD

“you wanna know what a buddy is?”
he would stand there waiting to see their reaction.
with his silver rings flying in chopping motions across the counter.
his chocolate flesh freshly greased in lotion.
“a buddy is a guy that goes out and gets a blow job and comes back and gives you one.”
he once gave me an industrial sized can of clam juice when i was getting the flu.
he told me to be careful and that it would effect my sex drive, turning my apartment walls into swiss cheese.

i started chopping wood in fourth grade.
my father taught me the method and i stood out by the shed chopping wood in the wet snow.
the balmy winter air coming in gusts through the trees, the creek where the salmon spawned just yards away.
in the fall we put nails through a baseball bat and garnished a long metal pole.
we took these things to the creek where one of us would scrape the creek bottom upstream with the pole.
the other downstream with the bat, taking to the fish in an act of childhood savagery.

some things you can get away with at 1:38 in the morning.
like listening to peggy lee.
smoking the jazz and pouring drinks.
the dog lumbering in and sniffing the air.
i’ll light another cone of sandalwood.
he said if he could nuke anything it would have to be boston or texas.
boston i understood, after he explained a 1980′s murder commited by a white man who murdered
his family,in which hundreds of black men were rounded up
out of the projects in the middle of the night to be questioned.
he would never forgive those irish pigs he said.
“so just get outta tha cah,” he said in a heavy boston accent.
today i saw him 12 yukon jacks deep and he had his hands outstretched, trying to hold a womans baby.
she reeled away in horror and depravity, his silver rings flashing, eyes swirling behind dark sunglasses.
he wasn’t around for long.
took off after he told me i was the john lennon of the place.
i will never understand why he wanted to nuke texas, as he rooted for dallas all through the finals.
screaming with a mop in his hand and headphones in his skull, screaming out the score while being ignored by everyone.
like anyone gave a shit.
volunteering his time many days to sleep and drink coffee and get up to clean the mens room.
a man of a million mysteries.
countless stories retold time and time again, about all the drugs he did with earth wind and fire.
how mick jagger gave him $2000 after he went out and bought steak for the band.