saltlick


it was not marcee's fault the glass saltshaker 
was caked up but you'd've thought she'd caused it 
as if she alone had made the air so humid given 
the way jasper had called her a knucklehead cunt 
as he tried to dolly up his stupid night-after-night 
same-old-same baked potato before he had to steam iron 
his own shirt then head out to blow sax 
for his saturday night gig at the crummy flamingo inn

as a matter of fact he was not the only one around town
who was edgy as this whole dang city was like a hotwire 
in kerosene but he could've at least dredged up one iota 
of decency for marcee as she dragged her weary ass 
down the back alley from stocking top shelves at wal-mart 
and ferchrissake he surely must've known he was just plain 
damn lucky to even have one more lousy potato
to shake something onto

~

next thing you know it's tuesday and lady julia rigalo can 
barely face marcee telling bout how she had to wade through 
miles of detritus just to get to this fucking hell hole of a dome 
and "dear jesus" she thinks she's recognized 
"jasper's flamingo-colored shirt popping its buttons 
on a bloated yellowish body 
banging up against our sanctified church"

and this is when marcee finally breaks and swears 
"heaven above" she'd sacrifice her tits 
for "just one lick of salt from 
behind the ears 
of that god-fearing saint"

 
_______________


 
intimately, Catz*. a commiseration

                                         *Alan Catlin
 

only because you too are
your sick mother's son
i dare tell you my dear fellow traveler
i am the son
of my mother
how it was   between us
this fevered gift of blood
just as i shed upon you now and then
and as i come here to do
again
 
as if you have not had enough
of what a tortured mother sheds
into the innocence
of a boy's eyes
so hungry
for a safe place
that your danger
appears
as the soft hair blanky
she makes you place
between your thumb
and tiny tongue
to suck it
til at last
no sucking juices 
come
 
and you must seek solace
in a dark place
behind your head
in a fever
all your own
so that back space 
becomes your crazed front
as she begs
 
what must i have done
to so burn my son
 
            
 
- same as your father mother 
all your sisters' father   and your mother's father
same as your father's mother 
and her mother's father 
same as all of these
and this is all that you have done
 
and now that you are gone old mother
take back that hair blanky old mother
shove it beneath your tongue
 
then
just as i did
and have done so long
suck it 
on your own
old mother you
            (though neither of us had earned it)
 
until you are certain
you are done
with your wonder 
of the burn 
 

 
               - this  very moment -
11:18 p.m. 2/14/07 -  
                from this sobbing son
 
_____________________
 
 
disbelief is a choice
 
 
it would be so much easier
to convince you
of my former life
had i been
a grade school janitor
in a new york city ghetto 
or a common poultry farmer 
in northern wales
 
perhaps if i told you
i was a sniper
during the spanish civil war
there might be a slim chance
you would believe me or
a london chimney sweep
this is even more likely
 
but if i tell you
i was famous
as an author
whose signature piece
is arguably
among the 100 best works
of the 20th century
you are likely to believe
i have chosen who i was
but i have not
had i done so
i would have chosen to be
johann sebastian bach
 
but i will tell you i know
the date place and cause
of my death
in my previous life
and the exact number of days
between that life
and this life 
and that my mother 
developed my fetus 
in her womb
for nearly seven months
while my soul
remained in the body
of that author…
 
so i ask why then 
must the issue of choice
be such a disputed decision