I wonder how old this grocery store girl is? I suspect she’s older than she looks. At least that’s the story her backside tells as well as the cake on her face. I'd like to hear one of her tormented poems or see an angst dripped painting. She’s nice. I enjoy talking to her in the isles when she’s shopping in reverse or gathering carts from the rooftop lot. I like watching her eyes as they waggle between my face to my big ass pewter belt buckle with a brassy horse head on it. It rides like a jockey showing off the package in my jeans. I like being treated like an eye-lick or a Popsicle or in my case a big bonesicle. That’s right, I’m a brassy pewter horsehead meatslinger. Check out my guns. Bang, bang. You’re dead on my bed of red sheets tired after one slinging with an Aries god of war Martian man.
Fortunately these jeans make it look like Jack in the beanstalk's cock. A giant in comparison to how I’ve envisioned it in the mirror. That always tells a different story. Strangers always look back. I don’t remember this face. I don’t look like such a goofball in my minds eye. But the mirror images back a fiction I didn’t ask for. I am a Rockstar. I wear my hair long dirty blond in straight waves cascading down my shoulders. It whips around when I bang my head. And I’m a top-notch guitar player too. I wear makeup. I play in a band. I’m a goo-goo gaga impersonator. I rise like cream to the top of the jug. Skim me off taste me. I taste goooood.
But who’s that guy in the mirror. He’s got short hair. And it’s starting to disappear at the temples and there’s a thin spot at the crown in the back. I don’t remember that being there. Where’s the hair gone? And that face? Who the fuck is that?
At least I got a big ass belt buckle. It rides my stallion like a jockey at the track. My horse rounds those curves and those trifecta odds will pay-off big tonight. I’m having that girl over for tea. Showing her the space that five-hundred and seventy-five dollars buys each month on Capitol Hill. The place is all tidy. I scrubbed the carpets by hand. On my knees like a good Catholic boy. The church raised me right. I can stay down there a long time. And love you with a brush. Scrubbing into the fibers of the carpet. Licking that carpet real long. Real good. Making it kitty cat clean. Scrubbing away them smells. Because my bed is next to the floor. Ain’t got no box. Just mattress laying flat. Covered with red sheets. And I got red Mexican candles too. With a big picture if Jesus on ‘em. I say my prayers. Light my candles. Say my peace. And place ‘em on the night stand next to those little packages of rubber coats. Catholic boys ain’t supposed to have. But there ain’t nothing in the catechism about using ‘em in the rear. As long is it is hetro. It’s okay. It's all good.