bobby and jacqui

jacqui puts on her two a.m. smile 

at one in the afternoon.

bobby has the gleam

of a salesman 

before the ink has dried

on the dotted line.

they order coffees

and find a seat,

the software deemed

that it was time to meet.

they touch hands, make plans,

and shiver in sync.

expand, share dreams,

arrange to follow

each others tweets.

hiking and cycling,

movies and beach,

sharing fires and books,

they're on the same network,

gone for the same hooks.

the milky sky outside

reeks of scorched steel

but he's only aware of her eyes

and the hair she's got twisted

round her finger. and jaqui

can't keep from staring

at the dimples that form

on his cheeks every time

his smile is born.

they decide,

it's too nice a day

to linger inside.

better instead

to walk hand in hand

beneath the swaying palms

of anchorage.

'king time

once i saw a circus

made of toothpicks,

built by a man

with a lot of years

and toothpicks on his hands.

is that

the pit

that must be filled?

with words or chemicals?

with bodies, ball games, work.

art.

anything at all

in place of love.

other men made knives

from melted combs

or smuggled spoons.

swapped for lucky strikes

or favors. the anger

locked behind the bars

with seven books,

one thin pillow,

a mirror, a dream,

and extra underwear.

perhaps a space

for god.

right beside

the comic books

and dog-eared

dictionary.

goldilocks

i saw goldilocks through

a telescope. a hundred power.

and she looked back

with just her naked hazel eyes

i thought she was younger

but now it seems she's not.

she had a child, who left.

said goodbye in a note

penciled on the bottom

of next week's shopping list.

i put another quarter

in the telescope

and search again. there.

she sits on a bench

at the bus stop, loose-leggedly

leaned back against the back

and turns in my direction

once more, as if she sees

my hand twisting the dial

a mile away. she does.

holds up her left hand

where a dull pink scar

takes the place of gold.

she folds down the pinkie,

the index, and the ring-scared

one and stabs the last one

up and down. smiles sweetly

and spits with gusto into the street.

is that for me?

i point at myself,

as if she can see me

without a telescope of her own.

again she smiles and nods.

i don't understand it.

i haven't eaten her porridge

or taken her bed, never even

seen her before climbing

up this spire. it must be

some kind of invisible enemy

the man who put that child in her

or a cruel mother. not like her.

she loved her son.

in spite of all the spite he'd flung

before he left. just like his father.

untitled

have all my fish left the room

and i don't know it,

and i've got nothing left

but scribble?

with all the protein

of a cup of coffee

and a smoke.

a love-killing bomb

not half as clever

as i think.

there's hope.

it lives at number

sixty one, truth street.

and i've yet to pay the rent.

rat kebabs on the heights

high on the crest

of the fame mansioned hill

martha's menu is ready to grill.

rat kebabs on coat hanger skewers

roasted six minutes per side

over a bed of burning encyclopedias.

dressed with a lawn clipping salad

and home-distilled rum

made from ketchup and sugar packets

scavenged from derelict burger joints,

and hidden in her tattered but prized

dolce and gabbana handbag.

her dear husband trent mans the grill,

entertaining the guests with a quick jig.

he's sporting a hand-stitched kilt

fashioned from bus station upholstery.

he prances around a small bonfire

stoked with michelin all season radials.

a rum-loosened lady shouts bravo!

let's see what you've got under that skirt.

he twirls and says  -after dinner my dear,

i'm saving that for your dessert.

elvis ate big mama

elvis was a cannibal

he ate big mama thorton

and left his dog to howl

while he sang like shit

in acapulco.

he wore nice pants.

became a lifeguard/singer,

dove off a cliff, and got the girl.

bossa nova baby hit

number 1 on the charts

a week after JFK was shot.

oswald was in mexico

while fun in acapulco

was on location.

but elvis wasn't.

he was banned

by the mexican government.

coincidence? or was jack ruby

with him in l.a. at paramount studios

working on the script for dallas.

zapruder was

recruited by kodak

and supplied with a

special roll of film

pre-exposed with

special effects supplied

by animation genius

ray harryhausen.

oswald received his briefing

at the pyramid of the sun

from leon trotsky's grandson

who had been filmed by hidden camera

in a tryst with presley's costar,

ursula andress, in the toilet stall

of a tijuana strip joint. elvis

had a copy of the footage

shipped to his screening room

at graceland to join his collection

of blackmail materials.

perfect leverage to coerce andress

to seduce fidel castro on

a yacht belonging to sam giancana

anchored in acapulco.

she was able to persuade

fidel to smuggle che guevara

onto big mama thorton's houseboat

in sausalito, california.

che told thornton that if she couldn't

persuade johny otis to drop

his lawsuit over rights to hound dog

elvis was prepared to give

her other unreleased songs

to one of his secret lovers

janis joplin, who was living

across the bay in north beach.

all the deals were made

but came to naught

two months later

when the lads from liverpool

hit the lights on sullivan

and presley waddled across

the big vegas showrooms

and vied with liberace

for owning the ugliest cadillac

mr. bones

A skeleton on a bicycle

rides off towards

the brown horizon,

grinning his graveyard smile.

He's just left Las Vegas,

headed for the Sunset Strip

and a 4 a.m. rendezvous

with a ninety-year old hooker

who promised him a real good time.

She's got plenty of skin,

he's got plenty of bones,

and together they'll conceive

a mummified baby john

to run the cockroach farm

in Burbank.

A ball of hamburger bags

and lottery slips blows

across the highway, bounces over

the cyclone fence guarding the secret

horsemeat factory, where next year's

congressmen and movie stars

are being manufactured.

The previous generation,

had a twenty percent

annual return. Not bad,

but not as good as the spiders

that hatched inside his head last week

now riding in his Starbucks travel cup.

They're excited, having never seen

the weeds and dust of Hollywood

where dreams are made

and sold like popsicles,

from the back of a paint-blistered van

piping tunes from Disney cartoons.

Luring children to the Griffith Park cave

where their brains will be replaced

with circuit boards connected directly

to Amazon, the Federal Reserve, and Twitter.

Two hundred miles to go

on old Route Sixty Six,

Mr Bones spies a motel.

The neon vacancy sign sizzles pink,

then black, fizzles pink, winks out.

He considers stopping for the night.

Perhaps there'll be some fellow travelers

to join him. Play some Texas Hold'em

or toss some dice.