In an Uber, coming home from an appointment an hour away, stuck in traffic, the driver spent the first half of the ride telling us how important unions are and how he went around stumping for the union all the time when he worked at the Albertson’s warehouse, and then in the second half of the ride, he told us how he wants to get a collage of American gangsters tattooed on his leg (he had tats all over, including his face). He wanted everyone from Al Capone to El Chapo (not an American gangster, but I kept that to myself), to all these relatively current drug lords I’ve never heard of, and then somehow we ended up with him telling me how crack is made (or so he’s heard) and how much Percs and Fentanyl cost on the street (or so he’s heard). When we got to the destination, I told him that that ride was the most fun I’ve ever had in an Uber by far, which is a fact! I told him he was fantastic and gave him a big fat tip. My male friend, more conservative than I, was not thrilled, but I was in Michelle heaven!
I love people so much.
My only regret is that I forget to tell him he needed to add Jimmy Hoffa to his tattoo. Dang it!
Dreamtime craving for alcohol when you’re not a drunk means Bacchus is having a crisis of consciousness tossing the nymphs and turning the maenads out of his bed
thump thump thump
they hit the floor and
tap tap tap
he comes to your window
because you have your own bed and won’t sleep with him in it gravity isn’t a threat then and he has the whole carpet to himself
because he enjoys thrusting his head under your box spring and tying your mismatched and long- forgotten shoelaces together.
Also, he thinks you’re fun to drink with mostly because you don’t much, don’t have the stuff for proper cocktails, and while you’re craving his liquor he’s craving the sexy way you pour it into a diet root beer shrug and drink it all down.
I would love to swan around and say dusty things about poetry and have everyone give a damn and have groupies who show me their boobs and read at Carnegie Hall to 53,000 screaming teeny boppers in poodle skirts
and all that other shit that real poets do and don’t actually do
but always do in my sweaty jealous glory hogging little mind.
I trace your ribs In cerulean ink Dewdrops of blue On the skin A connect-the-dots That somehow Resembles a unicorn In calligraphy lines A unicorn with the stripes Of your bones A child of myth And the Serengeti A mythical zebra with a horn
They must have had unicorns In the Serengeti too And your ribs And my ink Must have been What their pelts looked like On the walls of mythical hunters
If they had pottery In the mythical Serengeti And this cerulean ink Would stick I would trace your ribs On the pottery too While you are sleeping The rise and fall of your abdomen With your sacred breath The reason the lines would be blurred Not my tears, my love Not my tears