- Home > Archive: May, 2018
They shared custody of the dog.
Who had always been dangerous.
First day Jack brought him home,
from a prison like pound in Carson,
Gave him a bath and
afterwards, as they were drying him off
with a towel, he snapped
and bit Jack pretty severely.
Now, three years later
and a hundred crisis smarter,
Tom Waits (that’s the name he had at the pound)
has to come home early
because he fucking bit Meta Jane.
“He’s in the dog house” she said.
“Why?” asked Jakck.
“He bit me.”
“Ah!” said Jack.
Here he was trying to win her back and…
Boom! The ex-convict blows it.
Ninja star to the solar plexus.
A pool of shoe fish
swimming around the closet floor.
No one is in control,
it’s absolute anarchy.
The Levy sneakers were a gift.
Jack wore them once
to his uncle’s retirement party.
Felt like he was cheating
on his Chuck Taylors.
He retired them after that.
he picked thirteen fleas
off of the insect.
cute in the extreme,
lunging at the cats,
like they were missiles.
Street lights lit up everything
that the moon missed.
One thing the moon didn’t miss was Yvonne.
My sweetest one.
She cooks a mad file gumbo.
With the sassafras sass
that she got.
She’s divinely inspired.
No question, there is a God
when you see her.
“The ugly part is gone,
now I just have the fun part.”
Yvonne said, about nothing in particular.
“As sure as eggs is eggs.”
“Edgar Cayce said
there is so much good in the worst of us
and so much bad in the best of us.”
“That what? We’re all serial killers?”
“Why would you say that?”
“It just sounds so ominous. Like an ominous riddle.”
“You could also say…
…there’s so much liverwurst in the best of us.”
“Ha!…now I’m hungry.”
Ruth rolled her eyes.
“I get paid on Thursday. There’s still some bread, have it with butter.”
“No, you have it for breakfast.”
“I think I’m depressed.” Jack said.
“We’re all depressed,” said Ruth, “Man up.”
“Which tie should I wear?”
“The one with the sperm design.”
“Ha ha. It’s Art Deco.”
“It is. It’s vintage, this tie was
actually worn in the nineteen forties.”
“It was not, silk doesn’t last that long.”
“It’s not silk. It’s Belgian polyester.”
“That’s not a real thing, you’re such a liar.”
“From Belgium, post war polyester.
They make outfits for sex dolls out of it now.”
“They do not. Art Deco?”
“Are you sure you don’t mean Art Dildo?”
Not too hot during the day,
and still cool at night time.
Which is the right time,
for those of you keeping track.
Max found the note in a tupperware container
that the neighbor had left out for the feral cats.
Who wrote it?
It was crumpled like it had been thrown out.
It looked like her handwriting, he thought.
Then he realized how silly that was.
If that was her intention,
she wouldn’t leave it on a crumpled piece of newsprint.