By Jay Passer.
At The End Of The Street
what worries me
is the last meal
the food stomached
just done dying
chewed up and swallowed
organisms still alive bacterially
while there I lie stiff as a surfboard
the laughing cosmos and dogs
the rosemary milk and wet shoes
the tattoos unfinished the girls
and the lies I never said goodbye to
Seal Rock at the bottom of the street
where San Francisco ends
the whole business like ice in a glass
never as much well-known as finished
what bothers me
are the clothes left over nobody wants
the patchwork of socks and drawers
a clip on tie for a wedding ending in divorce
and the gnats of my resistance sucking air
lying there with only pint bottles of breath left
the voice on the voicemail
‘please leave a message’
a testimony to melancholy tenure
they say don’t leave adjectives
in the wake of a living born on the surf
and ebb of planetary deception
before the pier engulfed me with police reportage
before the gulls fed from crumbs cascaded from lighthouse window
as God crowded out the blue light with shortcomings of apocalypse
as the shit hit the vein and the gullet wondered what happened
popping one in the gut and ended up in the ER
yellow bile and the familiar urge to awaken full of ire
broken by mindless straps of bedsprings screeching
feelings weeping and gas company on the prowl
empty bank account and the last supper gone to collections
olive of Laconia basil of St Andrew apricot of Cappadocia
back to the soil from which sprang the original hunger
painless on a slab of modernity
delegating compulsion
to lesser means
what slays me
in the heart of my being
is lamb chop and bitter greens
Sinatra Like A Bulldozer Over Paris
In my mind I crowd the world with my tongue
Heroes wield gilt-shining microphones
Geniuses lounge in European cafes sipping cappuccino
No
Wait a minute
As all Europe burns exceptional scientists export nuclear devices
In my mind the grass is black moss of indigested peace treaties
Progress determined by American barrelhouse gag-reels
The film industry gamut on all rational thought deluding intellectualism
And Europe moans like a porno queen chained to the bedpost
Now just
One minute
I woke up lying on my back in the grass of the park off MLK Blvd.
Kicked awake by a rookie member of the Police Department
Told I was unwelcome I rose to my feet in a swoon
Along the promenade the savant nouveau of my generation
I look to a history of heavenly skies ultimately ablaze
With the push of a button a hot glass of cappuccino
A tiny incision in the temporal lobe a microscopic implant suddenly to appear
Europe Africa Indonesia
Hold on
A second
NASDAQ, Dow, Oil and Gold
Standards by which merit versus the spiritual are weighed
Velveteen throat a very high dose
The stripe of the skunk painting roads across worlds
Here I
Go
Candle
they come in the night
in the sleaze corridors of soothsayers
in the ice cream bowls of last minute betrayals
in the last ditch efforts to conceal impossible defects
they come sneaking around and whispering
they have ideas about you and your kind
the lamplight is dim and refrigerator empty
you lay on your back and feign indifference when they call
when the time is right you stir a bit and perhaps roll over
since better off dead like a gorgot against the throat strangling
you lie fallen or in repose like the bum on the parkbench
it’s Spring
and the wildlife is fucking righteous again
those that once came in the night are now resigned to easy chairs and evening news
they don’t bother to call anymore
and the drunks out there and the pushers and whores and the fallen stars
are all of the same billing flashing about so glamorously
while in the dark the brain entices whales as well as worms
in retrograde of the gamble that jumbled us all together
the ocean of calm recedes exposing innermost pleas
for the last time and final a note before expiring
happy birthday world I blow out your candle
Leah
I miss the names of your children tattooed to your wrists
I miss watching you shoot cocaine into your stomach
I miss vodka orange grapefruit and handcuffs
I miss spanking your wide muscular ass
I miss the holes punched into your bedroom door
I miss Taco Tuesday and you snoring softly
I miss watching football on Sunday in our underwear on speed
I miss buying case after case of beer and smoking beedies from India
I miss cooking eggs for Pierce your son who wanted to play drums in a band
I miss the fact that we knew the next day could very well be our last day on earth together
I miss sitting on the barstool next to you smoking and making fun of our friends
I miss catching you on the toilet with your pants down doing the last of my coke
I miss your scared drug-addict eyes wheeling about insanely when I was pissed off
I miss your huge tits slopping all over my face as you rode my Jewish cock
I miss you telling total strangers how I make the best grilled-cheese sandwiches ever
I miss you smiling and laughing about how nerdy I look when I use my inhaler
I miss how jealous you were of that silly tramp Melissa
I miss hearing about how you whored for old men out of a sense of pity for them
I miss holding your perfectly proportionate feet in my grip as I fucked you
I miss the way you’d hide your works from me in the bureau drawer under your panties
I miss the cab rides where we’d antagonize the driver to no end until he kicked us out
I miss making out with you a couple years after we broke up
I miss the utter despair of our union
I miss the fact we were not made for each other
I miss the first day we screwed like an act of desperation
I miss the guns tattooed above your buttocks
I miss teasing you relentlessly until it turned into a fight
I miss your clothes strewn all over the floor
The Envelope Please
By no means were the smashed windows
Irreplaceable and the stolen stereo equipment
Wasn’t exactly covered.
They slashed the tires gave credence
To laws unfettered with baggy jeans
Falling down hips. The jails are
Full to brimming with such details.
Utter disdain
For what’s missing in the classroom
Under which strobe fluorescence is
No glamour shot for a restless brain.
Popcorn and soda and a trailer for an Oscar-
A dark corridor leading to the secret
Compartment in the belly of the shark.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of San Francisco, CA, Jay Passer‘s work has appeared over the years in several print periodicals including Caliban, Long Shot, OnTheBus, Fine Madness, Nerve Cowboy, and The Spleen Quarterly. Most recently his work can be seen on-line in ALBA: A Journal Of Short Poetry, and forthcoming in Calibanonline, June, 2011.
