Soup

“Holy shit,” I remark, “a lot of
money for soup.” The
glasses-wearing shaven-
head guy behind the
cash register asks “you want
your money back?” “No,
I am just saying—seems a lot.”
The counter-woman arrives
with my soup. “Here—take
your money back,” the guy
says. “I will take the soup,”
I say. The guy hands me
my dollar bills, says “NO YOU
WON’T!” I wad the bills
and throw them at his face:
he stalks around the counter,
barks “GET OUT!”
Stands toe to toe—-his egg-head
hovers above my nose. “Get out!
You old fuck!” “OLD? Eat shit!
Counter-Boy!” We exchange insults
concerning each other’s mother.
I call him a “cocksucker.” He follows me
to the door: “Get off my back!” I bark.
At the exit he gives me a shove and
I hit the deck: get up, incensed; run into
the door, scream “OUTSIDE, MOTHERFUCKER!”
It has been a long time since I have felt
enraged. A voice escapes my throat that
is not mine: “GET THE FUCK OUT HERE!”
The guy says cops are on the way. So
what? I wait outside for him; he looks out,
retreats; lucky for him, and for me too,
I guess. I would have beat the prick or
else been beat—did not matter which,
to me.

Anal Warts

are not a good subject for
dinner conversation, or for a poem
perhaps, but
the fact is I had them
once, a big cluster
like a cauliflower, that
made it difficult and painful
to have a bowel movement, so
I decided
to go under the knife, naked
on my back
on an operating table, my
feet up in stirrups—after
a spinal epidural that
did not stop the pain
of the blade down there
(I said “HEY! Wait a minute!” and
they gave me another shot).
I stared at the bright ceiling lights and
at the doctor’s balding head between
my thighs—
I woke, in Post-Opt, and
the chubby eye-glasses wearing doc
came in to tell me the procedure had been
a success and to hand me a bottle of pills
and to tell me
not to have anal sex, and
then he abruptly left
before I could tell him
I had never done that
I was not one of them:
I was a normal fuck.

No Poetry

There was no poetry in those days
and all the river beds were dried-up
and the leaves fallen off the
trees;
the grass was burnt brown
and we used rocks & sticks
to play with:
it rained at least part of
everyday
and the dumb bastards among us
talked all the time
while the lips of the
wise were sewn shut—
how did I survive?
I didn’t.
I carry the scars from
the lava that ran
down the mountainsides;
still have holes from
where they bored into me
with their stares—
but I never did despair,
though I came close.