The first full draft of a piece I have been tinkering with for the last few weeks--a tad on the experimental side, but we'll see what the critics say.


PEOPLE MY AGE

the radio is a smithandwesson.
I slump in the seat and feel
my torn gut and hurt,
what’ll I tell the missus.
the radio’s black spume
has obscured the real shape of things.

what’ll I tell the missus—
baby the payphone is like
your mouth in the dark, and I
don’t want to touch it
anymore. darling why darling?
I’m on and off baby, shove
me a nickel and I’ve got a few minutes,
but my jaw gets tired of
telling
things.

doc allen said people my age
shouldn’t have ulcers.

doc I been shot on and off
december through august,
a black receiver like
a hot black smithandwesson mouth
detonating
thisandthat and whatIdidtoday.

relax.

night dogs night;
hours squeeze the long muzzle
against my teeth—
I lean against cold graffiti
triggering
detonations
with my tongue.
and the powder lugs down
my throat in wet clods.

doc allen say
where you get these ulcers,
you got stress?

I say
blanks, blanks,
blanks.