Heaven Is A Dive Bar In Tucson   

Heaven is a dive bar in Tucson,

just past the Pac’em in Steakhouse on Drachman, once  called Miracle Mile, the street name was changed, a place where nobody knows your name.

Neon odor of a whiskey jukebox, scratching memories of the 70’s 

on warped 45’s, no way to tell what song you choose, there’s no labels for the selections, bar stools with exhausted foam padding, has the ass impression on the seat, of the last person who sat there, there’s the one beer sign, with the light that flickers, resonating a low hum refusing to die, an outdated beer slogan ‘If you’ve got the time we’ve got the beer” advertising a brand the bar doesn’t serve, red vinyl booths in a horseshoe shape, placed around tables with matchbooks under the legs to keep them level, a single bulb hangs from an electric cord, a fake plastic cover made to look like stained glass, above a pool table with a once green felt top, 

now stained from spilled drinks, and burns from cigarettes left too long between shots, pool cues made from crooked trees, no need to chalk up, there’s no tip on the end, the bathroom doors have no locks, the mirrors are broken and no paper towels or blower, one of the two urinals is covered in plastic, with an”Out of Order” sign, that is ignored and gets pissed in anyway, I don’t remember there ever being a toilet seat, but there is a condom machine, the dingy floor made up of twelve by twelve mismatched and different colored tile, where drunks and defeated fighters have fallen,

as well as an occasional glass, I’m sure it  hasn’t been mopped in years, cheeseburgers and grilled cheese the only items on the menu, the bartender usually says they’re out of what you want, but they have the same beer on tap they’ve had for years,

pictures of possibly everyone whose shadow has graced the doorway, are pasted on the walls,

mine is there somewhere, I’ve never checked to see, I was probably drunk at the time, God lives on the premises, in a room near the front door, always with a smile as  your blessing, I’d invite you to come on by for a beer or two, you might get branded with a likeness of God,

but Heaven is closed, I’m sorry to say, it had a good run, maybe I’ll look for a dive bar in hell.

TASTE

I could sense the

evening slipping

into my glass

like a diamond

ring onto a

slender finger,

like our lives

forever slipping

away from

the light:

I lifted the glass

and drank

deep and could

taste the

breath of a

neglected

poet

perched on the

words of a

promise,

I drained the

glass and knew

that I had

known of the

end from

the

beginning,

the bitterest

of tastes.

Spring Mornings

I wake each day
to the sun shining
brightly through
the curtains of our
bedroom.
I turn over, say
‘Good morning, babe. ‘
to my wife.

Then I sleepily walk
downstairs, pour a
saucer of milk for our
beautiful black cat,
Ebony, as she purrs,
and purrs, and purrs
rubbing around my
ankles.
I make my coffee so
strong that the spoon
could stand up in it,
pour my wife a glass
of fresh orange juice,
and walk back upstairs
to watch TV.

I roll a cigarette, pull
the smoke hungrily
down into my lungs.
Just like the first drink of
the day, the first cigarette
is the best.
On weekdays there’s
nothing but comedies
on until nearly midday.
‘ Cheers’, ‘ Everybody
Loves Raymond’, then a
hour and a half of ‘ Frasier.’
It’s fantastic to slowly
wake to the sound of
laughter.
As long as it’s not aimed
at you.

I love the mornings, the
day is fresh, still alive with
promise.
It could be the best day of
your life.
Nothing has happened
yet to spoil it.
Yet.

I think that sunny, early
mornings may be the happiest
I ever get. 

Dirt bag

Cinderella wanna be

blue eyes

with thick black

tire-track circles layin

right under

Where’d the boys go?

lift your skirt send them running

as if you had a hairy penis

what would they do with your clit anyways??

scrawny numbskulls

couldn’t caress a peach let alone a golden box

want them

to want you but you don’t even know why

or who

all of them perhaps

the whole pimply awkward lot of them

They’ll run home and tell everyone

what a white trash whore you are

with your dirty panties

blackened feet

and ankles

as if they actually saw your panties close up

wretched boys

saw their own boners

rise in the blistering August sun

Roosters pecked

hens clucked

your virgin bones

ached for attention

your dumb ass thought that’s what you were

supposed to do

to summon men

men baby, men

boys will crumble

men will hold you

drop you later

You’re so in need of a daddy

there ain’t been one since you was

born and you can’t ‘member him

or his beautiful face

if there ever was one

had to have been

or your skinny ass wouldn’t be

you try with your wretched self to

seduce

without a real understanding of what that

word means

But lordy

when you finally grasp hold of it

on the rim of sixteen

working in Key Food Supermarket

tall

blonde

and fresh like a newborn

you finally know

your little peach

is the end all

as they line up now

beg to touch it

Big Mutant Buzzard Motherfuckers

for John Dorsey

There’s what, maybe 9, 10, 11 of those big

mutant buzzard motherfuckers up there

at the top of the rise of HWY D (right there,

where 705 becomes the road to Methlehem),

and they’re chowing down on whatever it was

that had the misfortune of failing to deftly

side-step out of the way, when it became clear

that the theory of the unstoppable force and

the immovable object was about to be put to

the test for real, out here, some early evening,

right about sundown, or late moonlit night, even,

when there’s more deer than cars and so, for the

last couple of days, has been a regular all you can

eat buffet for this wandering tribe of old monks. 

Sighting

Someone’s cousin intermittently

appeared in that pre-virus family

swarm. Obese; complexion

ineffectively concealed; party dress

another burden; the genes

behind the face precluding [“conventional,”

you’re supposed to say “conventional”

or “accepted”] beauty. Furtively checked

(“it’s impolite!”) her phone

to see how she was currently being mocked.

Boys wandered, bored, from aunt to uncle,

who asked in effect if they were already

millionaires; she watched. Country club …

was there an outside,

or way or desire to get there? Nameless

familiar horror of being noticed and

of not. Worse horror of advice;

and what could mine have been? My dear,

a science-fiction writer of the ‘50s

told me that somewhere in the galaxy

lives someone lonelier than you.

The Photoshoot I Desired A Lifetime Ago

I wanted a session with Mapplethorpe

wanted to be draped in a long silken

cloth, lying against his naked body,

a brick backdrop wall

in an East Village

loft walk-up.

Wanted to be up against his tattoos—

like Patti Smith curled into him.

I’d never be next to her, wasn’t that

what always got me into trouble—

loving a girl too much

who didn’t want me.

The nude photoshoot I did do

was shot by two gay men. Naked

up against a random dick—I don’t remember

his name, it doesn’t matter—who would have

mattered was Robert 

and vicariously, Patti,

definitely Patti.

Perhaps

Perhaps, mine, a life too long.

My mind fills with random thoughts

And flashes of the past, rather than,

Dreams in anticipation of the future.

Would it be better that I shouldn’t wake.

I’ve no fear of drifting away in slumber.

Life’s forced choices always having been

For least worst with no option for best.

Opportunities thwarted by the reality

Of ever present controlling circumstance.

Victim, you say?  Nay…I stand survivor.

So clear the mind.  Focus on the now.

Be the bold tiger sprung from the cage

And let the world tremble and be wary

While I yet live.

What’s so funny?

I’m not laughing.

Heavy chunks of the sky

are falling on our heads.

Grass is growing downward

into the earth, not out of it.

All of my books are sprouting legs

and walking away.

There’s nothing funny

about these happenings,

so why do you laugh

uproariously at them?

If I could stop all of these events

and put everything back to the way it was

I would, but how can I stop

the world from changing before my eyes?

I don’t know, but I wish you would

stop saying it’s better this way.

Free-Range Teens

I worried about promiscuity

when I was seventeen,

and its alignment

with moral character.

I felt certain

I had sacrificed

my own values

without much resistance,

and I feared this

would go on

a permanent record

that would reflect badly

on me later.

In secret locations,

I furtively opened

medical pamphlets,

library books,

and paperbacks I’d bought

at yard sales.

I read everything I could

about penises and vaginas,

eagerly devoured details

about their angles

and dimensions.

I gorged myself

with gaudy images,

but felt sick afterward,

as if I’d eaten

too many hamburgers.

My boyfriend and I

had an elaborate ritual

that summer–

I spread out my body

on his basement couch

like a cheap buffet.

While my head

nestled in his lap,

my boyfriend probed

the inside of my vagina

one furtive digit at a time,

until he was finally able

to place his entire hand

inside me, as far

as his knuckles.

His parents

never came downstairs,

and never asked

what we were doing:

it was 1970s America,

and they couldn’t

have been less interested.

We ate hot dogs

in bright red baskets

at the drive-in afterward,

and my boyfriend

talked about pyramids

and where he was going

to college in the fall.

None of my

moral pronouncements

made a goddamn

bit of difference,

because our parents

and geography

would shove us

so far apart that

we would never find

each other again.

Milkshakes and sex

were all we had

for the moment–

the viscous

sweetness of cream,

and rapid metabolisms

that would

make it easier

to forget everything.

window dressing

       you have

everything arranged

          in your plate-glass window:

                 tinted skin and

      pressed silk hats

                 on plastic mannequins

                        but there’s

                                   nothing inside the shop