SPIN (or: super marketing for super marketeers in the supermarket)

you can’t refund her.

she shows you some cleavage.
she gives you compliments.
she runs her hand up and down your leg.
but you still can’t refund her.

next, she tries crying:
please! she begs. please, I’m a single mother
and I need the money! don’t you care at all?

and yet, you still can’t refund her.
so now come the insults:
petty little man. petty bitter little man,
bitter just because you
just work in a shop!

surprisingly, this doesn’t alter the refund policy either
so this is where she enters her political phase:
traitor! scumbag jobsworthy!
doing the dirty work for big business!
enabling companies to rip us off like this!

but still, STILL
you are incapable of granting her a refund
and now we move onto the threats:
my fellah’s gonna get you! she vows.
you wouldn’t last two minutes against my fellah!
like to see you tell HIM no! he’s put his prison days behind him,
but he loves me, he does!

alas, her current concubine’s violent attributes
do nothing to shape the refund policy
so now we move onto the final stage:
a nice bit of parting violence:
she jabs a finger into you,
she shoves you,
maybe throws a pen, or a stack of brochures
or whatever handy implement happens to be on the counter
at you
then storms out in a rage,
out, she storms, raged in outrage.

it’s all over, right?
well, no, because
aha! she has one final trick up her sleeve:
the online review:

turns out
YOU were inappropriate to her!
YOU insulted her!
YOU threatened her!
and YOU were the one who got violent towards her!
hashtag metoo!

you could’ve sworn it went down
differently
but hey
what do you know?
after all, you
just
work in a shop

and let’s not forget
that you’re bitter about it, too
for some reason.

…

challenges 1a, 1b and 1c

he was leaning over the counter
jabbing you with his finger
and calling you stupid
because you couldn’t reduce the price of something.

hey, the customer next to him says, leave off him.

the guy leaning over the counter,
he sneers
at you both
and walks out,
taking his finger and overpriced groceries with him …

thanks, you tell the guy who defended you.

why didn’t you just tell him where to get off? he asks you.

not allowed to, you say, as you start scanning his stuff:

beep. beep.

says who?

everyone, you shrug. if I fight back, he’ll tell my boss I’m picking on him.
he’s still gonna complain anyway. he’ll probably say
I got other customers to “gang up on him” or something …

oh, well sorry for trying to help you! he says.
ungrateful little …

… what? you look up at him.
I’m an ungrateful little … what?

but he just sneers,
pays for his stuff and leaves …

the next customer steps up.
something in the air today, isn’t there? she says

and once again
you are at a loss
for ways to safely respond
without offending
the customer

so you don’t:
you just give a noncommittal half shrug,
an indifferent half smile

and you carry on scanning:

beep. beep.

hey, she says. I’m talking to you!
you deaf or something?

Mutant

Yeah, guess I’m a mutant, man.
I’ve often heard the phrase,
“Danny, you ain’t right.”
Mighta had something to do
With that bullet hole in my helmet.
Wasn’t nothin’ I planned on.
Some people say I’m just lucky.
Close calls been a regular thing.
But, I’m still here far as I know.
I found Jesus in the South of France.
I often confuse it with Mississippi.
Don’t know what He was doin’ there.
He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.
It’s always best not to fuck with Jesus.
I been in this institution a long time.
Where the hell’s my diploma?
Not sure what’s happenin’ here.
Strapped down, doped up most days.
Sometimes thoughts come jumbled up
Bad as Frankenstein’s dog.
Weird mutt, chihuahua with
Spare parts from a gelding.
Poor little fella draggin’ his
New nuts in the dirt.
Oh shit! Those look familiar.

College Days

I think back on my days at college.
Days of financial struggle before
All those easy-to-get student loans
That lead to a life of payback slavery.
Days passed without a decent meal.
Me and my homeboys hit the bars
Livin’ on free popcorn and beer
Snitched from untended pitchers.
Eat too much, drink too much
And ya see it later when upchucked.
My pal, Stormy, said that was like
Rippin’ sandpaper up the throat.
Stormy was cool, laid back, easy goin’.
His buddy, Paul, would always challenge him
To a contest of what he called ‘pig stickin’.
Pig stickin’, a game of who could get
The biggest, ugliest woman, take her home,
Eat the snatch, and put the meat to her.
It was a joke, and Stormy never caught on.
He was proud that he always won.
If he was like an Old West gunslinger,
He’d be runnin’ outta room for all
The notches he’d have on his gun.
We thought it was funny….until we realized
He was the only one gettin’ laid on a regular basis.

the logic of my class

the queue is too long.
there’s only one person serving.
who do you complain to?
while some supermarket shareholder
oils up a prepubescent rent boy
in a sunny tax haven,
the money he saves
enough to pay
for 10 more workers,
who do you complain to?
the rent boy braces himself
as the shareholder’s baby mushroom
pops in

as you have a go at
the only person serving
for being
the only person serving

and the queue gets longer
and nothing changes
but the width of the rent boy’s colon,
nothing changes
but the hatred
the only person serving
has for you:
hate,
swelling like the shareholder’s baby mushroom,
hate,
swollen like your hate
for the only person serving.

the blessed sickness

have her touch you.
have the female customer
shove you
because you can’t give her a refund.
have her shove you and declare
my name is Joanne Maddox
and I’m a victim of the male patriarchy!
have a phone.
have Facebook.
have your Facebook app hear her
say her own name
and then recommend her to you
as a potential friend.
stupidly click on her profile,
out of a curiosity most morbid
and marvel at her feckless newsfeed:
see it full of pro-working-class declarations,
about how she hates the capitalist hierarchy,
about how she’d never use big business
to hurt the little people
oh no, not her
that’s just what evil men do
to women, isn’t it?
and then puke,
puke on her hypocrisy
and wipe the green gut lining
from your chin
and concede:
you’re actually glad you met her:

now you can call in sick
tomorrow.

Stan Musial

I didn’t feud with sportswriters
I didn’t make obscene gestures at fans
I didn’t marry an actress or movie star
I didn’t play in New York
If I’m remembered at all,
it is for my unusual peek-a-boo batting stance
But in hitting, as with many other things,
it’s not how you start but how you finish,
and I finished in the hitting position
often enough to have as much success
as just about anyone else has ever had

The Speech Police

What was protocol when I went to sleep may be heresy by the time I wake up. I live in dread of undergoing medieval rites of purification – having, for example, fire applied to the penis and the tip of the tongue. My words once had the force of acts. Now my voice comes out hesitant, muffled. I can almost feel the police hiding nearby, just waiting for me to trip on a forbidden phrase or state an unwelcome opinion. Space and light are shrinking. Where there was the peal of bells, there is only the squeak of history’s hinges.

UNI-EAGLE

homage paid
to the motherland
an inspired creation
becomes ubiquitous
standard bearer

who becomes
arbiter of authenticity
rooster or eagle?
reptilian DNA reveals
a shared ancestry

two characters
in the Sunday sermon
the human ego identifies
with the soaring eagle
it so wants to fly

Oysters Rockefeller

The world is my oyster, but it needs blandishments to make it bearable. Life is just too raw. Only the Rockefellers of the world can have their oysters in such a way, whereas I’m left to toil in the sour blood, sweat, and tears of Tabasco. Even before I was a pearl in my Father’s protandric eye, I was spat out of his gash, and had to cling to survive. Call me an oyster crab, but I’m just venting through a bivalve. I wonder if my pedantically placed irritants will ever get a salve. Since I was dredged from the bottom of my demure demesne, I’ve been consumed for acts some consider profane. The sails in my sloop are still trying to unfurl; Oh shucks, whatever, I’ll still give life a whirl. And maybe, who knows, I’ll string together some nacre. Or I’ll denounce depuration, and be judged by my maker.

like the war has never ended

the dying light
means something
completely different
when you are depressed

and on nights like these

the humid air surrounding
the house like the war
has never ended

loneliness on the verge
of winning the last fight
you may ever have

pour a glass of something
strong and get pen and
paper ready

this note may take the
dawn to complete

Heard The Call

Yeah, I done heard the call
And got ordained on-line.
I ain’t whatcha would call religious,
In fact, heathen, infidel, and pagan
Might be more descriptive.
But to keep the Jesus people
Off my back, I got myself ordained
And got the ordination certificate
Hangin’ on my wall. Looks good
In its beautiful Dollar Store frame.
Quite unique. Impresses my friends.
Confounds the Mormon boys.
Sanctifies the orgies.
Yes sir, I’m an ordained minister
Of a very select organization.
Shoot, I bet Billy Graham didn’t
Even have an ordination certificate
From the Church of Beer.

Sweet Lust In The Saloon

He first spied his true love
On the bar room floor.
Jell-O shots and flaming hookers
Had taken their toll.
She had a particular radiance
With the pizza-like vomit
Crusting in her two-tone hair.
She looked up at him and smiled.
Then, adjusted her upper plate,
And looked up and smiled again.
It was pure passion.
He was the tallest man
She had ever seen…
From that perspective.
She wrapped her arms
Around his leg trying
To climb to her feet.
JoJo, ever the gentleman,
Unzipped his fly and presented
A handle to aid her endeavor.

dream off taenarum street

from the shadowed storefront
long vacated
he beckoned

said he had this head
of a woman
he wanted
to sell

in from out
of the light
i hesitantly approached

it was in a sack
on the front seat
of his sedan
parked curbside
he spoke with a strange accent
as he moved toward it

like him
the car was
foreign
out of place
in need of a wash

i noticed his ears bristled
with more hair
than anyone i’ve ever known

what would i do
with it? i asked
just as he opened the door

imaginative people
would kill
to get their hands
on this precious treasure, he said
with a lascivious grin

stressing his asking price
was half
the head’s full value
he baited curiosity
please, come take a peek

people love a sinner
so i walked over like a river
bleeding into a bloated ocean

he hugged the bag close
to his chest as if holding a baby
then opened it slightly
my eyes widened
like a young boy’s at the circus

when a police cruiser passed by
like rolling tumbleweed
i shortened myself on the cusp
yet he didn’t even flinch

and though the clock
on the bank sign
blinked an illogical time
my toe began to itch in my shoe
yet i didn’t walk away

what was her
name? i asked

name? you want a name?
there are no names in
this business

this is a business?!!
the marketing
of women’s heads?

oh, my dear comrade
you are so naïve
but such is your way
i hold in my hands
the deal of a lifetime
and you only offer me questions

perhaps, he went on, you would
like to
touch it before
you make a purchase
maybe that will quell
your doubts

he opened the bag wider
the repulsive stench traumatized my nose
though he remained unfazed

no no i don’t need or want
to touch it
but shouldn’t it be
encased in ice?

more questions
why? she can no longer sense pain
this cloth satchel is enough

i sized him as a goldbricker
low-balled him with a handful
of petty coins

he slapped my hand
with an upward swing
and the metallic tokens flew out
like electric sparks
glinting in the brilliance of a boring sun

you know nothing of
business, my friend
you are a coward
and a philistine, he berated
and spat at my feet
as loose change rolled
across the hot cement
like fleeing kitchen roaches
seeking the darkest crevices