Dancing Like My Mother

I am stoned.
Again.
On the floor, well really on the couch
but mostly on the floor, sliding off
for about an hour
with a glass of whiskey perched
significantly on my chest
or insignificantly held in my hand.
She "wa wa wa"s about something
I lost track of it a while ago
just before the tarot reading
when the lights flickered, we thought
we were dead for a minute or there were ghosts
or both, but it was wires.
I spilled stew on my lap earlier,
my white pants are
dreadfully brown and damp
on the right thigh
though i tried to wash it out
with dish soap and cold water.
I lose another inch to the floor.
Kenneth Anger films flick across the tv
folks in robes, stonehenge, a gay gay biker
a man cleaning a car, sensually.
I remember that dream I had about you
We were in a large white room with carpet on the walls and ceiling and a chandelier. Everyone was dressed for a fancy dress party but they all looked like they had just had sex, disheveled hair, clothes misbuttoned, skirts twisted, glasses askew. Everyone was familiar but mean. We ate broccoli dipped in a sour cream bacon dip that had been spooned into a large hollowed out brown bread roll. I had a small white paper plate with three shrimps and some sauce on it. You tried to have sex with me but I didn't want to because we were in a room full of people. But you didn't understand, you couldn't hear me when I told you, so you kept pulling at my clothes.
It's too hot in here so I'm pulling at my clothes.
She says Hey, are you ok?
I say Never, hahahaha, get it? Never....?
She takes the whiskey from my chest
It's gonna tip she says
Have as much as you want I say landing fully on the floor
on the rabbit fur blanket, that isn't itchy at all
Across the room he cuts newspaper into strips.
For a hat and a beard he says.
So I can be Zeus he says.
I'm sober, the room's brighter.
the angles not small but tight.
I want to be Zeus. I'll take that beard from you I say.
He scowls and then smiles then throws the tarot deck at me
it flutters, a few cards settle in my open hand.
This is my future? I ask.
I'm Zeus he says, laughing
I have a card stuck in my hair.
You're high, she says, to him, not to me.
He keeps cutting
On the tv boys wearing halloween masks have a party.
Some one's pants come off.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I extract it.
It's a text message. From you. It says
I want to kiss you right now
I remove the battery and toss the phone on the rabbit fur blanket
She pats my head, and pulls it over into her lap.
Let's make tea she says.
Zeus I say it under my breath three times, remove the card from my hair
get up and leave the room

I'll get the kettle
I'll throw lightening
I'll boil the water
I'll get you pregenant as a golden shower
I'll make the tea
I'll turn into a bull
I'll bring it to you
I'll rule the heavens

Posted by Johnny at 12:15 PM | Permalink | Comments

1.
The butcher block has been wiped clean.
You stand in just your underwear
staring at the cutting board and its passengers
it's 1:15 am, cool air rushes from the open fridge
which gives the only light to the butcher block tableau.
You are tired. You are stoned, the remnants of a pot
browney stuck between your sore and tired molars, the taste
of it coating your sleepy mouth.

2.
On the butcher block there's a small wooden cutting board.
On the cutting board:
a big dull knife
3/4 of a sweet red pepper brought up from a farm in the south
two halves of yellow onions, but halves from different onions not the same
a celery bit
half a carrot, bitten not cut
tomato seeds and juice.

3.
Something woke you from your sleep. You think, You think
you dreamed of this tableau. You woke up.
You came to the kitchen for some icewater, with lemon.
You found this here.
Perfectly insignifcant. Cool air from the fridge.
Something wet and soft underfoot
mebbe some spinach or cooked pasta or old onion pieces.
You dreamed too of Spain, or what seemed like Spain
bright with sun and uneven cobblestones,
roling green hills under a white blue sky.
Women wearing mourning black hobbling down the cobbles,
carrying large baskets filled with spice
or laundry. The taste of boiled seafood
bland, seasoned with just pepper, no salt.
You dreamed you were a painter
and as you painted spain changed to france to
enland and germany, you think, but it wasn't
weird in the dream, it just was like that
they way dreams are. you tried to read a german
newspaper, but the words jumbled, this, you
remember now is why you woke. the newspaper.
under the illegible headline was a photograph of your father
his swollen red nose dark grey in newsprint
his head shiny, and eyes small behind glasses.
When you woke in your black
room this is the thing you thought of first
your father, in black and white smudged with fingerprints
then secondly the onions, the tomato juice, the knife
and the pepper.

Posted by Johnny at 9:46 AM | Permalink | Comments

My mother was born 53 years ago today.
On the phone she uses the word "Fuckin" about 16 times.
It's a three minute conversation.
She feels 35, she says.
The barista at Starbucks who, she claims, is my age,
was about to ask her on a date
when she dropped the bomb that she could be his mother.
He told her to stick with the green tea because it was working.

Remember last night when I talked to you at 12am
while I paced my kitchen, the cold black painted wood floor
numbing my socked and dragging feet.
Remember I had my pants unbuttoned almost unzipped completely
while I ate peanut butter out of the jar with a fork,
the curtains open, a street man digging at the recycling bin
across the street.
Remember that part when you asked me to stay on the phone
because you were just getting in bed and the last thing you wanted
to hear before sleep was my voice, I cringed.
Remember the part when I accused you of thinking I was drunk,
but I only had one drink I said.
Which was a lie, I had three, four if you count the wine.
But it was over time. And I used water as a mixer.
It was already four am then, on the east coast
and I imagine mother was pacing her floors, followed
by her border collie, twisting and pulling at her rats nest of a hairdo with worried
53 year old fingers,
a robe open over her men's pajamas, feet bare and whispering on the
lush carpet of her home.
Yeah she was probably up. Age ticking at her.

My mother said that her husband and mother forgot it was her birthday.
i did not. Haven't for years.

I went to bed in silence, wihtout the fan
I woke up twice.
I got some water at 3 am.
I did not toss.
I did not turn.

She says that she's getting a massage
that everything is "really really great"
She thanks me for the flowers
my brother sent, and I remember to call him.

Posted by Johnny at 8:33 PM | Permalink | Comments

Where the upper arm meets the forearm
just beow the elbow on the backside
along the hard ridge of that arm bone
there's the bruise.
about the size of a quarter
green but yellow around the edges

this is where he grabbed you
to hold your arm back
erotically.

in the elevator of the westin st. francis
as it swished past the 28th floor your back to the glass wall
the downtownlights of san francisco
speckled and sparkling below
a soft fog rolling in to block the nearly full moon.

he pushed the buttons on the top ten floors
and pressed himself against the full length of you
his hand held tight on your arm
squeezing, a whimper fell out of you.

ten times the elevator lept downward leaving your
stomach a few inches out of place.
ten times you looked over his shoulder
eyes wide open his mouth on yours, expecting a
hotel guest dressed for a a fancy dinner at the
cheesecake factory, or a fancy drink in the hotel
bar, or maybe a bellboy pushing a now empty luggage
cart, his small navy and red round hat askew, sweat
beading on his forhead just below shortly shorn
dirty blond hair.
ten times the doors hushed open
revealing empty and identical hallways,
a small table with an oversized vaze
crammed with large white flowers, plastic,
a gilded mirror throwing your reflection
back at you, a heavily patterned industrial
carptet.


his face drew back from yours, his brown
eyes and long lashes looming, filling your view
his hand loose on your arm.
the hot sting and dumbing looseness of whiskey on your
tongue or his.
the elevator rushed you down, fast
the city dissappearing as you sank into it.
at the lobby two women who can barely stand
and reak of rum step in carrying their high heels and
jackets, as you push past.

Posted by Johnny at 9:33 AM | Permalink | Comments

wrapped in sweats wrapped in corduroy shorts
wrapped in a longsleeve tshirt wrapped in a zipfront sweatshirt
wrapped in a vintage reversible rabbit fur vest
wrapped in a three season sleeping bag
wrapped in a comforter.
Im hot, its like Miami, Its like India in July
its like a sauna in the sun its like a small bar at the end of the night
in august.
my face gives off heat like a radiator. My breath burns my throat.
I am exhausted propped against a pillow propped against the wall
at the head of my bed the overhead flourescents flourescing badly
the fan clearing out the smell of boy and sweat and ill.
He's coming over. this man, to bring me water.
He'll be wrapped in sweats and a t-shirt but its that warm out.
He'll perch on my bed, by my feet, and he'll judge me, rather evaluate
measure the short time we've known each other against the
strenght of the situation, the shakes i'm having the fever
we cant measure without the thermometer i left in the kitchen

Posted by Johnny at 10:04 PM | Permalink | Comments