4 Hour Hard On

Fucker let
himself in--stepping
across my threshold
with cowlick as a
springboard
--a real organ
grinder's monkey with hip shot
notepad and cracking stale jokes
that fell flat as cat '0 nine
tails on a freak's welt-
streaked back,

while my
condo sweltered,
a veritable Wal
Mart hothouse:


“You called about the AC?” he
chirped, passive-aggressively.

“Oh noooo,” I said, “you’re barking
up the wrong tree, Lil' Chihuahua.
But please tell me what the fuck
you are doing with my Crib Key?”

“Listen. You’re lucky I don’t just assume
your Identity. You don’t look at all well,
and my trusty tail bone ivy tattoo that
drives the Strip Bimbos wild could easily
crawl right up your intestinal struts
and tear a new one, like, permanently.”

“Okay, then. Why not we
2 work out some 3
Stooges Hybrid Patty Cake action, whereby
you get to lay on the Ruth's Chris Steakhouse
Combinations with butterscotch undercuts
slapping me senseless and silly like
the freaking sissy that I am?”

“Like I said, I am only here
to repair your AC. But I can
sense that you are completely
out your damned tree!”

“Mister
AC, if you can't abide my
kitchen, leave me here to fry, I
would then be filled with the
purest of fucking glee.”

“You’re Cocoa Puffs, homey.”

“Cuckoo... ahem... Cuckoo
for Cocoa. Puffs. And I'm getting
the sense that you’re on your way
out presently-- so I thank you
for that much, from the very
bottom of my black leather
heart.”

--Look at the sorry slit-eyed sleepy human being—sprawled on his hammock…

--Yes. On Cusp of a Snore, peeing Time down his Speedos like he thinks no one will even notice!

--Ah... Those Type B Artistes, boy. They really chap my thorax.

--He looks a little like a young Jeff Goldblum, and when he
wakes up I think he's gonna whip out a Caramello Bar and
maroon china plate of watermelon— SOON, baby!

--He needs to haul his skinny ass up,
and fucking DO SOMETHING!

--What if his sunburned lats were repeatedly slapped
by a greasy Dominatrix Spatula. That would get him into
first gear, by God!

--Yeah. Like, drop and give me twenty you
lazy-ass piece of dung!

--Don’t say - Don’t say - Don’t… even…
Say that word you know what it does to
my glands and hormones and such!

--The real shame of it?-- is that Fat-Boy Slim
down there has weathered him no storms, nor has he
cleared the decks-- to make way for his Apex.

--REALLY GETS MY LARVAE IN A LATHER!

--Makes me wanna say FUCK IT-- and fly right into a
rose-tinted Camper Van Windshield!

--He does look like Goldblum, doesn’t he? That fucking
Goldblum, man. Don’t get me started. Bitch actually had
the brass balls to play one of Our Kind, in a major motion
picture by Miramax!—how would he like it if we—“

--Relax. That was eons ago, bro.

--Awwww... I suppose.

--That's better. Go with that pleasant buzz now, hon.

--Aight, sure. But hey, listen... Can we, like,
fuck again? Cuz he's squinting at us real skeptical
now, & it's totally turning me on!

--We just did it, 2 seconds ago.

--What can I say? I'm in my cycle & I need to come--
like yesterday.

--Was it because I said--

--AIIEEEYAH!

--Okay, okay. But immediately after we're
dung with the sex, we get to buzz the fuck out of
Cosmo-reading Wifey curled up on yonder sun porch,
until she gets all startled and flustered and tangled
up in Déjà Vu, swinging wrists in some comic
whirlwinds of Kung Fu. Woo-Hoo!! Yeah yeah hehe….

--That’s totally cool. Now put those fluttery
feelers on my twitchy buzzing ass again, you
fast talking fucker.

Me and Her Outside (No No Man)
--by Steven Jesse Bernstein
(from the book "More Noise Please" published
by Left Bank Books) (c) '91; all rights reserved


It is midnight and the sunglasses twirl
my injuries a deaf plant warped
in a Hollywood rockery
of juice cans and hypodermic needles
You're so cool baby you don't know what you need
If the jaundice comes up
get out of the traffic.

A girl with an ass that makes me hurt
all over again
I know that girl's ass hurts
glass and pebbles crunching under her shoes.
The movie goes on and the men go inside
hiding their bottles
These men look confused
like fish getting clubbed on the pier;
what they see in there is better than me.

Pick a needle out from the burnt matches
and test it
blow through it
make a little bubble
There's the whazoo of the strip
put it in with the dust
In the pocket the cigarettes the key
the muffled bottom of the storm
Pull down my eyelids with my fingernails
in a window not made to look in or out of
or to be used as a mirror
though it works as a mirror
There is a yellow line it is jaundice
There is not a yellow line
It is not jaundice
No
The ass that makes me hurt
made to make me hurt
turns
showing breasts that make me hurt
but a face like a butcher board
eyes smeared on
worn out red elastic mouth
the mouth of a sock
waiting to get used

hurts
is a tender thing in the dark
under the shorts
leaky pelvis all over the sheets
Yo baby gotta no-no?
No no-no.
Sick animal glare in skin of the pavement
Oh I do wanna go down right here where
they threw the mop head
the paper towels and rubbers
Gotta no-no whistle is all
Can't make music with that.
Movie inside is big as the wall of a
building and so bright it'd make you
throw up

but they watch it
the men
and they eat
and drink
and eat
and drink.
Actually it is not just
the two of us
her and me
There are the cops
and me and her
in the good for nothing windows
and brown suits and grey suits and
blue suits
cars that stop and ones that go
There are palm trees
and people leaning on the palm trees
scratching reading looking at the trash
which is empty (believe me) from being
looked at

And gargoyles of human beings
hung on the ugly architecture
of wobbling lurching bodies
coming down fast
like dying empires
after the sun is already
dead in their eyes

Rooms full of spooks drunk
on dish soap
spiked with whatever was left
on the tables
when the bar closed
An animal over there with
spotted pants
dreams Google plex like
the chopped up palm
and the broken wall
and is just lost, oh my god
moving like a range of
dusty mountains
dead with nothing
to hold it down
moved by earthquake or
rain that swallows
the stars and moon

Get out of the way off the curb
He pukes in the garden and slams
sideways into the stucco
What are the cops waiting for here
lined up in their cars staring
at their clipboards and microphones
We got some people
scratching themselves,
a man looking at his eyeballs
up under his shades
and a woman with a poochy ass
who keeps turning around and around
Find the hurt place and don't ever
let it heal

Get that fucker hanging on the wall
and tear him loose

The stars are coming out
There is a tv set in a window
it says
"the stars are coming out"
look up in the brassy sky and
there they are
like gloomy pocket change
you bet on something
you wish you had ten thousand
to bet on
something where
the odds are good
Betting all those stars
you don't win shit
not even a dollar
And there is a movie
and another movie
At least she is not ugly
really
And she shares you know
Or if something wrong happens
you know
she will...

You are asking me now if this is
the whole world
and I am saying it is
Check your own fucking eyes
Doesn't it hurt looking down the
sidewalk at night
If that mountain falls on me it's
gonna get you too
and the cops squashed in their
cars gurgling
into their dead microphones
an ocean of mud.
I had a girlfriend
and I never had a car
new jeans that I wore and wore
and I was not good with the plans
because no one
could've planned it like this
But then the same
you might say
is true of whoever
is responsible for history,
and a wide black belt
and all sorts of hats

The stars were much more valuable
when I was a boy
Now it is just
what the no-no man wants
that is valuable
which is green and covered with fingers
What the woman turning and twisting
sees in the night of pockets on the floor
while she hides only those parts of
her nakedness
too scarred to look at.
Let's pretend she is
my girlfriend for now
and she is doing that sidewalk dance
just for me
and there is no pain in her breasts
and our bodies are not battle zones
the stars are worth a fortune
you don't have to look at tv to know
I got a little cigar
and I can hear the music
it's playing right outa that door
There's a man and he's smiling
remembering

"Why don't you kids go down
to the beach where it's dark"

and we get on the bus and there's
nobody else

And outside the palm trees
the houses and lights
Shit what world is that
Don't ask me to remember that
I got a runny nose
and the ticket taker
looks from one to the other of us
then to the black and whites
bites a sandwich in hate

The bite that sets
the universe in motion
A dog
A man covered with
fortune telling signs
Two in white coveralls
Three clean women
getting out of a car
going into a door
One of the cops looks at me
and I shake my head "no"

From the book, Tarantula,
published by St. Martin’s Press, New York, NY
© ’94; All Rights Reserved



Prelude To The Flatpick

mama/ tho I make no attempt to disqualify the somber
moody you. mama with the woeful shepherd on your shoul-
der. the twenty cent diamond on your finger. i play no
more with my soul like a tinker toy/ i now have the eyes of
a camel & sleep on a hook…to glorify your trials would be
most easy but you're not the queen—the sound is queen/
you are the princess…& i have been your honeyed
ground. you have been my guest & i shall not smite you


“are there any questions?” the
instructor asks. A blond haired
little boy in the first row
raises his hand and asks
“how far to mexico?”


poor optical mouse known as uncle & carrying a chunk of
wind and trees from the meadow & the kind of uncle says
“holy moly” in a mild whisper meeting the farmer who say
“here. have some hunger for you.” & lay some good fine
work on his nauseous lap/ chamber of commerce tries to tell
poor muse that minnesota fats was from kansas & not so
fat, just notoriously heavy but they’re putting up super-
market across the meadow & that should take care of the
farmer


“does anybody wanna be anything
out of the ordinary?” asks the
instructor. the smartest kid
in class, who comes to school
drunk, raises his hand & says
“yes, sir. I’d like to be a
dollar sir”


the dada weatherman comes out of the library after being
beaten up by a bunch of hoods inside/ he opens up the
mailbox, climbs in & goes to sleep/ the hoods come out/ tho
they don’t know it, they’ve been infiltrated by a bunch of
religious fanatics…the whole group looks around for
some easy prey…& settle for some out of work movie
usher, who is wearing a blanket & a pilot’s cap/ it is one
second to fourth of july & he does not fight back/ the dada
weatherman gets mailed to Monaco, grace Kelly has another
kid & all the hoods turn into drunken business men



“who can tell me the name of
the third president of the
united states?” a girl with
her back full of ink raises
her hand and says “ernest tubb”



more blue pills father & gobble the little quaint pills/ these
gushing swans, rituals & chickens in your sleep—they been
given the ok & the mad search warrant yes & you, the famous
viking, snatching the time bomb from poor Sophia’s
filter tip, down some jack daniels & get out there to meet
james cagney…a swinging armadillo for your friend,
your faithful mob and mona lisa behind you…god ma,
the swains are baking him & how i wish i could ease him
& honor him with peace thru his veins. make him calm.
almighty and slay the horrible hippopotamus of his nitemare
… but i can take no martyr’s name nor sleep myself in
any gust of dungeon & am sick with cavity… ludicrous,
the dead angel, monopolizing my vocal chords, gathering
her parent sheep onward & homeward into obituary. she’s
hostile. she’s ancient…aretha-golden sweet/ whose
nakedness is a piercing thing—she’s like a vine/ your lucky
tongue shall not decay me



“is there anyone in class who
can tell me the exact hour his
or her father isn’t home?” asks
the instructor. everybody
suddenly drops their pencils
& runs out the door—all excpt
of course the boy in the last
row wearing glasses & who’s
carrying an apple


juicy roses to coughing hands assembling & pluck national
anthems! all hail! the football field ablaze with doves &
alleyways where hitchhikers wandering & setting fire to
their pockets resounding with the nuns & tramps & discard-
ing the weedy Syrian, surfs of halfreason, the jack and jills
& wax michael from the church acre, who cry in their prime
& gag of their twins…empty ships on the desert &
traffic cops on the broomstick & weeping & hanging onto a
goofy sledgehammer & all the trombones coming apart, the
xylophones cracking & flute players losing their intimates
…as the whole band groaning throwing away measures
& heartbeats while it pays to know who your friends are
but it also pays to know you ain’t got any friends…like
it pays to know what your friends ain’t got—it’s friendlier
to got what you pay for



down with you sam. down with your
history. hitler WAS history/ sure
you can teach people to be beautiful,
but don’t you know there’s a
greater force than you that teaches
them to be gullible—yeah it’s called
the problem force/ they assign every-
body problems/ your problem is that you
wanna better word for world…
you cannot kill what lives an expect no-
body to take notice. history is alive/
it breathes/ now cut out that jive/
go count your fish. gotta go. someone’s
coming to tame my shrew. hope they re-
moved your lung successfully. say hi
to your sister

love,
Wimp, Your
Friendly Pirate

Hey homey,
it’s Mariano,

you know...

of the pure onyx Orca jet ski
draped with hottie hard bodies,
in Veracruz and San Juan
Capistrano?

You know me
homey by my

rooster tail which
is always studded with
keepsake diamonds from
the House of Zales,

that I
fly-tie
Ben Franklins
to mile-high
kite strings--

and turn
the whole thing
loose like monocle
soap bubbles,

watching
through Lens of
my Hubble, all the
crisp bills

fluttering
in ice blue stratosphere
jet stream like those itchy
bitty hangnails on the toes
of silken millipedes.

You want the skeevy
scoop on my latest Vegas
visit how I burnt those
Mirage Boys cherry brown?--
they were down three quarter
mil in the Celebrity Baccarat
Pit when I started humming

"Raindrops Keep
Falling On My Head ”

and pompadour floor boss he
begged me to quit.

And you...

still surfing the Internet
for cheap thrills in lieu of
Indonesian anxiety pills,

some kind of
Habit Trail
to soften the
voices in that

sand pail you
call a brain pan?

Listen man,

you really need to get hip
to my System,

I make it available
for a limited time,

Just look at yourself
in the Makeover Mirror,

while Tomcat stirs his
whiskers in another amber
puddle on hardwood slats,

and that witless
muscle-bound Jehovah’s
Witness, even now
mounting

your porch, softly tapping
on the torn screen door,

I see his
chuffing brakeman’s breath
popping off the tight little
corners of a heart-shaped
mouth--lauding Jesus,
judging you.

It’s the middle
of December, for
Christ’s Sake!

—shut the door in
his pastry baker's face, place
your cable modem amongst the
mouse turds and comb teeth
of the Popeil Automated
Kitty Litter Rake,

then go to
the telephone
and order my
System.

"Well, that's quite a Tongue Twister of a Title
the potato eating blogmeister saddled us with--
wouldn't you say, Mister Jack?"

"I suppose, Stu."

"Jack, do peanuts have DNA? Is that why no two
shells are ever shaped the same? I mean, have you
ever noticed that?"

"That is not a very Deep Thought,
if that's what you're thinking."

"Hmmm. I suppose... not. But Jack, listen:
Shouldn't we be shucking the peanuts, instead of
--or in addition to-- merely sucking them? I mean,
at the very least we could be alternating between
sucking, and shucking... Got any Deep
Thoughts about that?"

"Yes, I do. Peanuts are not only quite
fattening and chock-full of bad cholesterol,
they invariably leave a vaguely unsatisfying
film on the palette. I much prefer merely
sucking them. Sucking them--only. Shucking
leads you down a Slippery Slope. In fact,
when I feel a freshly-shucked and masticated
pile of peanut mush sliding down my esophagus,
I can't help but be reminded of death. Lonely,
Lingering Death, in some musty Shy Town hotel
room--with famous Harry Caray the sports announcer
slurring like a stroke victim on some worthless
transistor radio, as a routine pop fly is mishandled
in the night lights down 3rd baseline way, and Harry
Caray can be heard to exclaim:

"Desultory!!....
So totally desultory, that bad
luck Busher has gone and fucked
the musket, and he'll surely be
shucking and busking in the
Beer Garden with a strap-on
backpack tray, by tomorrow
or surely the following day!"

"Wow, Jack. I don't think I've ever even thought
of thinking of Salted Peanuts in quite that way."

"That's okay. Not everyone can have Deep Thoughts."

"But Jack... You are aware that people do
like me?"

"Well then. Suck another damn unique shell,
you wispy four-flushing 12-Step Philistine!"

"Aight, Jack."

"Cubs Win, Motherfucker."

"That's... Okay. G'night, Jack!"

"Yeah, right."