Dennis

 Dennis had had a bad day. His day started the night before, but he didn’t care what someone else might call the last 48 hours or so; to him, it was a bad day.

 

He’d risen the previous day and looked in the mirror seeing what he usually saw, the suave, worldly man who could count cool on his fingers and snap away bad weather with a look. He knew that night would be lucky. He hadn’t lived in Vegas all those years not to know a lucky feeling when it arrived, and tonight would be great.

 

Luck arrived that evening in the form of a young lady, a very young lady, who warmed to his patter immediately, who smiled warmly at his usual flow of information, who seemed to dig his style. 

 

When he offered her dinner, she accepted graciously. When he showed her his car, she complimented his taste. When he got her to his apartment, she spoke favorably of his imaginative use of soft light and the cleanliness of his bachelor pad. 

 

It was just after her complimentary assessment of his apartment that events turned for the worse. With his smoothest and sexiest voice, he looked directly into her clear blue eyes and gave her outfit a comparison to those eyes, and, because things seemed to be going so well, mentioned how much more comfortable she might be without it. 

 

Her response at first seemed like an embarrassed acceptance of his flattery, with her little giggle and her swift glance over his shoulder into the bedroom that he nearly missed how she murmured prices for various activities just after asking if he had any law enforcement attachments.

 

Dennis’ confusion must have been obvious to the young lady who asked sweetly, “Oh I’m so sorry honey. Did you think I did this for free?”

 

Dennis stammered a reply when expurgated of profanity seemed to indicate he had been led to believe she actually liked him and then he quickly changed his tone to something approaching a whine when he asked whether the dinner counted for anything and how did he know she was a professional as there was nothing about her that might indicate such a level of sophistication.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I’ll take that as a compliment, but I am a professional, so unless you have lost interest, I’ll have to go because time is money.”

 

Dennis was not as happy as he might have been about the situation because the young lady seemed to be just his type, but he had almost been a frugal man and to pay for sex just wasn’t how he had planned to spend the evening. Still, a bird in hand …

 

He calmed himself while he tried to remember whether she’d given a price for an all-nighter. Since he couldn’t remember, he asked her what such an adventure might be worth and even whether he could get a discount.

 

“Do I look like I shop at Walmart?” was her brusque reply.

 

Then she told him the price and he screamed.

 

The young lady, understanding he probably would be reluctant to pay, left immediately.

 

Dennis, told himself what a rotten person the young lady was using colorful language he’d picked up from old mobsters in Las Vegas, opened his first bottle of wine, grabbed an old Penthouse from underneath the bathroom sink and proceeded to attempt a fantasy about the centerfold who ultimately disappointed him.

 

Finding another magazine, he began flipping furiously through its pages looking for something, anything that could stimulate him to erection and the less success he had, the angrier he became and the angrier he became the less his penis cooperated. 

 

Finally giving up when he realized he’d abraded himself with the violence of his actions, he decided to go to a local bar and spend what he thought might be a reasonable price for a hooker on alcohol and proceeded to get very drunk. About a third of the way through his drinking binge, his bladder told him he needed to use the men’s room and swaying slightly, made his way around other customers who seemed to be bouncing off one another to get out of his way, which made him feel like maybe they thought he was famous.

 

In the men’s room, his first sight was of himself in the large mirror over the granite countertop of the sink area, with indirect lighting to enhance customers with less alcohol in their systems than Dennis. As for Dennis, he wasn’t able to see himself clearly because of the alcohol and an increasing state of myopia. 

 

The image he saw was not the cool, suave fellow he’d seen that morning, but rather a skinny man with a slight paunch and long stringy hair that looked like it had a bad permanent. His shirt had a red stain over the left lapel and spread toward his pocket and his pants seemed overly tight across his belly and even in the soft light had food stains from some previous meal and his favorite coffee with chocolate and whipped cream.

 

So disturbing was this stranger to Dennis’ alcoholically inflamed vision, he forgot about using the urinal and ran from the restroom and back to his seat from where he noticed other customers who must have been exceedingly drunk as they were sprawled on the floor in his wake.

 

Dennis ordered another bottle of wine and finished it quickly. He suddenly found himself being pursued by customers who were screaming as they chased him toward the door, which finally convinced him they thought he was a celebrity and maybe wanted to rip his shirt off or something.

 

In the cooler night air he slowed to a stagger and made his way to his favorite coffee house, where he had some difficulty opening the door, but was greeted in the normally friendly way he was always treated and ordered a single espresso. Yes, he thought, a single espresso will help, although he couldn’t quite remember what it was he needed to help.

 

A pretty young counter girl brought his espresso and set it on his table and he may have even said thank you. As Dennis sat, he decided that perhaps a short meditation would be satisfactory and dropped his head to his chest. A smell of wine seemed to be coming from his coffee, which confused him. When he suddenly remembered he hadn’t used the men’s room in the bar, he made an ah hah, oh yes, noise and relieved himself. 

 

He was still in his meditation when he began to smell urine from his coffee cup confusing him still further but not worrying him because he knew meditation sometimes was informative about the state of the world around. When he also smelled vomit in the deepest part of his meditation, he realized the inner voices were telling him this really hadn’t been a good day but with the release of so much negative energy, it would soon be better.

 

The owner of the coffee house, a friendly man, was urging him to release more of his negativity and so he did. What Dennis wasn’t quite sure of was the imagery of his surroundings. Why did so many images relate to kitchens? He was feeling much lighter in spite of some disturbing noise that resembled screams of disgust, but that was just another plus for the meditation. He must remind himself that this was the most effective session he’d ever experienced.

 

He felt helping hands ushering him into the cool night air and an indeterminate sense of direction leading him to his car and homeward. 

 

He would thank the coffee house people tomorrow for their kindness and understanding.

 

 

Hacienda Kobayashi

 At a pre-apocalypse,

post theater party,

we all wandered the confines

of Hacienda Kobayashi until 

there you were and here we are,

some years down a road,

before our known road 

turned footpath

between the garden

and the toilet

on those red spanish tiles, 

a step or two 

up from down

we sat, 

with red wine sloshing,

between perfectly hopeful 

Hollywood teeth and gums,

as down the gullet

here it comes, 

telling our stories, 

about waiting 

on the moments

for the arrival 

of our ship

coming in

at this port-of-call, 

now abuzz with triumphs

of the past two hours

of other hopefuls,

(“Love your work!”)

and stevedore techies

drinking beer while

they push and carry

news in fabulous 

theatrical voices,

all of us walking, running, 

skipping steps 

going up and down,

to the toilet,

or other unknown 

rendevous rooms, 

above, below, outside,

ranting on 

about nothing

and everything,

while you,

in black

and I, 

ala faux turtleneck 

and Italian jacket,

sharing a kind 

of dignified fashion,

dip into memory

where craft and dust,

and pineapple songs

end with a swift kick

from one of the travelers,

and time, and stories, and hopes all

collide in crystal air.

but in this flight and fall

there is a ring and a bounce 

and a ring and a bounce

as a stemmed wine glass learned 

its joyous fandango

and finished,

with a roll to the right

and a roll to the left

and a roll 

to a righteous pose

and we gasp,

of course,

at The Big Finish

to our now famous 

Wine Glass Incident,

and we learn

a new story

where we can hurtle through space,

and we can fall on hard surfaces

where we can still do tricks

singing clever bon mots

and lay as still as death,

without breaking.

The End of Civilization Celebrated at The Old Cho Cinema

 The End of Civilization Celebrated at The Old Cho Cinema

I wander at night

hearing my shoe clicking 

against cracked sidewalks, 

with your sweaty hand

tight in mine,

following what’s-his-name,

your cousin’s brother’s friend,

through that maze of

broken streets

because we said we wanted

entertainment

“like it used to be”,

before this empire fell..

He led us to that bar,

where a suicidal crowd,

packed in, screaming, laughing

and drunk, smoked fish 

gasping for breath, 

while the old music 

competed with

excited loud noises,

the only light, blue

neon, surrounding a mirror

that reflected empty bottles

and broken glasses

behind the bar.

With the revelers 

heads popping above

one another in a vague

irrythmic dance,

two steps through

a swinging door

and our guide 

disappeared, melted in

that smokey air

in his anticipation 

to share this disease

at the end of civilization;

but you and I, we wanted

to sit holding hands

at old Cho Cinema,

with it’s burnt out lights,

and broken seats, so

as we ran through the fog

and sticky mist, you begged 

me for details so I pointed 

at remembered landmarks

from my previous life.

Before all those thoughts, 

we still stood on broken

pavements staring 

and pointing at a new life,

sprouting in some crack,

while breathless, and damp,

for a moment we stared 

at that broken sign

above a blank marquee

three letters tilting skyward,

like lost optimism, 

toward gray sky,

colorless, a silhouette 

of what was lost, CHO.

You pulled me inside

the lobby, across

worn carpet through

scattered broken glass

crackling like popcorn.

You stood pointing 

and staring at 

ruined displays of 

black and white photos

of my past triumphs

with forgotten friends 

and collegues, each

of our poses selling

lost hope.

Inside the auditorium,

lit by a single bulb,

we found stacks of film,

burnt but exciting to recall 

lines and scenes.

Then we wrestled on 

stained red carpet,

or tried gymnastics,

with you laughing,

balanced on my arms,

shaking with effort,

over my head, eyes behind 

your glasses (firmly in place),

smiling into mine, your

damp black hair brushing

my face as you swayed 

above me, and then

you fell against me,

warm as summer.

It is strange to recall

after my disease took you,

that you had never told me

any of your story.

Ed Rusch Paints the Edge of the West – or A Nearly Found Poem

Two 

         Ed Rusch

                  decades

                           of paintings                        

                                    they glow

                                             as if

                                                      in a reality

                                                               that

                                                                        clumps

                                                                                 meanings

                                                                                          of time

                                                                                          they                                                                                                     might

                                                                                          also

                                                                                          suggest

                                                                                          a

                                                                                          Far West

                                                                                          as

                                                                                          the                                                                                                       Edge

                                                                                          to

                                                                                          an

                                                                                          End

Old Trader Vic Bergeron

Old Trader Vic Bergeron

         Limping through time

                  one leg dragging

                           pirate-like

Across almost a century

         of simple syrup and rums,

                  leaving a hint,

                           here and there

on passion fruit,

         dragon fruit,

                  fruit bats

                           and joy!

Oh! The Joy!!

         A gentleman

                  sitting at tables

                           of many islands.