Friday, May 27, 2016

Lenny Lentil Gets Pinched

The plain girl I was convinced had been eying me all night
is being chatted up by a guy wearing a backwards baseball cap
and a t-shirt that reads OBEY, earlier today
I wandered into a record store and found a copy
of Unknown Country by the Clean, I left my copy behind in a box
years ago when I fled Culver City, earlier this evening
I went to a movie about Japanese hit men, the screen filled
with black and white rain and fire and crushed butterflies, now
I'm here at the bar and some guy's pit bull is running around
the parking lot with his leash trailing behind him, sometimes
it's comforting to walk into a big, clean chain store,
with its high ceilings and signs and stacks of shiny new
merchandise everywhere, noodle calls and we talk about
the meals our mothers used to make, pork chops and meatloaf
and hot dogs, all that childhood meat, I tell her I'm trying to get
today's poem done and she sends me a text with an idea
for a title: LENNY LENTIL GETS PINCHED, I'm not sure
what it means but I respond "lentils are the most poetic
of beans," and the guy with the pit bull will apparently
talk to anybody, pumping his fist in the air at
random moments, and I'm speeding toward the cul-de-sac
of drunken poetry, the kind that spins its wheels and blasts
the radio but doesn't actually get anywhere or say anything,
just flails its arms in the air and flaps its tongue around and
doesn't care if it mixes its metaphors, I try to  convince myself
the secret of the universe is hidden in the napkin dispenser
on my table, or maybe the one on the next table over,
it's hard to tell, they look identical, it's getting late
and the Friday night mud sucks at my shoes, the undertow
of the week presents some well-reasoned arguments for
giving up, the plain woman and her new friend leave, then
the remaining women leave too, leaving a terrible
ducking void behind them, neediness gropes with such
gentle tendrils I don't notice until I'm being squeezed so tight
I can barely breathe, I head out the door to face the snarl
and snap of the trap, the cloud of choking dust, the enormous
dog tongue of want that slurps the flesh from my bones

No comments:

Post a Comment