Grandma Pearl's Painting

Grandma Pearl - might I see you
with your bent back, purple hair, and your kitchen guilt 
of osteoporosis - and a punishing grey tongue
your worn thin dresses
sweeping the floor in Denver on the linoleum,
past the one painting you did,
in the basement
where dreamland rendered
between red painted bricks of your home,
(hysterically) the nice Grandson watching,
while you apply more red to white canvas,
Suffern dreams danced-
Aunt Ruth, Uncle Bob, a stranger with a platform
in his pocket
and huge young bald head
of Denver Nazi Order

-radio spoke bad news
Alan Berg gunned down. 
at the hands of a white supremacist

Grandma
Bruce Pierce is dead, Bruce Pierce is in Eternity, Bruce Pierce is with
Ginsberg and William Burroughs.

Though I see you walking still, a ghost in Highland Town Center,
down the aisle, observing my customer service
limping a little with a humped back,
in what must have been a worn thin,
overworked dress,

praising my father, the Dentist, on his visit to Denver
-see you bent over in the kitchen
cooking Macaroni despite Osteoporosis
and lighting the Sabath candles
to bring in one more Passover. 

Bruce Pierce is dead and Alan Berg is not speaking
The fuel Berg spilled is not aired
Uncle Harold with his well groomed style,
Greg is married to a beautiful art teacher,
Andy guitar in hand, a monument in San
Francisco Chronicle playing psychedelic muse.

last time I saw you was the hospital
and you had lost that viperous bite
you were on your way out, headed east, 
towards New York 
and your dreams of Swan Dives into a stilled  Suffern Lake.   

A Day in the Life

It is 11:10 in Lakeland, a Tuesday,
two days after the World Series,
it is 2012 and I brush my teeth pearl white,
because I will get off the cozy couch in my abode 
at 1:15 and then go straight to Publix,
and I don't know who will buy my chicken.

I walk up the freezing, tree lined, dead end street
and open the mailbox with my small golden key
a stack of unwanted bills and political ads
greet my blue oil pocked hands.

                                        I go on to my deli
and Miss. Calmwater (first name Bernice I once heard)
doesn't even tell me to cut the salami thinner.
And I ponder O'Keefe as I exhibit the slice,
or did I re-imagine film-scenes  from the Artist,
that dog stole the show, and made me smile; or
was I thinking about which friends I would call,
the images were practically lulling me to sleep,
with salami on my slicer.

And then I am asked to help Ms. Cherry
I tread on to the kitchen cautiously
but my feet slip Chaplinesque from the grease
spilled onto the floor.  I wake up from my dream
and stab the dead chickens. 

And I am sweating a lot, because it is time to go
homeward bound, and so much to clean;
while Patsy Kline sings the lines to Crazy
written by Willie Nelson.
                                  I push my broom faster.   

 Last night I saw an article that struck me as quit sick.  A restaurant nearby is   promoting body sushi, where you eat pieces of sushi off of a model.   This is to me a depraved way to enjoy food.  I feel that things like Body Sushi can easily lead to the above sketch, its just a matter of degrees.) This is a sketch of an idea, I could not write the full story as it scared me too much, I just wanted a rough sketch here.  

The beautiful model laid on the cloth covered table, deliciously lathered with special seasoning, her body was covered with pieces of meat. 

The master sushi chefs were preparing the main course while the spacemen awoke to sensual pleasures. The clients sat with their lips quivering in anticipation of the full course.  .   The men awaited smoking cigars and swapping stories told too many times at the mahogany stained table.  And yes, on space capsule Xeron, their were strip joints modeled after the old legends of Hustler, Penthouse, and Playboy.  The stories of the men whispered up with the smoke. 

Strippers danced on poles, teasing the spacemen who stared.  Their breasts were sprayed down with glitter, the disco ball reflected on the women's glittery breasts, shinning faeries on the wall.   The space traveler's  hard ons were hidden beneath the lacquered oak dark stained table. Some of the men were business men signing contracts and entertaining clients, others were space cowboys on leave. Some of the men joistled with their dicks, while others played with their straws in their pink Cosmos.  All of the men were guilty of a feeling that they were about to do something not quite right.

"Gentlemen!"  The steward spoke,  "Please join me in the pleasure den, where tonight we have a real surprise!!!"

The men arose from their tables and followed the steward to a back room.

This practice has been outlawed on Earth, but here on planet X we think not.  This is a special event which we offer you to participate in tonight.   We ask that you show decorum and not fight over the pieces of meat from the model-Angelic.   Angelic will not feel a thing, I promise you,  for she has been thoroughly drugged.  So stick your knives and forks into her flesh, and carve her up boys! She's all yours!!!!

If their is any thing that my stewards and I can get you to make your night more enjoyable let us know, we will be happy to assist you.  And we hope y'all have a great night here." 

The night commenced in bloody mayhem.