Middle Class Tough
Watch the suburban yakuza
with sleeve tattoos
eyes
vines
flowers
on skin
intertwine
like the thoughts
of a confused person.
He is a dangerous
edgy man
an assistant manager
at a bank
trying to start his lawn mower
pulling the starter cord
over and over.
He grunts
thick calves tense.
A Viking rows his long ship
braving an unknown ocean.
It will take another fifteen minutes
for him to realize
the gas tank is empty.
Penn Station Creep
He sits on a bench
waiting for his train
shaved head
black t-shirt
tribal tattoo
encircling an unimpressive bicep
leans back
hands folded in his lap.
He clicks
the stainless steel ball
of his tongue ring
against the edge
of his front teeth
letting all the passing ladies know
he can please them
but only with assistance.
Sorry Glen Miller
If I could go back in time
to early 1939
I’d find Glen Miller
just before he started writing
In the Mood
tell him it was nothing personal
and put a .38 slug
through the knot in his necktie.
I could not explain
how this song
will cause me decades of pain:
the cheesy wedding conga lines
listening to reminiscing grannies
with tennis ball tipped walkers
la la laing out of tune
with the trumpets and saxophones.
After I was done,
I’d find a bored housewife
named Ethel or Hazel
buy a couple bottles of Schlitz
and do things to her
under that apple tree
her vacuum salesman husband
could never imagine.
Leave a Reply