While Watching The Bridges of Madison County in Mexico

While Watching The Bridges of Madison County in Mexico

 

 

outside this room there is a world

with no air conditioning

where the local cough drops pro-port

to contain extra lyptus

and vultures make clumsy

ass passes

at the bikini top sky

 

above trash cans shaped

like ancient pueblo science fiction robots

wired to ack-cent-u-ate the myth

of banana daiquiris

and eat trash

 

the ocean waving how’s shit or so long

 

as:

we get stoned on things purchased

earlier in the day on the beach

from a  guy pretending to sell boat rides

to some make believe island

 

and play water volleyball alone

in the pool at night

 

earlier:

I watched a woman in a bikini w/

necessarily straight posture

attempting to walk her own boobs

across the mezzanine

as birds with pterodactyl like silhouettes

molest what’s left of the sun

 

does my dick make these shorts look fat?

 

this is the sort of thing one either does

or does not think of after retiring for the 1st night

up to his room

 

after switching on the tv:

and looking down from the balcony

at the little roped off kids pool below

 

thinking:

that little kids pool contains around 50% urine

and the woman hovering around it

earlier in the day looked just like Gary Buse-y

 

and how does that happen?

 

around these parts Spider Man

is known as El Hobre Arana

and grape flavored cough drops

contain extra lyptus

 

and everything’s in pescos but written

in dollar signs making it look like

a medium cheese pizza from Dominoes

will set you back one hundred and fifty nine bucks

 

and they’re playing The Bridges of Madison County

on TNT International

did I or did I not swear a blood oath

against that cheesy fucked author

in my youth?

 

his stupid ass brimming with shit like

ra-gu-da and sick cheddar

and now here it is

 

I’ve traveled time zones

and so say fuck it

and don’t look away

 

as their cardboard shadows dance

to 1950’s tv movie radio music

outside the obsolete kitchens of bad drama

 

where everything swims

everything’s e-mace-e-ated

everything melts into painted sour cream

over reacting vampires

were wolves w/ baseball shaped stomachs

 

and Clint Eastwood sleeps w/ Meryle Streep

like she wanted him to and then post all that

he has to sit there in the kitchen

watching her throw his untouched scrambled eggs

into the sink the next morning along with a side order

of her screaming and seething and generally freaking

the fuck out

 

wondering why he don’t scream something back

like:

Look lady, you pinned your note on my bridge!

Not the other way around!

 

or maybe something more sincere like:

 

I love you, if he does

or:

Fuck Wednesday

and the idea of attempting to cram

an entire lifetime into these illusions

of time

that are measured in absence of daylight

 

I’d rather spend the rest of the night

trying to cram my entire life time

into you

 

 

 

(from my book The Aftermath, etc. Monkey Puzzle Press)
(purchase your very own copy at monkeypuzzlepress.com)