New Writing

Somebody needed to take my clothes off. Somebody needed to moisten their fingers and stick something up inside me. Somebody needed to whisper something in my ear and get me going and have me get on top and never stop until I came and came again. Somebody needed to stop drinking and shut the fuck up and kiss me and fuck me over and over until I grew up or became a virgin again or gave birth to something. Someone needed to tell me I was needed in their lives.

            I've had it with religion. I've had it with clothes and laced up boots, hair dyes and perfume. Give me a real moment with a living god and I'll go all the way!

            I remember seeing you for the first time when I was on a date with Louie Weaser. You were in (I think) Shel's car in the back seat and Louie and I passed you going the other way. We all ended up at Shel's house and that's where we actually met. I believe I threw your car keys out of a second story window onto the roof at his house! (Why would I have done something so bizarre?)

Maybe I know why.

Sharon called me "Wolfie" (very sweet!) and I distinctly heard her gasp, "Oh, Jesus!" when I entered her the first time on my dad's ski boat, while you and Rick DeMille came swimming up behind us, yelling out my name: "Pharaoh ... Pharaoh." Well, of course, it really wasn't "Pharaoh." That's just what I invented for my book of poems, twelve years later, called Osiris.

            Did you know I'm the one who egged on Rick to take you out when I started up with Sharon? Bet you didn't know that!

            And then there were all those beer parties in Rick's basement at his parent's bar, you, me, Sharon, Andy, Shel, Lorrie, Rick, and we would buy cases of beer, and I remember night after night on weekends being the last one standing after everyone had passed out or were lying around on the couches or on the floor. And I would scoop up Sharon and take her over to my house, down into the basement where I had my own couch, and we would have sex until she came, and then I would come after her but she would nearly collapse and could barely hang on after the release of coming.

            And she always called me "Wolfie. Wolfie." And then I would wash myself off and put her clothes back on and drive her home to her parent's house in Lombard.

            And I remember having to take her to her high school prom, maybe her junior year? That was the very first time I ever wore a suit. And now I sell real estate and wear a suit and I've gotten used to it, I guess. Or do it because I have to, just like then.

Nobody's Perfect

All I know is

nobody's perfect

No, wait

politicians apparently

are perfect

They can walk on water

fix everyone's ills

while on the campaign trail

All I know is

none of the rest of us

is perfect

Hot air keeps them above

the fracas below

They are porcelain and pure

and very cocksure

They're like what everyone else

isn't

And they can't stop

pointing their finger

and jabbing at all the

hot air balloons that keep

appearing above their heads

Stop pointing your finger at us

Mr. President

We are not in your lecture class

anymore

People are dropping out

like flies

You'll find the dead bodies

of the middle class

all around you

if you look

Virginia Woman Devours 181 Chicken Wings

To Win N.Y. Contest

Chickens begin fighting back

Chickens start devouring 181 virgins

thereby depleting the number available

to those martyrs of certain religions

Things start going from bad to worse

Chicken feathers begin refusing to

stay inside pillows at luxury hotels

If anyone says they've gotten their feathers ruffled

they are instantly thrown into cages

and made to lay an egg

and if they can't come up with one

they are shown pictures of 181 virgins

until they cough up an egg

It becomes easier to do once you've been

shown the string of virgins

You've just got to believe

It takes real inner strength and will power

Okay now, squeeze and believe

squeeze and believe

Do you see the virgins yet?

Remember, squeeze and believe

squeeze and believe

Ah, this chicken/human is a dope!

Off with its head!

Next!

I remember so many things ... do you remember who I am yet?  I attached pictures to jog your memory, including the house on Euclid where I lived.

            That's my high school graduation photo. I was wearing my hair short that year, blonde and natural, of course. The other one was two years later. You can tell, maybe, I had put on a little weight. That's me sprawled out on the back of a 1965 Chevy Impala convertible. I can't recall whose car that was. Or whose driveway either. Was that Louie Weaser's house? Did I go back with him again, after you? Don't remember. That was the beginning of the "fuzzy years," as we called them. Who remembers anything from around then?

Or was it that loser Roger Peabody's house, who lived right down the block from Shel? Maybe it was him! Oh my God, I remember how you hated him, after he hit on your first girlfriend, that Lynda girl from Lombard. Boy, did I ever get an earful about her! Bet you didn't know that! Probably from Roger.

Ugh! What a little runt of the litter! all of us thought. This was what we said about him, without saying it out loud. (You can't see it, but I'm waving my little finger.) And did he ever hate you!

Do you ever hear from any of our old friends? I hear about them occasionally, because Lynn Raderman (who lived next door to Shel) and I are still friends, and she gives me updates about a lot of people. She keeps trying (unsuccessfully) to get me to go the Willowbrook High reunions ... I just never liked anyone enough at school to want to see them again. Nasty I suppose, but true.

*          *          *

"I remember you with the same beard

(just a different color!)

and slightly longer hair."

I remember you in the back seat of someone's car.

I was with Louie Weaser, going the other way.

I remember tobogganing with you in Palos Hills.

I remember drinking lots of beer and wine in your basement.

I remember watching you writing for hours in your bedroom.

I remember eating dinner at your house.

It was oxtail soup. A first for me.

(And probably a last.)

I remember that brandy snifter in your bedroom with the initials JAR and JAM etched in it, and wondering who this JAM was.

I remember so many things ... do you remember who I am yet? 

Why the World's Fireflies Are Being Counted

We got Bob Dylan on the wall

wriggling from the lack of music

and light among the spheres

A great doubt has been raised

and can be seen from far, far away

for they are even afraid now in heaven

that things can't be going right

and to be sure they have sent out angels

to begin counting fireflies

because it is widely known

that the world has taken a great turn

Backyard volunteers are helping

track the firefly numbers

The light from them has been so diminished

that some stars are beginning to wane

We got Bob Dylan on the wall

and he's wiggling like a pinned butterfly

and that is why the world's fireflies

are being counted, and counted again

because it is so difficult to believe

that no one would have them

Do you remember buying me a pair of knee-high boots? They laced up the front, I think. Really cool boots. Strange, the stuff you remember.

To be truthful, I can't remember exactly what information Sharon and I exchanged about you. I know we didn't get too personal - we were friends, but some things we just kept to ourselves. (So, yes, you can take a breath now... it's ok.) I know we shared enough information to irritate you, though, because one time after I mentioned something you said to Sharon, you got kind of p.o.'d and said something about how "this crap has to stop" or something similar to those words. 

What I do remember is her mother though. She was one weird lady. One time I was at Sharon's house when her mother came home. I was sitting on the couch and as she walked by, she stopped right in front of me and asked "do you smoke?" In those days, you didn't advertise to parents that you smoked, so I just kind of froze. She said, "I'm not going to yell at you. I ran out of cigarettes and just want to borrow one" (the look on her face added the words "you moron.") I could never really put my finger on it, but I always had the feeling she was not your typical mother-type. At least not like mine. Anyhow, that was the only time I ever gave cigarettes to anyone's mother.

To answer your question, I graduated in 1966. I must have remembered your graduation year wrong because I lied to my parents about how old you were and eventually the lie became the reality. They never would have let me go out with you if they knew how old you really were. They weren't happy about your age even though I shaved a couple years off it.

Why Geese Fly In a "V" Formation

It's harder to form a perfect "P"

that's one reason

And what if they flew in whole word formations?

spelling out things like Veracity

or Varsity (how confusing to a goose!)

or Volition, Virgin, or Vermont

What if they had to advertise things like Vodka?

That would take a whole lot more geese

Then it would lead to things like

which language, which nation?

And the extra training

in those little goose schools

the overtime, the pensions

how could they support the weight of it?

And where to stage it all?

Geese in the West

Geese in the East

Northern Geese

and Southern Comfort Geese

getting drunk all over the place

and singing bad country songs

about a goose named Mabel Joy

in a thick country drawl

It would take the United V-Nations

filled with V-rations

and stopoVers at subway stations

to sort it all out

I remember when we first met, telling my friends, He's so pretty I'd dump my boyfriend for him.

            I remember driving all around Elmhurst looking for parking. We sat in the car eating figs and popcorn. We tried to throw the fig pits or stumps, or whatever you call them, through the closed windows because the glass was so clean. We sat and laughed at life.

            I always thought everything you wrote should have been written in gold ink and put in the rare book section at the library. (Guess I was a fan.) Evidently I didn't give you enough credit for remembering the old days! You remember a lot. Even poor old Louie Weaser. I used him mercilessly, I'm afraid. Mostly to get to you. I didn't bring up the thing with Sharon and swimming on purpose ... not one of my shining moments. (Later on, she and I did compare notes, you know. You should know girls will do that.) Thank you for the poem ... it means a lot to me.  And thanks for the info about JAM - after all these years, I finally have an answer!

I remember sitting in your bedroom for hours just watching you while you wrote poetry. I was in awe of you, thinking you were going to be the next Dylan Thomas!

            I had a dream I was reading a novel that you wrote. The novel was great. I don't remember a word of it, but I remember it was great!

Now I want to begin where it left off. Without a clue as to who done it or how or why. It was one of those books. It meandered all over the place, but while you were in it, you just knew it was great.

I think that time melts and means nothing in the landscape of a poem, or a great book. Think of it. Just melts! Honestly, I don't know how the nights can be so long when life is so short. Can you tell me that?

            Everybody needs a soul.

            I'll tell you what I think, if you tell me even one of your little secrets, okay? Here goes.

I think we love sex because it brings us so close to the heat of creation that we can see the smoldering flames and the light rising from twigs being rubbed together between the legs. Okay - your turn!