I run into this one young chick, "young shiksa" after the class lets out.
She's holding a flower.
Her hair is brown with subtle streaks of red interlaced, like a horse's mane.
As she passes on by me, I get one of those long stares shot my way, that is as timeless and languid as polished granite.
I smell her.
Beneath her perfume, her Village-girl Anais Anais- smell her.
Her hands, her fingernails, all Of her, her Flesh and her Blood
And bone and real evil meat.
We step out of the street into some moonlight delicatessen up on Avenue A, and she asks me Do I have a dime to complete her exact right change so as not to break up a dollar?
We trade A nickel and dime for a quarter; My quarter, her dime and nickel.
I feel her dime and nickel in my pocket mixing with the other change as change yearns to do---
Slithering, between billfolds and business cards.
TV
Late last night, I fell asleep on the couch, Dreaming I was an extra in an old Vidor flick.
The TV was still on- I could hear it through all the mists- And a tender love scene would suddenly cut away To Jessica Hahn, an attack of killer mantises.
I woke up at eleven. The room seemed to be much as I'd left it. I watched Popeye for a while And smoked a cigarette.
Somehow, the heat in the house had risen to eighty-five, So I lounged around in boxer shorts And drank iced tea all afternoon.
Later, when the proper inspiration had arrived, I dressed. I went out shopping. Lechmere was teeming with people, everywhere. Children crawling all over men's laps, Crying after their lost balloons up in the rafters. A fat woman spit a wad of tobacco in the cigarette sands. I thought she was very rude, to do that.
Regis Philbin was giving a speech outside, by the lagoon. He didn't even mention Kathie Lee once.
That's when I finally figured out that they weren't married.
Driving School
So much young skin.
Sitting here, half-stoned with elegant visions of virginity.
Jesus.
Young, nubile and virgin flesh all around me, one at every goddamned desk.
Sweet sixteens, debutantes, hairspray and stonewashed jeans. Tight, young asses poured into black spandex tights, like a pitcherful of some heady spring juices.
The instructor is old and boring, boring me with some tired old palaver about seatbelts and safety, about chairs and children.
And, o, what I wouldn't do for a piece of just one of these children.
