As sure as you can
find a clenched fist in
a barroom of sailors
I'm reasonably certain
Baltimore poet Julie Fisher
is somewhere having
sex right now.
Having crawled from
the coffin of Allen Ginsberg,
the most naked human
of the 20th Century,
after hunching on his
blissed out dormant form,
the gas jets of her
glandular expression
hit high and something broke
the off switch - leaving her
bare in musty warehouse
spaces, tiny tinkly cabarets,
even sun-dappled orchards.
Even as I speak
a masked man is
pulling some harness or
strap or stirrup tighter
and she is saying
"There had been over a
hundred cats there.
When we crossed the
hallway our legs
blackened with fleas."
The masked man grunts,
young skinny David Byrne
shrieks on wax
about courteousness
and Julie's heavy boot
kicks out at the
rec room ping pong table,
missing and hitting
Babs in the shin
right where she'd had
a kids' flower-decorated
Band-Aid just for
fun, but now there's
really blood gushing
around it.
"Shit, no shit, that
really hurt, Julie, no shit."
"What are you, gnuh, gnuh
doing down here anyway?" Julie asks.
"Why are any of us here, baby,"
Sammy Davis, Jr. says,
but it's unclear if he's
being philosophical
or if he means right
there in the basement.
"Geez, those are sure
some big boots she's wearing
aren't they Barbara?" Cliff asks,
rising above a
discarded dune of
Grandma afghans.
"Cliff, I'm beginning
to get creeped out," says Barbara.
"You keep popping up behind
me everywhere."
"Hey, quarter past midnight
on a Tuesday, I'm here. Julie's
basement rec room. You should be
more worried about Sammy Davis.
Last I heard the whole
Rat Pack was dead."
"Even that loser one,
the one with the
Martian putting green
sideburns - Peter Lawford?
Was he their coke
dealer or what?"
"Oh Barbara, you're so
silly, at least when you're
dressed. How about we
go to the Taco Bell
near here. There's a
low iq dishwasher
who works there and
at closing they always
mess him up bad."
"I'm game," Barbara says,
"but where'd Julie go?"
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