The Lower Jaw and Ice - by Blaster Al Ackerman

drooled into a cup thanks to spitting in my suit
inside that doggerel mound the boiling neck itch
crawls the walls like laundry leaves hot snore
and my hair drinks that meat cloud but stops before
dandruff puzzles you or your ham too much
hot nuts remain interred a rat thinks they're
creaking toward compost and the funny thing they are
it's the proud lie the dead or shy gloves note
utter torrent lousy clock tall rabbit stray whiff of socks
when you shits into your cloak better make sure
biggest least moist sucking hangs around it's how
to taste corruption on your neck want to crawl to taste some
you're behind the toilet when frogs line the walls
want to sleep next a wide wheezing space
most who have two heads make funny twitching noises
next the lung next the stinky bunny so much to plan for
but I have to smile to myself and chuckle out strange
unintelligible words because I guess you could say
lumpy one is hung with grass one that's bright with spit
except when now and then it all becomes crusty theory
and bastards just a lot of bastards around here

thanks to JMB of 11.7 etc.

- Blaster Al Ackerman

On The Matter of the Pinched Baby

- for Susana

I'm no longer so sure
who pinched the baby.
It wasn't a locked door mystery
Agatha Christie kind of situation
or anything, just the presence of
newborns creates a swirl of manic
energy and rising anxiety and an
edgy bliss and at some point there
were a bunch of the family in the
living room and then not so much
and then the dinner table was getting
set and something good came on the
radio and then the baby was crying
and its upper arm and right cheek
were red and puffy.

But everyone turned out fine
until it hit the point that some
were not doing so fine and a few
started falling apart and one or two
died, but most of it seemed according
to what felt like a proper schedule.

And for years I always spoke
with great fondness of my
father's French Onion Soup and
everyone always agreed and pitched
in "Yeah and the Chinese Pepper Steak!"
Then one day someone said "He never
made French Onion Soup, he made
'blank' soup and everyone agreed and
I can't even remember what soup they
were now saying he made because it
just seemed wrong and I
know I never ate it.

Strangely, what I do know
for certain, what I saw
with my child eyes and made
sure to confirm with my father
months before he died because
a friend suggested I had dreamt it
was that long ago my father
and dads of the Y Indian Guides
-suburban men all-
dressed in full drag including
wigs one night while camping
to disturb the cranky park ranger.

This memory sustains me.

Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty - Books - Baltimore City Paper

Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty - Books - Baltimore City Paper