07/14/2010
Mouse Blood On Hardwood
Calico cat tearing through like a murder train.
It was mouse blood on hardwood,
BB gun dispatches, claws scraping.
Not anymore.
Invisible enemies abound.
Meow gave me the ring as she was leaving with her girlfriend,
said she didn't see me enough, said she wanted to
see more of me. I love her, wanted to tell her.
I told her I'd like to fuck her in an alley instead.
And she understood.
And I was jealous for an instant.
But loving, watching people die, grow, taste this life, it has
nothing to do with "bitch you are mine."
And the cat is glad that the floors are scrubbed for the
Fawn's arrival.
Fawn,
To see her at the end of every day, ecstasy.
But no.
This elusive one, doing strange things in another city.
To move for her, make her my Mecca, it would disgust her.
She would detest it, and me.
And aside from that, I'm busy, like her,
elusive.
And it's mouse blood on hardwood half the time anyhow.
Kim's mother died.
Contributions to the kids.
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Other Women Smiling My Way
It was a flower petal downy shroud kind of morning...
The sky was pregnant with dark cattle clouds and
con trail cowboys.
Her keys were like a mangled metal crown atop hello
kitty's head.
The movie Magnolia stuttered it's menu on the electric
girlfriend.The shower was running hot and loud, hot and
loud. Like last night and drunken numb nights before.
She left before coffee.
The cat circled my legs like a cocalico carosel. She smiled
at the cat on her way out, flashed those moth wing lashes
my way. She wasn't in love, could've been, could be,
if we were.
If I wasn't preoccupied by other women, skateboarding,
heaps of word writ, 9000 records, dirty dishes, obsessive
compulsive disorder, drawing, drinking, nights of nonsense
fucking to replace real love lost, and the quick beat of now
now now, maybe we would wear matching jackets on the
slopes, have candlelit dinners, attend concertos together in
that classic Molly Ringwald meets Mr. Right sense.
But listen, no.
I pulled at my hair, which goes every which way until
tamed by water and comb. I thought about you in your car
smoking, drinking classic Coke, smiling my way, looking
like a Krizanthamum caramel daydream.
I took a swallow,
burned my tongue like a child, spit into the sink and
turned the old glass faucet for a drink to dull the pain.
So it's another day with mountains looming, burning on
visions of you and highwaymen, sirens and the invisible
thumb of the pigs.
Court is cake.
Don't wear your Public enemy (fuck the police) t-shirt.
It will come out all right.
I look down from time to time into the Painted Desert
from high on the southern slope of a basalt face.
No other people to speak of. There are mountains a
hundred and twenty miles away. I consider immensity,
the vacant expanse piling upon itself below.
And I still want you.
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The Collapse Of My Internal Soviet Union
Was just shaving, thinking about Fawn when my stomach
collapsed. Hunched over, stumbling to the kitchen for
water or wine, whatever's at hand.
I stood at the sink looking out at the snow and drank glass
after glass. Some shaving cream got on the rim and I wiped
it on my shirt.
And the dishes that were stacked filthy yesterday are still
stacked filthy.
And this Pollack floor, this Pollack floor, I need to mop this
Pollack floor.
"Be good and I'll be good" the other one said over the
phone before she got on the plane. I don't love her.
The Fawn is heavy on my mind.
"Feed my fish" she (the other one) said.
Is this thing really all that precious to her?
Hell.
This thing is all too precarious for me, a bad waitresses
balancing act, my hypothetical checkbook.
"Be good" with my heart or my dick, girl?
What matters?
I fed the fish.
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Jeremiah Ronnie Lee Brooks is a writer and a painter. He works the door at Mia's lounge in Flagstaff, Arizona and walks dogs for a living. He still skateboards even though he is a grown-ass man.
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