Snakebit

It was the night after Depth Charge Challenge—
left him on his knees,
riding the porcelain chariot,
begging for mercy.
Tonight he was taking it easy.

His crew was copacetic—
Mingo’s facial wounds,
another casualty of the Challenge,
were healing fine,
superficial, leaving no scars.
And Toons was stringing together
three weeks of medicated calm,
staying straight
with Diet Pepsi and maraschino cherries,
working the Karaoke machine
like a gearhead in overdrive.
That gave Benny the freedom
to shift his attention to Savannah.

Available again,
and sadly celibate,
Benny had a crush brewing
on the new waitress at the Mumbling Walrus.

He’d never known a Southern gal—
that’s how she described herself—
and was captivated by Savannah:
the slow syrup of her Georgia roots,
the country twang in her hello,
the way she put herself together—
just enough makeup to suggest
she was from somewhere else—
red cowboy boots with tooled eagle wings,
a perky denim blouse, a pleated skirt
that skimmed her dimpled, almost-zaftig knees,
the tattooed snake coiled
around her inoculation scar,
her proper manners and flirtatious ways.
Damn, what’s not to like?

Savannah made Benny feel
like he was the most important guy at the bar,
that his order carried
the weight of global significance.

Benny was smitten.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—
tracked her as she waited tables,
taking trips to the sandbox
(her word for the ladies’ room),

Benny was smitten.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—
tracked her as she waited tables,
taking trips to the sandbox
(her word for the ladies’ room),
while he rehearsed the courage to say anything
besides Pabst Blue Ribbon.

When he lost sight of her,
he drank faster—
hoping she’d circle back,
talk sweet, and bring him
another beer.

It never crossed Benny’s mind
that her warmth was the job,
not the girl,
that she was working for tips.

But Toons knew—
hell, everybody in the place knew—
and feeling sorry for his buddy,
he climbed on stage
to make a point,
dedicating the next song to Benny.

He shook that wild red mane,
face twisted in the blues
of unrequited love,
and spat out the lyrics:

Oh what’s love got to do, got to do with it
What’s love but a second-hand emotion
What’s love got to do, got to do with it
Who needs a heart
When a heart can be broken.

The chorus hit again,
and Benny felt his name inside the words.
He knew then he was snakebit—
made a hasty exit,
leaving a handful of crumpled bills
on the table.

Out in the parking lot,
he could still hear Toons
howling through the chorus—
a voice cracked but faithful
to the last note.

Benny stood under the buzzing light,
a gentle shower blurring the neon sign,
thinking maybe love
was just another song
someone else had to sing.

Quebec City, Canada

The Beans and Potatoes Days

During the beans and potato days
when he was still doing school
and the future was like
a fogged windshield
with a broken defroster,

Benny was dating a girl
with family money and
no worries.

Secure in her station
she loved to laugh,
and smoke and screw,

and talk in an exhausting carnival
of ceaseless randomness,
a fascination of which
she never tired.

Her temptations were an
intoxicating distraction
from his murky prospects;
her generosity as boundless
as her monologues.

Benny was seduced by
his newfound fortune - 
being fed and dressed
and fucked and given gifts of
clothes, big books, 
candlelight dinners,
and antique shit 
that accumulated
on his crowded dresser.

Yet, he saw nothing
when he looked
in the mirror,
could not hear
above the noise,
and though he was
comfortable without
a map, he felt himself
stalled and sinking
in discontent.

I can’t do this anymore,
he blurted out one night
during martinis
and foie gras.

But I can give you everything
your heart desires,
she countered,
What do you want?
A Porsche?
A boat?
A romantic trip to Paris?
Anything?

Benny just shook his said,
said I’m sorry,
then left her sitting there,
alone, stunned
and waiting 
for the check.

He couldn’t explain to her
something he didn’t 
really understand -
that he was living where
no one was home,
and that she couldn’t
possibly give him
himself.

Benny in the Supermarket

It happened in the supermarket.

Benny lost his shopping list –
knew that peppers were
the showcase ingredient
for the stew he’s gonna
make for the gang;
but couldn’t remember what colors:
red, green, yellow, orange,
purple?

Nah, there aren’t purple peppers,
only eggplant.

Did he need eggplant?

And he couldn’t remember the status
of peppers on the Dirty Dozen;
important information when
organic is three bucks a pound more
than conventional.

Didn’t want to poison the guys,
but buying conventional
would leave enough cash
for a higher quality beer.

Where had his memory gone?

Sure, he could still recite
the lyrics to “Desolation Row”
with 90% accuracy,
conjure the formula for when
Easter Sunday occurs;
remember the cinematographer
of his ten favorite movies,
even when his top ten
constantly changes;
recall the succession of albums

released by the Beatles,
Stones, Doors,
Miles and Dylan before the umpteen bootlegs
were officially issued.

But where he parked his car,
put his keys, the names of
his best friend’s kids,
the optimum temperature and time
for roasted potatoes
that he cooks every week,
the names of people
he is being introduced to,
or his last errand after the supermarket –

gone.

He grabs the ingredients
he thinks he remembers
and heads
for the check out counter.

If he’s missing something,
hell, he’ll just fake it.

The line is long, so Benny
scans the tabloids,
hunting for news he could share
at dinner,
and finds inordinate comfort
in the knowledge that
J.F.K. is still alive,
living blissfully with
Marilyn Monroe
in Havana.

Burroughs at the Automat

That last night
Benny met William Burroughs
who was still dead,
though in the dream
very much alive,
in a Horn and Hardart Automat
somewhere,
to the best of his knowledge,
in Canada.

Benny got there on a train,
crowded, oxygen depleted,
go to the bathroom
and lose your seat.

He was traveling with his girlfriend
who wasn’t sure she was his girlfriend.

He wasn’t sure either,
and wondered that
if she was his girlfriend
what did he find attractive about her?

The train snaked along the Atlantic Coast,
and when it arrived at the station,
in the disgorge of passengers
his maybe girlfriend abandoned him.

He felt a loss, but asked himself
a loss of what?

Hungry, he wandered the area alone
where he found snow and ice piles
from an earlier season,
and bald patches where flowers
poked out of the mud
through the winter rubble.

Hungry,
he found the automat;
dark interior,
tables filled with the disenfranchised;
the polished chrome and sparkling glass doors
glistened from spotlights.

Benny handed the cashier a couple of bills,
asked for change,
and with the nickels
he chose the blue plate mac ’n cheese special,
french fries, peach pie:
dropping his nickels into the slot,
turning the porcelain knob,
lifting the glass door,
retrieving his hot dinner.

He poured fresh coffee
into a large mug
and looked for a vacant seat.

He found a small table occupied by a single man;
old, reedy,
wearing a crumpled suit and tie that was out of fashion
even in the 1950’s,

looking like part of the decor,
only danker.

He wore a cheap gray stingy-brimmed fedora,
a black crow’s feather sticking out of the band.

Benny asked him if he could sit at his table,
and he replied: Welcome my friend,
introducing himself as William Burroughs.

I’m Benny,
and the old man responded:
Yes, I know you.

Benny asked Burroughs:
what are you up to these days?

The geezer begins to explain his latest project:
I’m teaching this young girl how to drive.
She lives in the neighborhood
where all the adults work at jobs.

He drags out the word all as if he were
pulling toffee.

She has an appointment for her driving test,
but has no one to teach her.
I told her that I do not own a car
,nor do I have a valid drivers license.

She told me that doesn’t matter.
She has a car.
All she needs
is an adult in the passenger’s seat,
to make it all look legal,
she can figure out the rest.
She assures me that it should be pretty easy.

Benny asked Burroughs if it has been easy.
Hell no!
It’s been a dreadful experience.
The damn girl hasn’t a clue
how to even start the car,
let alone shift it into gear.

She talks constantly
and does not pay attention to he road.

Benny had to ask: then why do you do it?

Because I have nothing better to do with my time,
and even though she scares the bejesus out of me,
I find the experience fascinating.

Benny laughs.

Burroughs laughs,
then he slips into other stories.

He complains about the rats in the city
and how, unlike Kansas where he used to live,
he can’t take out his pistol and shoot them here.

He complains about Ginsberg’s ceaseless self-promotion
and Kerouac’s conservative politics.

But they’re both dead, Benny sez.

We’re all dead my good fellow,
though most of us just don’t realize it.

Burroughs complained about some other shit,
but Benny stopped listening,
thinking about whether he is dead
or alive.

With no easy answer
he finishes his pie,
takes the last sips of coffee,
and tells Burroughs he has to move on.

Burroughs extends his hand
and tells Benny
that he has enjoyed talking with him.

Then Burroughs asks him what his business is here,
and Benny replies: I don’t know.

Burroughs snickers and sez:
that’s the best kind of business to have in this dump.