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3 Poems by David Pishnery |
about d.a. levy he tried everything he could and still they didn't listen he skirted around the bullshit that was being handed down and still it didn't do any good he wanted love he wanted a good ten cent joint he wanted to fuck when the opportunity presented itself he wanted a decent job he wanted to live uncluttered without the pap dished out on the six o'clock news it wasn't too much to ask but the color wasn't right or wasn't white or wasn't clouded with religious dogma you can declare war on the world you can declare war on the people but you cannot declare war on yourself several years later boat people made there way to our shores complaining about democracy and the language and the pay wage he wasn't around to sympathize with their problems he went to that safer place where time didn't matter now his paintings sell his poetry scrutinized for hidden meaning and we still don't get the point he had none only the wishing to be understood nags at you and me and keeps his light burning lydia's sister lydia's sister lived in cleveland near the flats her fantasy was to fuck aged rock stars who had long hair I don't doubt she did we met at a bad time both of us between lovers and needing a warm body I should have been paying attention and treated her the way she treated me but I was stupid lydia's sister is on a three month cycle of insanity with short bursts of rage that was fun the electricity of being that pissed at someone is worth the risk of losing your mind (at least for awhile) lydia's sister was smart to dump her in cleveland but she wasn't that smart she should have killed her at birth jobs most people don't realize not every sailor or grunt gets laid whenever they want to. some resort to stroke magazines or standing around school yards watching adolestent panties. some take the trip into the city from the base and walk around the seediest parts of town looking for the best hotel for the money to score a piece of ass. the doorman knows what you want it's just a question of how much. the old elevator creaks up to the top floor giving you plenty of time to chicken out or satisfy that itch you have been carrying since Spain or the Islands. they never look like you imagine them, some skinny and ugly or fat and beautiful - working women and men who watch the clock just like you do. they take your dick in their hands and wash it first with a soft old rag with plenty of soap - making small talk about family or girlfriends or the daily news. then the money comes out and it's down to business. sometimes she is dry - your fault - but sometimes if you laid the groundwork out right it's a tight slippery 15 minutes with no apologies or looking back - just a dying to get out into clean air and finding the first bus back to base to wash off her stink and your stink. this is better than wrestling with the girls at the bars who want love or want you to buy beer all night just to be dumped at midnight for the local football hero or working stiff just off from his shit job. some jobs are like that. some jobs fuck you over. some jobs fuck with your mind but some are just fucking.
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