Too Many Women Named D___

Cheap motels always feel like bleach and sweat and
Broken condoms and lost prom night virginity
And cheap prostitutes and child molesters
And bikers and migrant laborers and
Affairs -

And now they remind me of the fact that I've been in love
With two different women on two different coasts
Who answer to the same damned name,
Almost the same exact damned full name,
Prefer to be called the same nickname,
Mouths taste and feel almost exactly the same...

Why am I thinking about that?

Blessed Mother Mathematical Anomaly,
Look down upon me as I taste the flesh of someone I'm not supposed to taste,
Forgive my sins beforehand, because I shall certainly never
Regret them.

I can feel no remorse for doing what I do best,
Being the revenge fuck, the long lost forgotten friend in the night,
Stupid goddamned panties should be made of something
More durable than fabric, something harder to break
Than a wedding vow.

Middle of the day,
And the Pacific outside whispers no secrets it has witnessed
In this cheap motel.

No stories of the dead hookers it has drowned,
No tales of Immigration raids or of accidental pregnancies.

# # #

Posted by J. Wayne @ 1:35 PM :: (0) comments


Twenty-Something Sexual Geriatric

I never miss women - just the memories of women.

The smell of fresh shampooed hair, the scent of pillows,
The glistening droplets of afternoon sweat on shoulders,
The silouettes of breasts, burned into the mind
Like purple desert sunsets.

I never miss women - just the fun I've had with women.

With handcuffs and in roadside bathrooms,
The stolen cigarettes and ashtrays full of beer bottle caps,
The shots of warm bourbon run off a lover's back,
Sounds of heartbeats echoing off living room floors.

I miss Chicanas with scorpion tongues.
I miss days spent ebony-covered and lustful in Denver,
Whispers in Virginia barns, bitten lips in Santa Barbara,
Screaming and panting and fucking away Baton Rouge summers.

But I never miss women, relationships, lovers, friends with benefits -
I'm nothing more than a head full of one-night stands, weekend escapes, broken affairs,
Violated sorority houses, backroom trysts in art galleries,
The motel rooms, tequila shacks, the vineyard sheds.

But I never, ever miss women.

Posted by J. Wayne @ 2:11 PM :: (0) comments


Reading in Bed One Afternoon in September

I tried focusing...
Focusing on the words written on the page,
On pronouncing each and every word, on adding audible interpretation
to every syllable.

But how difficult it is,
Trying to read excerpts of Bukowski's Hot Water Music,
Stretched out in bed with a Beautiful Woman with Beautiful eyes,
While your eyes keep drifting down to hips and thighs.

I tried focusing...
Focusing on something other than the desire to pull
her closer to me, the desire to taste her neck and breasts
and to tear every shred of clothing from her body.

But how difficult it is,
Trying to read excerpts of Bukowski aloud and in full voice,
Trying to ignore animalistic attraction, lustful, primordial silent screams,
Demanding the taste and smell of sweaty flesh.

How I could give up trying to read Bukowski
To live that temptation forever and a day.

- For Randi

Posted by J. Wayne @ 7:30 AM :: (1) comments


Navigating the River Styx with a Frat Boy Charon

A busted nose and I'm bleeding onstage,
A barn in Virginia tobacco country becomes a whirling madness,
From the support beam, my head bounces from shoulder
To mosh-pit shoulder, down to the floor.

As I'm coughing up blood, two meaty hands
Pull me up from the red dirt floor, carry me out into
Autumn darkness, down to a raging bonfire
Burning holes into a perfectly good cow pasture.

Drunk and stoned, I'm convinced I'm destined for
Punk Rock Hades, the hands the fists of Charon,
The dancing flames a mere doorway to my eternal prison.
At least, I thought, I will die on my own farm, as Fate intended.

But no, Charon's drunken redneck fists sat me down on a hay bale,
In between a pretty stoner girl and an alcoholic 14-year-old,
One laughing, the other vomiting, my own personal Charon igniting my
busted face in a sea of cheap gin and gauze.

Sometimes, the older brothers of bandmates can make for brutal guides
On the River Styx, serving as both nanny and executioner,
Tormenter and nurturing bastard.
But Tre bandaged me up and went back into the mosh pit.

The 14-year-old alkie got up to find a tree to hold the booze down,
The pretty stoner girl, still laughing, told me her nipples were being
Tickled by the butterflies in her shirt and that she once fucked her boyfriend
On the balcony of a Baptist church.

Some days, I miss nights like that.
But, mostly,

Posted by J. Wayne @ 4:13 AM :: (0) comments


Thinking Mesa Arizona

Watching the sun break rocks in the desert,
A hundred million years of yellow star burning
Holes into Arizona,

And the scorpions march towards Tucson,
Maricopa County awaits its rattlesnakes,
And somewhere, off in the desert, an old man drowns
in a wash, a cowboy taken into the abyss
By the Great Stagecoach

Once this land was primative, beautiful, passionate
The Natives lusted after maize and warfare,
Bronze women tossed their breasts to the sky,
Before tribes gave way to trailer parks on the Reservations.

And now the land is no longer primative or passionate,
Water pours in from Colorado rivers, bottled and boutiqued through designer ductwork,
Golf courses sprout like chickweed in a garden,
Even the cowboys have been shamed into playing
host to the flocks of college kids and old ladies
from Newark, New Jersey
and Cleveland, Ohio

Bronze women once tossed their breasts to the sky here,
And now the middle-aged ravage the land with
recreational vehicles and golf clubs,
Clothed and drunk off White Man's privilege,
Gluttonous and lustful,
Ravenous and fat.

Posted by J. Wayne @ 3:28 AM :: (0) comments


"Making Babies Now"

I was the worst kind of bastard
A bastard at nineteen
In bed with a migrant laborer's daughter,
Staring at the ceiling,
Wondering if
Somewhere in Mexico's future
I will be recorded in some official document
as a deadbeat dad.

I don't think I don't love I don't
feel I don't listen I ignore gigantic waving
red flags saying don't do this oh shit don't do this
Fuck fuck fuck fuck
She's a goddamned virgin and I didn't think
I knew she had a crush on me a stupid crush

I just woke up
She woke me up
Climbed into my bed
Used her body as an alarm clock.

I didn't even open my eyes, still stoned and hung over,
Unable to realize my hands were not caressing the hips
Of a dream.

By the time I saw her on top of me,
Still trying to figure out the hows and whats and wheres,
Grinning and playing with my goatee and asking me silly girl

It was way too late.

I was the worst kind of bastard
Bastard at nineteen
Nineteen and already damned for my sins
and Lizette sleeps naked on top
of a dirty-ass comforter
in a dirty-ass room
in a dirty-ass house

Staring at the goddamn pipes in the ceiling
Snow on the ground outside
Her parents slaving away at a stockyard
Covered in USDA Grade A cowshit.

I don't think I just am
And I deserve to be thinking about making
bastard children now.

Posted by J. Wayne @ 6:27 AM :: (0) comments


Showers with Strangers

It had been so long since I showered with someone else,
And Pia, eight years my junior and full of foreigner bluntness,
Laughed at my sorry ass when I apologized for bumping into her,
For saying "yes, ma'am" when she asked me to pass the shampoo...

I kept thinking about her boyfriend back in Florence.
I kept wondering why she'd kissed me the way she did, why
she felt no remorse, why she'd put me through a coffee table...

It was five-thirty in the morning, a Monday.

I should've been thinking about critical path schedules, coordination meetings,
workflow planning, that long-term development plan that had been sitting
On my nightstand for weeks.

Instead, I'm bathing with an Italian woman, debating whether or not
My actions constitute a quarter-life crisis, debating whether I should simply
call in sick to work, risk putting a multi-million-dollar job further behind schedule,

Simply to spend the entire day with her in the shower.

I was pulled out of my contemplative self-bullshitting by a sudden, intense pain.
I felt my tearducts begin to swell and grabbed onto the shower curtain for dear life.
Pia had found an ingrown hair on my back and had, without asking,
decided to simply extract it with her fingernails.

She put her head on my shoulder,
I turned and kissed her on the forehead.
I felt the locket hanging from her necklace pressing into my back,
And I pulled away slowly.

Guilt is a bitch and a half.

She figured out why I pulled back, almost instantly.
She looked at me,
Glanced down at the locket,
Looked back at me,
Rolled her eyes.

With one tug, the hemp rope snapped.

She tossed the locket over the shower curtain.
I heard it bounce off the back of the toilet and plunk into the bowl.
She gave me a quick playful shove, grinned, went back to washing her hair.

It's amazing how one broken necklace can relieve so much anxiety.

As Pia would say,
Worry about today tomorrow.

- January 20, 2006

Posted by J. Wayne @ 5:59 AM :: (1) comments