—Poetry by Rp Verlaine, New York, NY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
STOLEN CARS AND LAST BREATHS
A hot biker tells me
she's not into games
while we shoot pool.
She then confesses
she likes to steal cars
so she can crash them
with men trapped inside
screaming her name.
I give her a long look
that goes far beyond
her most worthy charms.
She lights my cigarette,
gives me a name I know
is a lie, and I'm in love.
An intrepid destination as I see
her rack the balls savagely.
Not giving it a thought
when we get into the car
I learn isn’t hers.
Lacerating speed limits
to a stretch of road
they call Dead Man’s Curve
we drive straight into.
“Jesus,” I say
“he's waiting,”
she replies.
A hot biker tells me
she's not into games
while we shoot pool.
She then confesses
she likes to steal cars
so she can crash them
with men trapped inside
screaming her name.
I give her a long look
that goes far beyond
her most worthy charms.
She lights my cigarette,
gives me a name I know
is a lie, and I'm in love.
An intrepid destination as I see
her rack the balls savagely.
Not giving it a thought
when we get into the car
I learn isn’t hers.
Lacerating speed limits
to a stretch of road
they call Dead Man’s Curve
we drive straight into.
“Jesus,” I say
“he's waiting,”
she replies.
THE HITTERS
You can tell
sometimes by
the eyes with
the constant
measuring.
The endless scrutiny
before the pickings
then their curtsy back
to the shadows.
Not before their
laughing at
nonexistent jokes.
Candor absent
from their tightly
edited scripts.
Vague with all
information, personal
or not, as they deftly
ascertain if you are worth
the trouble of their time
for their kind of trouble.
Always beguiling
offering seemingly
easy seduction.
Even if it’s more
a ruse than allure.
A bait and switch
with the goods
yours to be stolen.
Waking up to
find in most cases
cash gone and a
few trinkets if
they work alone.
If not,
brother, they
can fix it so
you're taken for
everything.
Just know
that tonight
and every other,
a hitter in a bar,
is somewhere
waiting for you.
With those cold
eyes measuring
from the shadows
with their wide trap
of welcome.
You can tell
sometimes by
the eyes with
the constant
measuring.
The endless scrutiny
before the pickings
then their curtsy back
to the shadows.
Not before their
laughing at
nonexistent jokes.
Candor absent
from their tightly
edited scripts.
Vague with all
information, personal
or not, as they deftly
ascertain if you are worth
the trouble of their time
for their kind of trouble.
Always beguiling
offering seemingly
easy seduction.
Even if it’s more
a ruse than allure.
A bait and switch
with the goods
yours to be stolen.
Waking up to
find in most cases
cash gone and a
few trinkets if
they work alone.
If not,
brother, they
can fix it so
you're taken for
everything.
Just know
that tonight
and every other,
a hitter in a bar,
is somewhere
waiting for you.
With those cold
eyes measuring
from the shadows
with their wide trap
of welcome.
FULL-TIME TROUBLE
She always needed a fixer or a diversion
to grease the fall
high pointed heels necessitate
when rescue's cheap
or a prelude to a darker segue
full of surprise.
“No cab, we'll walk” she always says, just
to be a target of eyes.
The streets are her mood music
rising above the chaos.
I'm already thinking of past and
present sundry delights.
That come with her wrapped
in sin and negative charm.
When a crackhead pulls out a knife
two blocks from club.
She pulls out a gun and waits till
he's run half a block.
Shoots him in leg, “I love to watch them
limp away” she says.
We walk fast to her place around more
corners than her last.
A patrol car passes “don't you love sirens?”
she asks-not a question.
Later, I'm almost sure that I haven't
fallen for her again.
As she kisses me full and hard on lips
then everywhere else.
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL IN NEW YORK CITY
Year 2000
Carlos has a Sony disc player
a hundred-dollar cell phone
and beeper.
Because he might
need them,
he says.
But Carlos has no
notebook, paper
or pen.
He says
“just the essentials.
You’ve got a problem
with that
teach?”
* * *
Year 2022
Carlos Jr. can't spell
black market but has
200-dollar sneakers
he gets mad respect for.
His iPhone almost new
bought at a place where
phones stolen or not
bring cash and no questions.
But Carlos has no
notebook, paper
or pen.
He says his dad
has already taught him
all that he needs to know.
I don't ask how that's possible
with his dad in jail for murder.
WE HAVE TO TALK
She says flicking
the switch where
silence falls
on one of us
For she doesn't
want to talk she
wants to complain
and not have me
interrupt.
It is awkward
as an overweight man
trying to get up
from ice-laden concrete.
it is unfair as
facing a firing squad
without one good joke
or foreign cigarette,
but we talk
or rather I listen
to numbered faults
with angry tongue
that pleasures me so.
Finishing with
the awkward litany
of mistakes whose
echo have too
much reverb.
She then asks
what I have to say
as if I had a
speech prepared
I try but she cuts
me off as if I
were a villain in
a car chase.
When she's done
I try again but its
as if she's rehearsed
this precluding any
retorts and tears me
to shreds as if we
were fencing
but I have no weapon.
I get up to leave.
She tells me
that I always leave.
I open the door
close it behind me
and hear her say
we have to talk.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
____________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen to Rp Verlaine, all the way from NYC! Rp first appeared in the Kitchen on Saturday, April 23, 2022 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=rp+verlaine/.)
And a reminder that Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged takes place at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight, 8pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
____________________
—Medusa
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