by Steve Finbow
can’t see central barrier or traffic signs hit crowd
of traffic cones that go spinning & swirling off into the distance,
raspberry syrup in a vanilla shake—shit!—
haemospermia fucking haemospermia!
chuckle, start to cough, spit, close windows
driver’s side shatters, covers face with glass
look
nothing
look back, see rip in headrest to right, bullet embedded in passenger seat
ahead,
see two shapes,
rectangles moving together,
slowing moving aside to let me thru middle
fuck that
take out gun
check it
full clip
come on, then
two cars slow either side filling squeeze
can’t see jack, can’t see jill,
so no idea who they could be
move in & sparks fly
smell burning
window of car to left slips down,
see open-mouth surprise of dan wesson razorback
accelerate brake accelerate again
two cars stay
car to right falls back, punches, comes level
window down, empty-eyed stare of purdy
nice
look up at sky but it’s not there just
drops
of rain
mist
mist fucking everywhere
bite bottom lip until blood
cars move in,
clamp in their metal embrace
movie-type stunt
stop
duck
they shoot each other
game over
but, no,
it doesn’t work like that in real life
dip down,
they shoot each other & take off an ear
really wouldn’t do
have to be practical common-sensical
put foot down & drag cars along
terrible screeching
don’t have to steer
they’re the ones in control of where we go from here
both arms where they have only two between them
take out one on right two shots
one goes fucking nowhere, other goes in temple
boom
car veers off,
lost in mist
jerk steering wheel to left,
other car slices along barrier
sparks lighting up gloom
pull wheel to right,
put foot down on brake, last moment,
turn wheel left again,
catch rear right bumper,
off goes car,
spastic dance until broadsides & flips,
one, two, three, four times,
lands on roof in centre reservation
watch tail disappear
into mist,
looping over bridge’s balustrade,
leaving snail trail of glistening slime
slow down park behind get out
smoke mingling with fog
driver upside down
looks like neck broken
take out cock,
stroke it
fasterfasterfaster fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfast- juggernaut surges by in blur of rain & mist
come over driver’s eyes
wa-ho-ha!
zip up
check his pockets
nothing except protruding bones & gristle
say,
“who the fuck are you?”
could be one of many could be anyone could be someone
that’s the problem
walk back to car get in
fuck was that all about? eh?
look ahead,
see two flashing orange lights above me,
a giant tiger with serious blinking problems
nictitating in the rain
can hear sirens fuck
sirens fuck sirens fuckfuck Z
better get a move on absquatulateskedaddleshoot
move on move
they won’t have a clue in this stuff
cameras aren’t going to pick out anything
no witnesses well, two dead ones
no evidence not a secreter
turn car back onto highway,
head slowly towards next off-ramp
a hobo camp—right now, envious
of tics on female dog’s teats; desirous
of calluses on feet of children, hankering
for a sup of that shiny liquid; longing
for feel of burning coals in sun-tattooed palm of hand sound horn
men drink their children
play in rain dogs
piss against washing-line poles
grab absinthe, take a swig, wipe mouth,
slot bottle into crotch holster snug
the clash’s “lover’s rock” plays
mouth moves in contractions
& spasms as it reacts to mick’s guitar
paul’s bass
must look ridiculous but don’t give a shit,
drumming steering wheel
right think about this
think about Z
spend some time in desert living on bread & water,
before I visit…
Sunset Debris
…my bar, a music bar
somewhere on the road between LA and Barstow,
a stop for truckers, fuckers, and no-luckers.
We have booths with personal jukeboxes, a stage
for bands and dancers, rockers and strippers, shockers and dippers,
the lonely and the never befriended.
I bankrolled it through my dead husband’s leavings
(he upped and died of shock, the third that never happened)—
eventually—
after X greased a few cops,
threatened the insurance investigators,
took a cut, set fire to it,
watched my face in the glow of the flames, watched
the green turn black, watched
the metaphor for exchange turn to ash, watched
my lust for him shrivel and die.
The thing is,
once he had done what I asked of him,
he was no longer
necessary. He stayed around
until I found something else for him to do, someone
else for him to do, somewhere else
for him to be.
Not here.
There.
That was always important. I wanted him
close but distant.
He was distant but close.
Proximity is relative.
I saw him through the reverse end of an emotional telescope.
His proximal philosophy was to share pulses.
Gone but not forgotten. Forgotten
but not gone.
Never anywhere between.
The Gourd worked as bouncer and bodyguard,
trouncer and fuck buddy.
He has a brother who works along similar lines.
The music that pulses from the speakers jumps
from country to thrash-metal, from punk
to bluegrass, from jungle to avant-garde—
Boredoms to Schoenburg,
Johnny Cash to Black Flag,
pumping out full volume, the walls throbbing
like a womb, the tomblike lighting.
The dancers come in all ages and shapes—
skinny Latvians, big-assed Latinas,
black girls with legs as long as,
Chinese and Thais, Japs and Malays,
Russian girls as cool as lilac ice,
Mex girls as hot as baked jalapenos.
At the end of the show,
the girls who have danced that night
form a chorus, a forest of flesh, humanity
camouflaged with sex, the varicolored limbs,
the multi
plicity and heft of breasts and asses,
the dust of their skin cells filling the light.
The customers stomp and shout,
whistle and hoot,
the primeval language of need.
There are other needs,
other primal desires. All my life,
I’ve tried to cater for and sustain my drives. Beneath
the dance floor, the shiny boards slick with beer and saliva, beneath
the bar with its bottles like giant precious stones, beneath
the stiletto heels of my dancers—
the pit.
A place for violence not sex.
Cockfights, knife-fights, bare-knuckle boxing—
the smell of blood, shit, and urine.
The smell of our ancestors.
I enjoy them all.
Stand at the back watching the crowd’s facial expressions,
the grimaces and grins,
the fear and the horror,
the pain and the gory—
dogs with spines exposed, headless roosters,
Mexicans with knife slashed and blood red tic-tac-toe scars
on their muscled abdomens,
willing cuts,
spilling guts.
I thought X couldn’t find me. Wouldn’t find me.
For hours, I imagined him pushing
open the door, screwing
his eyes up adjusting to the light or lack of, walking
to the bar, rapping
the wood with his tattooed knuckles—
HOPE on the left, my name on the right.
Invisible. Unsaid. Always.
He orders bourbon and beer,
leans on his elbows with his back to the bar,
the inverted-cross necklace catching the light.
I am sitting at the end of the bar.
And he can’t see me.
Couldn’t.
I fix him in my vision with my astigmatic eye,
feel the greys in it pool and ripple,
imagine him trapped there. My lips
pulse and flush at the memory of the taste of him—
the ever-decreasing intimacy.
I know where we’ll die. Where we’ll escape.
There’s an abandoned theme park in the mountains.
No barb-wire, no electric fences, no guard dogs.
But above it, always just out of sight…
But I knew he’d stepped over.
Never three, he’d said.
Two at the most.
But now he has taken the third, taken the third who walked beside,
the third mind, the third eye, the third man—
triangulated his sins: sex, violence, jealousy—
the unholy trinity.
Stepped up, stepped over, stepped off.
When he looks in the shaving mirror, he sees my face.
When he looks in the rear-view mirror,
I am one of those objects that may appear closer.
Was closer. Close. Closest.
Not long ago,
two men came to me with a business proposition—
they’d help finance the bar,
bring in better-looking girls, more violent dogs,
champion roosters, psycho boxers,
bring in the crowds,
all they wanted was use of the cellar bar for one night a month,
no questions asked, no answers given—
two faggots with muscles upon muscles.
I closed the bar one night a month, gave them access,
saw the black garbage bags wet with sticky saliva,
the spill of black blood and white powder,
the impenetrable eggs,
the splashes of dark red urine,
the burned women’s clothing,
the collection of cheap jewelry scattered in the Sunset Debris dumpsters.
One night,
the faggots brought me a present.
Straining on its leash, spit running down its jaw,
its white teeth glistening,
its pink and grey gums trembling,
its stub of a tail vibrating.
I bent down and scratched its head,
its hair short, a strawberry blond
and I said,
“And what’s your name, big boy?”
And one of the faggots said,
“Pinker. He’s an American pit-bull. You could do with some protection.”
I rubbed the dogs ears and looked into his eyes.
He gulped and wagged some more.
“The only thing I need protecting against is myself,” I said.
“Then he’ll help.”
“He has pedigree and he’s a champion fighter—
his mother Aristar was state champion
and his father Heine won thirty-eight consecutive fights.
Take him.
He likes you.”
The dog jumped up at me, licking my face.
“He needs a lot of exercise. Preferably against other dogs.”
“Yeah, reminds me of someone I used to know,” I said,
and rubbed Pinker’s belly.
The dog flipped over on his back,
legs in the air, eyes
wide and staring, little
cock pulsing pink out of its hood.
“Spitting image,” I said.
“Peas in a pod,” one of the faggots said.
“Monozygotic,” said the other.
I smiled, rubbed the dog’s ears, “Dead Ringers,” I said,
“Dead ringers.”
Pinker now sleeps at the end of my bed,
licking his wounds while I sharpen his claws with a nail file.
Sometimes at night,
he cocks his head and listens to the coyotes
fucking and fighting.
In the morning,
he scratches at the door,
jumps up at the wire-mesh
and watches…
Anything But Lucky
…yellow & black brindle dogs
leaving at daylight,
white-tipped tails pointing east towards rising sun
watch them recede into bubbling heat,
step out of motel room onto already baking tarmac
fucking weather
door of thunderbird shrieks,
a night thing,
climb into red soupy driving seat,
hotwire engine, fishtail
out onto road,
long & black,
a squaw’s ponytail
bats turn into birds,
moon dissolves into liquid day
after five hours of driving thru arid desert, past
hitch-hiking limbs of cacti, bloated
coyote carcasses, leprous
bodies of armadillos,
turn off,
roadhouse’s neon sign blinking
in gathering dusk:
the ok ear
wipe black leather cowboy boots on calves of levis, brush
dust & insects from boredoms t-shirt, run
hand over long black hair, adjust
inverted-cross necklace, walk
up wooden steps, push
open swing doors
Z has to be here
gotta put a stop to this once & for all
the beating wasn’t enough
since then, had to deal with the gourd,
the nameless car jockeys
room rocks from jukebox groove, men
stand at bar elbows dampening in spilled beer, heads
shadowed by cowboy hats, chins
bobbing to country rock
small stage,
pole in centre,
mex girl strutting mex stuff
stripped to waist,
leather chaps tied over tight denim
shorts, motorcycle boots
grips pole with
muscled thighs,
squirms
down,
muscular
serpent,
movements
explicit,
generative
projective
pubic hair
spilling out
of pants,
trail of coffee
granules carried
by ants
escutcheon
innate grammar
of her sex,
yet poverty
of stimulus
in her thrusts
gets me thirsty
order beer,
look around room,
spot Z sitting on stool at far end of bar
brazen
feigning invisibility
wears denim dress—legs long & feet shapely
hair, chestnut brown, hangs to shoulders
eyes—
moonstone, smoke of pale sapphires, ash of newly milled steel, new rain
pouting lips
strong nose
walk up to her, take Z’s hand
say,
“I really want to kiss you,” spitting on floor, missing pea-green blahniks
Z looks thru me,
eyes silver mountain lakes reflecting sky
says
“that wouldn’t be a very good idea,”
feel strong hands under armpits,
dragged across dance floor
look around
fuck think
think, fuck
man on right says,
“what are you doing here, loser?”
look at ugly face spattered with moles & growths—
the gourd’s brother?
the gourd 2 punches me in solar plexus,
feel vomit rise but swallow back
man on left, thin & greasy as french fry,
yanks head back,
whispers in ear,
“Z wants you to fuck off
but before you fuck off, Z wants us to fuck you up”
unseen punch cracks nose, bird’s egg
bundled towards basement stairs
smell blood & faeces rising from blackness
watch as Z climbs gracefully from bar stool,
floats across dance floor,
smiling Z’s dirty innocent smile,
beautiful astigmatic eyes watching me
follows two goons down into what smells like a dog-fight pit
they strip me,
tie me to post
hands bound with rope
on knees,
watch Z’s long legs approach
room stinks of urine, faeces, blood, & sweat
from Z’s purse,
Z takes scalpel,
draws heart in blood where mine once was
look up at Z’s face,
palimpsestual slate of Z’s eyes
Z smiles,
slices a teardrop into cheek,
feel brine of it roll down into corner of mouth,
taste color,
density