Thursday, July 25, 2013

Oscar Meyer Weiner?

He said he had no desire to hurt Mr. Weiner, whom he referred to during the interview as Carlos Danger, the nickname Mr. Weiner used in exchanges with the woman.
“I have nothing against Carlos Danger,” Mr. Richie said. “I’m not trying to bring this guy down.”
The woman, he said, harbors no animosity toward Mr. Weiner, either. “She actually still likes the guy; her whole thing is he lied,” Mr. Richie said. “He said he’s a changed man, but he’s really not a changed man; he’s Carlos Danger.” 

New York Times, July 24, 2013

I need to set the record straight.  Contrary to reports, I did not take my nom de plume from Carlos the Jackal.  I’m a huge Cheap Trick fan, so I borrowed the last name of the drummer, Bun E. Carlos.  Danger was a no brainer.  One, it appeals to the ladies.  Two, it describes perfectly my allure and three, I’m a big fan of Nick Danger, Third Eye.  You know.  That old Firesign Theater bit?  Well, now, the gums on the other shoe, Roccocco.’

I considered other fictional names before landing on Carlos Danger.  I’m a huge WB fan, tossed Wile E. Coyote around for a while.  Wile E. Trouble had potential but Peter Coyote seemed a little too phallic.  Take it from a guy named Weiner.  Besides, getting confused with the narrator of PBS nature shows won’t cut ice with the babes.  

A Latin flavored name was essential so I asked Consuela, our cleaning lady, for suggestions.  Fidel paired nicely with Dionysus, I thought.  Speedy sent the wrong message performance-wise but Gonzalez might have worked with The Hun.  When she pitched Frito Bandito I began to suspect she was having me on so I asked her to shampoo the carpet in the living room again, even though she’d done it just last week.  

Texting Jesus is just asking for trouble.  Pair it with Predator or De Sade and you could find yourself on CNN apologizing from the pulpit at Liberty University.  Syllabically, Jorge Brando had nice mouth feel but I couldn’t shake the image of him in Apocalypse Now, gone all fat and sweaty.  The horror, the horror.’  Talk about ruining the mood!  Pancho?  You may as well be working the back of a taco truck, but Villa?  Now that had potential.  Villa Con Centaur worked well whispered to an informal focus group of women I passed jogging in Central Park.  The majority seemed truly startled but getting a bigger sample may have attracted law enforcement.  

Sometimes the answer is right there under your nose.  I was ready to give up, maybe explore Norwegian names.  I’m laying there listening to Live At Budakon, nude except for my Sennheiser HD800 headphones, when it hit me:  Mommy’s all right, Daddy’s all right, they just seem a little weird.’  Like Mr. Ritchie said, I am Carlos Danger. 

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

How They Got In My Boxers I'll Never Know

Painting Squirrels In My Boxers

The view through the window
inspires me to paint
the landscape in my boxers
perfect ellipse of my coffee cup
sidled up to solvent
settling out
in an old navy bean can
tireless loop of infinity
a distracting abstraction  
this early in the day
a simple minded suitor
courting a rising sun
clutching a dead bouquet of brushes
spattered ferrules
sprouting frazzled bellies
free hand bushwhacking
bed flattened razzmatazz
kneading my jowly countenance
all as prelude to loading this brush with alluvial mud
wincing as I stab
a mob of squirrels
zinging crisscross
over the green smear of morning. 

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Moth to a flame

Miller Moth

Promises were made
that dress of yours
yellow as a miller moth
batting about the bulb
of a painted porch light
yearning on hanger
to caress a slope of shoulder
ride a swell of hip
bell the well-turned ankle
pleat and dart pooled about
first one foot
then the other
rose to lip
a halting smile of neckline
assumed an aspect
of sail gathered wind
sung vows in the rigging
where I madly batted  
drawn, ensnared. 

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Old hymns

I Come To The Garden Alone

It pisses me off a little
nearly twenty years later
a cassette tape from under the front seat
of the pastor’s white Cadillac Seville
was the best he could do
when you consider
all the Southern Baptists in Orlando
who could sing on key
in cream three piece suits
with nothing better to do
on a rainy Saturday morning.
You lay still
we squirmed in our seats
while they cued up the song
fast forward
then rewind
see sawing fore and aft
the way you once
shoehorned your Bayliner into berth.

Late afternoon sun 
ladles molten light
into the corduroy mold
of the Boyce’s garden 
soil soaked dark with spilled shadows
mine throwing up a hand
to the back of an elongated neck
alive and crawling
with the ghost of you singing
that old gospel hymn. 

Monday, July 1, 2013

Eye on the ball


An eternity spent back peddling
on your lofted rocket
through leafy canopy
that unruly summer mob
teeming careless at the ragged edges
on slender stems
chastened with autumn
pooling gold while I wade gloved
through swirling eddies trailing
around parked cars
losing the ball
against chalk white skies
stricken with dripping black latticework
misjudging the parabolic frown
to the jaunty advertising jingle of robins
hawking spring
like it was something new and improved
snagging the ball
on the run in the webbing at the curb
spackled green and off my stride
for the return throw
taking time to plant my feet and read the Braille
of the stitching
a farewell note
assuring me in the post script
you remembered to pack your glove.