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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Eye on the ball

Catch

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.