EVERYONE’S TIRED OF THEIR CELL-PHONE BECAUSE OF THE PUSSY AT THE POOL

hot ass summer days in the south
accepting the heat is an act of contrition of the guilty
the heat bums out the crazed
slippery ankles are difficult to grasp
sweat is misinterpreted as tears
congradulatory erections become flaccid
musty trunks get busy
this is winter activity
hopefully the smell of curly fries and Marlboro reds will bore the cops
in stationwagons, the spare tire compartment is utilized
the girls with the long hair flair and flaunt after breath is exchaged with living
secrets are kept between you, me and the rear-view
trunks bump
trunks squeal
trunks dont stink for days…usually
grades of garbage bags and tensile strength of zip ties are important
gas stations across america hold different wares
the mom-and-pop ones are the best
beef jerky is a staple, but have you had snake jerky?
the south is hot
many states are considered the south
i roll my left sleave up to get a more even tan while i drive
its daytime
people barely notice that one of my brake lights has been sabatoged
she wasn’t hit hard
but not hard enough
little fingers dig around
they pull wires haphazardly
reckless
i have to be going what?
80…95?
stupid
If you’re in shape, check-out pools at any hotel you stay in
but please wear sunglasses
mothers notice you checking out the teen daughters pussy outline
bring a smart book poolside
those who hate and those proud of their country will avoid you
intimidate the motel owner
seek out a honky
comicbook imbued and weak
put up with his fat fucking wife
kiss her ass
If the motel owner is middle-eastern talk about how much Jesus Christ has blessed your trip
stick with the honky
“You made a heck of a racket bringing in your sales pieces last night”
attribute heavy bags to sales material
this works if you dress nicely
rent a car
dullards and hillbillies are impressed with shooting cuffs and nice teeth
the room is nice
on the second floor
i pinch the shades together with the clip from a ball-point pen
people walking by will never look in
an aside…if you can create a “never” in this life, do it
in the corner i can still survey the pool without disturbing the shades
sweet little butts sit out of the shade not knowing they’re doomed
I pick out thirty-seven future junkies before my lugguage moves from the bed to the floor
i think of all the promises in the world
what matters?
mom?
dad?
brother?
sister?
money?
“You’re being a good-girl and you’re not dead. We’re in the sunniest part of the state. Life is about experiences. I will not kill or fuck you, but you need to stay still…”
i\he\him relieved the girl from the satchel. She squirms and kicks. I\he\him showed her three fifths of whiskey, an eight ball of coke and four non-pornographic dvds
They were here favorite movies!
in selling her on the drugs and booze her independece took a backseat
I can always tell
“My mom’s calling the cops.”
“I’m sorry about the transit or the way you got here, but isn’t it fun?
“I’m not going to touch you.”
“I don’t care about that. I was recalling my youth and saw you. Why they don’t wall those fences is beyound me.
KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK…
a fat burnt woman pointed at new towels
“No thanks”
she didn’t try to even peek into the room…awesome
Laura sat on the bed doing drugs and watched the price is right
I suggested she take a shower
that sitting on a clean motel bed bare-assed is an experience
she grabbed my phone on the way
“Your mom can come get you I guess””
“I just want to tell her whats going on.”
her ass and her face is sweet
she is not clay
she remains hard
oh boy
the shower runs and there is no cell signal
i told the motel clerk i was a knife salesman
i didn’t totally lie
the bathroom was steamy
she was begging to an invisible cell-phone god
she sweetly moved the phone in the air for a better signal
i sat on the toilet and listened anonymously
“KAREN!!! I’m with the asshole who took me!”
the air is wet
good for popping zits or digging out ingrown hairs
I dip a courtousy cup near the drain to drink later
“KAREN???”
The blade slips underneath her jawline retreiving the meat
shit and blood polluted my motel tub
innocents and googly eyes fade
its the middle of the week
I don’t know if I’m willing to change, but i’ll check out the continenal breakfast.

-john van pelt

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THIS IS THE LIFE, LIFE HAS CHOSEN FOR YOU

It’s difficult to muster up the tears
It’s difficult to create ridiculous mantras to extinguish horror
The old, tried and true triggers have become duds…lame jokes
thinking of something sad is for children
doing sad things becomes a way of living
i got to an age where i pull the trigger and a flag declaring “BANG” laughs in my face
wounds are no longer lamented and cherished
the pin cushion loses it’s tautness it becomes faded by the sun
originally bought in bright red glory and resembling a tomato
it’s addition to a sewing basket cheers up a battered woman
for years the little needles found a home here
the ones pushed in the furthest, are out of anger
usually after a lapse in concentration and blood is drawn
a slobbery suck reminds one of the pin-cushion
years pass and the tiny punctures become large and ragged
it is squeezed and no longer has resistance
eventually it will find it’s way to the bottom of a sewing basket
the owner no longer feels battered due to a battery of perscription medicine
due to absent mindedness, the sewing kit will serve as a toy chest
only during times of “pick-up” will things be put where they belong
a child leaves a truck and a few blocks out because he or she remembers that there is a stuffed gorilla to be found. An abused adult sometimes needs to drop things for safety. People yell and rage ignoring the perfect skewers used for sewing. No thought is given to grasping the long pointed rods for murder. One in each fist, holding them like an ice-climber you would climb up the stomach, to the heart, the throat, beneath the cheek bones, into the eyes and then summit in the ears. No…they are meant and will continue to be used for sweaters and afgans for birthdays and holidays. Crochet needles help with the three-dimensional snowmen and carolers for embroidered belts, one needs a good leather smith. They are pain-staking to make. The purpose is lost in the diversion poison and negativity gets lost in the stiches. In a few weeks a third of the design is created…part of the border and one initial. The thoughts of “who am I?” and “How can i coninue?” become inert. The woman will listen to gospel songs and hum along. The abusive man will become inquisitive about the blood in his stool. The children have their own diversion. A new version and a glowing box showing slender splendor…at least for the boy. The girl shakes nearly empty bottles of pop to recreate crashing waves…of the ocean. A dog limps in…the boy sees this and his understanding of this big old world has begun laying it’s foundation. Tears begin to well. The boy looks to mother for validation, but she just hums along to “This is the Day the Lord has Made”…indeed. Sister moves spazmotically. Father has neglected to give her a morning dose of medicine 2cc’s of a funk, beige liquid twice daily everyday forever. Mother jumps up dropping needles and turns over her sewing kit. And in his uselessness, father pulls at his graying hair and weeps uselessly. The dog swallows a needle and begins circling with eyes rolled back. Sister comes to and breaths heaviily. The blue skin turns back to pink. Mother defines what has happened stoically in medical terms. Father goes outside to confide in a black friend that in better spirits, he would call a nigger. The boy gives a wide birth and sees everything. This is his life. He looks down at his feet…one…two. Everything around the house looks real for the first time. And he wants to lay waste to all of it. In these chairs his feet almost touch the ground. The belt for brother has got a good start. The mother lays a pillow under recovering sister’s head. Bad 80’s TV serves as the ambiance until the father is questioned about the medicine. He’s drunk. He lies. He’s a liar. The brother watches his deep snoring sister. The next calamity is addressed. Little Axel is taken to the vet. The father and mother are gone as the sun sits. Sister sleeps. The boy answers the phone to hear that his dog is dead. He returns to sit at the only place where thinking seems to happen. He can see through the piano. He can see through the brick and mortar. He can see outside. He can see a dead crow shot last Christmas with a present. He begins to cry and it feels good. Before sex his greatest pleasure was crying. Crying with no respite. He straigtens the den. He fills the dishwasher. He picks up mom’s sewng except for one fabric tomato that he squeezes until his parents get home.

-john van pelt

THE SENSE OF SURVIVAL IS KING AS-LONG-AS NO TIGHT PANTS OR DRESS SHOES ARE INVOLVED

My tattoos are fading
i think i’m in hell
things get worse from here-on-in
slowly
nothing dramatic
they try with breaking my skin, but sense of livelihood is in the margins
like a high school notebook amongst the pentagrams and improbable tits of space vixens
loud music and well-mannered state fairs
no pretense
no exclusion
a place for nice boys and girls
we celebrate one anothers joy while we make hairpin turns engineered by meth-heads
the fat women can mentor up on optimal funnel cake toppings
the dogs are not confined to steamy 15yr old cars
the drivers seat smells of feces and tears
they will sniff each others asses and wait for their masters beyond flimsy gates
the ticket takers stamp smiley faces on scarred hands
the “Zipper” will exhilarate our souls
there’s a man at the bottom that collects the change that falls out of our pockets
Many of us win at ring toss
we delight in knowing that they are cheap shit
we hold them with sticky fingers and don’t wait in line
a woman loses a child and gets two in return
children savor chocolate crucifixes
once the filings gone you can blow in them to make a whistle sound
there’s no smoking or booze served
anyone attempting to bring it in is destroyed with flame throwers in the parking lot
the ashes are packed in with the colored fireworks
at dusk only the ferris wheel is operating, but it holds everyone
shaved italian ice is passed out to each car as it cycles past
most are lemon flavored
BOOM
some sparks singed dogs and babies hair
it’s uncomfortable but they’re immersed in the infinitely finite lights
smoke bellows, creating our own heaven
we look at one another satisfied with our partners for eternity
the officers with the flame throwers illuminate the exit
we all applaud
the theme of the fair is…
“GIving Hopes to Dopes”
I wonder if ther’re making fun of us.

-john van pelt

SLICK MR.’S TURN THEIR HEAD AWAY FROM THE SHOTGUN BLAST

Born new and golden
a new chimp
parents fawn over a new puppy
“I love the dog and the dog loves me”
dogs mature and their affection becomes concrete
their love impenetrable as a rich niggers cars windshield
puppies don’t get dumber and mean with age
people do
this person has
daffodiles and sunflowers have become thick during my existence
smug
self-assured
this is what i do
every living being maintaining an erection at my failure
this is a point in life, boys and girls that make haunted houses laughable
fellate Dracula and the wolfman
stick your head underneath your bed at night and laugh
boring old ladies talk about their pussies during expensive dinners
their husbands faintly remember what a rigid cock feels like
everyone is bored to death
men, women and children of third world nations get tortured and smoked
i know what a high percentage of celebrties genitals look like
i only care when i am snug as a bug in a rug
days pass
no showers
my armpit smells like an old girlfriends pussy
the afore mentioned has become law
screaming underwater
waitng for the slow fade

-john van pelt

BORED DEAD DAYS AND THE FAT GIRLS AT THE LQ

Loss of flotation devices i.e. floaties
Spoiled babies not meant to live too long
They never grow up and stink up the trash
Big dummies look forward to things
I run myself sick looking for the perfect bowl of soup
I cry in it ruining the whole damned thing
Spoons are bent in disgust
All my pullover shirts are laid out for fall
*sniff*
People are starting to light their fireplaces
It’s a season for ghouls to make ghosts
Looming shadows and noisy closets give me comfort
There’s a good chance I’ll scare them more than me
I live in a little bed in a little town
I touch things and make words grow
Bodies and animals help write my tomes
My hands curl to type
I can still make a fist
A fist to floor my greatest foe
Me
Cue the violins
Pay the band leader to play something fast and loud
A blind black girl will scream profanities till blood flicks upon her microphone
Warm colors
These shirts are too tight
So are my corduroy pants
I try to look presentable
I look like I’m going to snatch candy
All the children’s candy
The old folks talk about biting babies cheeks
These macabre declarations are ignored in a room of witnesses
This is not a figure of speech ladies and gentleman
It is to suckle on youth so that ones teeth rub over the new
Grandma is eating the baby
Leafs crunch beneath my feet
An orange sun begins to dip
The residents of the graveyard shift
They move
I stroll by the black iron gates and laugh
They seem to have forgotten about being amongst the living
I guess a few do
The chilly wind whips around the trees
If you listen closely you can hear “shut the fuck up!”
A few small ghosts appear holding onto a mothers hand
The well-to-do have big orange buckets
The poor kids have grocery bags with please and thank you embossed
Some of their parents put on a brave face
Trying against facilitate and forge a happy moment
A moment these kids will obsess over in adulthood
They will think of their mothers smiling face whilst receiving sugary goods
Few will recall over a few expensive drinks overlooking a metropolitan skyline
Most will conjure these images while their teeth click on a gun barrel
It smells like pot around here
Good for them
I don’t know what I’m talking about
Some of them notice me
I make eye contact with the kids and then the parents
I smile and try not to drink my shake too seductively
Pumpkin spice
Once a year
I flick my cigarettes in the road
I’m almost out
High school kids painted up like half assed skeletons beep their horn
A fifty thousand dollar car full of youth that will fuck and puke before dawn
This was a 1986 Halloween
Girls are princesses without titillation
Boys are proud cowboys Killing laughing adults
Tonight they are safe with their two six-shooters
Their side-arms
They take pot shots at the kids in the big movie costumes
I need smokes
Tonight is the only night of the year the quick stop lights make sense
They are ominous and beautiful in the fog
Bright red stretches and becomes perspiration
The store has cobwebs over the cobwebs
The the store clerks that can’t resist their own wedge fries suffer in tight mandated Halloween gear
The eyes dead
The hair follicles dead
I stand in alternate aisles to serve as cover and the kids steal candy
One kid said “thanks” and slipped me a king sized snickers bar
I ask for a pack of smokes
The clerk is cute
Around nineteen
Chubby
But cute
She says I owe her around a buck
She gives me a once over…
She asks if they make shirts in my size
I ask how come I could smell her pussy from the parking lot
She makes some untoward comments about my genitilia as I laugh back into the world
I hide behind a gravestone, spying a winded search party
A devil, a Frankenstein monster (nice costume,sincerely) and a baker
A baker? I think to myself
I lay prone as they canvas the area
Ah the cool grass feels good
I’ll just lay here and pick at the moss off the stone
It’s safe
It’s probably been ok for at least forty minutes
It is night
The dirt has become hard and unforgiving
It’s soft during the day
Many an afternoon I lay in place wanting the earth to open
I will slowly suffocate as I spoon with a skeleton
I will complain of the long hair and nails
The lack of flesh will round out my complaints
Eventually I will have no further questions I stay embuded
It’s nine and the treats have all but been delivered
The tricks boys and girls will be delivered in spades
My pores are wide open
Waves crash
Jugglers drop their pins
The short ends fall over the fat ends
The moon rises and falls
Short-cornered shirts strangle
Waves of orange brown and black makes me less sea sick
The aquarium movements let me know I’m drunk
The red phlegm from my lungs lets me know I’m alive
A couple of parents refer to the good old days
They’re joking

-john van pelt