I Want to be Disgusting

when she looks at me like I am
already, sitting on the couch
with a bowl of ice cream or cereal

if I’m going to be punished anyway
why not really let myself go?

I could really stand to gorge myself
on double cheeseburgers dripping with grease
or donuts and coffee ’til I’m sate-sedated
eyes as glazed as the fritters and crullers
I ate

When lunch rolls around, so will I
with a Philly-cheese steak and fries, all smothered with mayo

I kinda knew what I was getting into
coming home with a Japanese non-smoker
who insists on at least one or two veggies per meal
when I could go a weak easy on meat and
cheese alone.

So when she rolls her eyes at the bulge
above of my waistline as well as below

I can’t help but think:
sex comes a few times in the best weeks
but I can eat any time I want

but goddammit when she looks at me like that, I would gladly starve if I thought
she would sit with her arm around me,
and let me know she cares.

First Horse in the First Race

…second horse in the second race.

That’s what the guy told me
when I said I was going to the track
I don’t know him well, but I knew that he liked to bet
so I kept his words in mind

when we went to the track that day

it was my first time, I’m sure I’ll never forget
the people wandering around like at a flea market or an auction

except that there aren’t any of those obviously affluent folks
like Cowboys in spotless pastel suits with
little silver-tipped black-rope neckties
and huge silver belt buckles
to go with their pure white ten-gallon hats
or businessmen traveling safely in numbers
giving the impression by being with each other
drinks in hands, laughing loudly
that they are only here for fun

no there aren’t folks like that at most flea markets

and at the racetrack, there aren’t any of the middle-aged pack rat housewives
with three-button knit sweaters or ankle-biting dogs on short leashes
trying to talk vendors down on the price of vintage 1983 McDonald’s Happy-Meal toys

but don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are plenty of Jews at the racetrack—
someone’s gotta take all the money home

so I was in line to make my bet
behind a handful of other people
three guys and a girl to be precise
and that’s when it happened

the guy in front of me
not a tall guy, maybe slightly below average
with thinning, scraggly brown hair
and some kind of cheap beige trench coat
not a heavy coat, but too heavy for that time of year
and it seemed like he could’ve bought it at an auction
or a flea market

his cell phone rang
it was an obnoxious ring, I don’t remember exactly what
but the equivalent of “La Cucaracha” as a car-horn
built into the inside pocket of his loud coat

the two ahead of him in line
the girl, early-thirties, attractive, middle-class
which is to say, too much class for this racetrack
and a man, bald, looking pleased to still have
money to gamble

maybe social security checks just came in
they both turned to see where the noise
was coming from, and I shrugged as the guy answered his phone
trying to send the message that I was definitely not with him

the older guy didn’t make eye contact but held his race ticket tight and turned around
the girl, she smiled in understanding
and when I saw her dimples and the brightness in her eyes
I knew I was wrong to guess early-thirties

she was so poised, beautiful without conceit,
and carried herself like a woman, not a girl
otherwise I’d say she was in her early twenties

no matter, she turned back around to wait patiently
and the little man that she surely would’ve described as “cute”
began his transaction at the counter
and the man we all agreed was obnoxious prattled on

the conversation unremarkable, until he said it
describing to the equally obnoxious person on the other end of the line
the beautiful girl in front of us like a piece of food
my heart began to beat more quickly as soon as I realized what was being said
and as I hoped that she might not hear or pay attention
I saw her body tense up as she glanced slightly back with her peripheral vision
eyes more than nervous, scared, snapping back quickly to the cute man in front, hoping he would hurry
I realized that I was breathing heavily, and my hands began to shake
as I wished it would all just be over with
and the creep continued to make hints about the things he would like to do with or to her

the moment passed, and the cute man walked away with his winner
and the young lady began her transaction, able now to pretend nothing had happened
my pulse and breathing returned to normal, and I can’t say whether or not I had any luck that day.


(picture also appeared on jscrilla.com) just the beginnings of a very nice dinner at miko’s

Tim and sons
my brother and my nephews

Ferrara family
my brother and his family

so, as I said, I’m putting up a new poem today. I’ve got another forthcoming, but it will be a little while before I post it, so as to give you all plenty of time to enjoy this one. I’ve been quite busy with everything lately, but still have managed to steal away moments to see a couple of movies. The Constant Gardener was a good fictionalized representation of a serious issue facing the world, with a compelling mystery plot to drive it. Crash was good for raising awareness of social problems here in the US, though parts of it were difficult to watch. it was an impressive interweaving of various stories though, with well-drawn characters, for the most part. finally, there was Broken Flowers, a movie that puts Bill Murray into a role that reminds me a lot of what he played in Lost in Translation and Life Aquatic, but without all of the effort that it takes to actually resolve the plotline. it was enjoyable to watch, but as one viewer remarked: “the emperor has no clothes.” in other words, maybe jarmusch has deceptively employed artistic license as an excuse to not finish telling the story. you’ll have to watch it yourself and decide.

anyway, I’ve posted my new poem for you all to enjoy. more news later…

Two Older Couples Visit the Restaurant on a Late Summer Evening

The first walked through the door
beaming with pride, and eager
explaining to the hostess, then the busboy
“It’s our anniversary,”
before asking for a larger table—the two-top doesn’t do the occasion justice

shortly after, the other enters, arm-in-arm
he’s holding her close and whispering something to her
she tries to suppress her giggles long enough to say
“table for two, please”
the two follow slowly behind the hostess, passing the celebrants on their way to a two-top

the celebrants are at the salad bar, selecting from coleslaw and cottage cheese
and taking notice of other customers
like the pair of love-birds who walk by, embarrassing themselves
and the parties of six or eight, whose multiple conversations carry well
in the otherwise quiet restaurant, whose salad bar is second to none in town

the love-birds sit close together at their small table, ordering a bottle of champagne
not to celebrate anything in particular
just because it’s nice to have a bottle on ice
next to the table as they gaze into each other’s eyes

and the celebrants have wine
“your best please, two glasses”
but the gentleman requests also a light beer
’cause it goes better with the baked potato

and while the love-bird never manage to get to the salad-bar
the celebrants’ meals come just as they finish the plates of dressed-up lettuce
and they continue to focus on their work of eating
while the love-birds take great pains to squeeze in bites between discussions of
family members, upcoming marriages, and memorable moments from past years

the celebrants finish their meal and the waitress takes their platters
before marching triumphantly to the table
with an ice-cream treat topped with a single candle

the love-birds remain in their seats, meals not finished
holding hands as they smile at the celebrants
who smile back before putting out their candle
in order to share their cold, sweet desert

This Poem Is Not about Making Love

When we get all of our clothes off, I start thinking about
that girl I work with—she’s half-Asian, that’s good enough—or
that girl in my class who wore her skirt too short one day or
the one who got me off a couple of times last winter,
but didn’t want to date me: I could’ve married that girl.

But we take turns—using each others’ hands and mouths
to avoid pills and latex—and those
thoughts come to mind more when it’s my turn;
I like to go last, so I can roll over and sleep.

When I’m the one who’s doing the work—that is,
when I’ve got my finger on the button, and
I’m trying to find the right combination:

rough and gentle
fast and slow
up right down left;

it’s like I’m trying to remember a code we entered for extra endurance
in some video game as kids,
except this combo changes after each use.

It’s easier to figure out, because I can feel where it’s trying to hide,
anticipate where the it’ll go next.

I know better than to go on auto-pilot,
’cause I lose it quickly when I’m not completely involved.
It seems to sense that sort of thing.

I discover each time, as if it was the first,
that when the moment approaches—
like runners sprinting toward the finish-line,
our bodies growing more tense until completely taut—that if
I breathe and moan like I’m almost done,
even though I’m nowhere near,
it’s that much easier to finish the job.

I roll over when the roles reverse;
the favor is repaid.
Back to back, we drift
into peaceful, dreamless sleep.

A Little Update

I haven’t been doing a whole lot, lately, aside from working and going to school. I’ve been enjoying my poetry class this semester, and even have been inspired to write a little bit. more should be forthcoming. um…I’m gonna talk to scrilla soon about getting to work on the “collected writing from doublemuse” or something like that…we should do it soon so you kids can buy it for each other for the holidays.

gosh….it really seems like I was going to say something else. of course, it’s always like that. once we get our internet working at home, I’m sure my blog posts will be much more frequent and compelling. look forward to those days.

oh, yeah…so the russian is going okay. Я люблю руссый язык!! I’ll be fluent in no time!

F is for Failure

Oh, the frustration
Sitting at the desk with blank pages, fresh sheets
and a pen, filled
with ink that will not flow

Focus, I tell myself
Find something to capture

but I know that I already have it, it fills me so full that nothing will spill out
I want to force it,
Freeze it with words
Be a poet

Fuck that.
If it’s not flowing, I’ll take my F.