“The one with the olives”
(some more of my selected poetry & prose from an old journal, circa 2000’s, NYC)
Congealed furniture beneath plastic, there’s alcohol in those glasses
The flask then--your coat’s breast pockets, you said “I’m like, fucked,”
Like royally fuck-fucked, the sours and maraschino and crinkling ice,
Smelling rose petals and ashtrays, castles of bricked garden rubble,
Riding the L beseeched those cobblestone heels cackled, you dabbled
Coke dust to spice from Earth salt, blasphemous, importune white doves
Smoking outside the Polish house in fatigues, and bereaved over coffee
You said, “I don’t think you like what others see,” you’re burning leaves
Because the memoryless castle of powdered milk is a Jansport in-escrow,
Sanyo-JBL headphones, Minidiscs, raggedy-ass Jordans in snow – we’d go,
Over to the corner - that Italian butchers, “the one with the olives,” you said,
Hold up let me get you a 20, sniffling nose flax and bone wax, wearing that 1
Skintight dress your grey hair and eye shadow silver, Stella McCartney falabella
Watching Halloween 4 - we took turns but, “I’m not really like this,” you said
The issue was that they kissed you, “high as fuck” off dopey ampoules, whereas
My neck wrapped around your enamel, Virgin Mary candles amidst autumnal
Wicker from light that lights the lamp stove, oil burning kerosene lanterns; I
Think, the sage was white--but spandex, wiping off adidas sweatpants, fetishes
VHS, you had the speech—the tenets, archetypes of slasher films I didn’t listen,
Now your turtleneck sweatshirt’s stained and has dirt on it, so why the fuck are you
Blotching, when you really should be, hey, aren’t you listening? What I’m saying is
You said, “get fucked out,” swiping ashes off your bed, tonguing canker sores when
Crouched adjacent, you began that Michael versus Jason bit, screaming before you
Threw a brass candlestick that hit my head, “go and fuck-fuck,” you said, “I mean it”
But I mean surely, I could at-least make it till near the end, isn’t that how we met?
The last Pabst Blue Ribbon, shit-beats me if I’ll fucking let you, “just fucking hand
Me the g-ddamn, stupid-ass, jar of motherfucking olives,” you said, and so…I did.
© 2023, A. M. D’Angelo
