Larson’s drive-by

roadkill, white-tailed deer
Larson is in his lane, passes by
it’s a highway time, motor thrusts
guzzling dextro and talk radio show
programmings that fit his nature
fog lines and yellow skip stripes
passing beneath his feet, carpeted
he has a bag of nuts
there is a body in the trunk, a dead goldfish
at the deer, Larson is sang-froid
part upbringing, part schnapps
much of it is his introductory folderol
he likes wet napkins

enters northern cabin
his friend is a-proffering
inexplicably brandy-eyed
when history of these particular specimens
has mostly seen rums and cokes
how’s the drive partner
this is said with some spiritedness
Larson computes the travel time
though not really
he listened to his Bradbury tapes
recalls the deer
doe or buck? from brandy
Larson don’t know
a natural outer covering, soft carapace
but he ain’t checked for parts
Larson eases into a chair
fresh stitches in his gut

Larson’s payday

lushed up Larson, steppings of
stones over mainliners
and thieves who victimize drunks
he wants to cash his check
and plow the deep
in a word, he wants his schnapps and
his daytime nap

Larson is next
he steps up, shakes hands, curries favor
tips his hat, pisses his self just slightly
flushing though his face does
he gets his greenbacks and adds em
to his michigan roll, farts, retreats
hacks up a lung in his Caddy, fuck em he says
in relation to his doctor, memories fade like fads
near the Hudson,
Larson is thinking of the deep

Door, steps, door, homebase
fuckin keys this and that he says
totally Larson drags off his vitamin liquors
a day suppressant
uncoats his self exquisitely, pans the room
finds the clicker, folds into a bench
whistles over his cat
his neighbor is uncommon noisy
Larson thinks of his honor
Then he thinks of swallowing charcoal

Larson gets a gift

it’s christmasing all over
downing snowy downs and the like
lights atwinkling, necessarily
Larson is at his ma and pas
for revelry, cutlets, and some bibling
though not caroling, nor holly gollies
from an uncle, long dead
all day Larson’s brother been smiling
Larson is insensate, part schnapps part season
giftings are presented, shook, unwrapped
Larson is given by his ma a
square box, bagged, a weight in his hands
he unwraps it, he blanks
it is a Far Side paper calendar of
the daily variety
a cartoon for every yearly day
he don’t say a word
he stands up, retreats so silently
makes it to his car with two and
not one grimace
he spends the rest of the day
driving around in the streets
that have all sneezed of snow

last will and testamentary

Larson is down spoutin uncognizable
flips a table in his mind
whispering about species of palms
where he wants to be, buried
sees cudgels, the lights are too bright
where’s the fucking w.c.
he’s trifling

a newbie in carhartt sets a thunder
asks Larson if he’s going the Greek way
(Larson on the peg for sure)
but he bucks, splits his coat
shows off is .38 special, plugs it back in
all of his usual rascally tavern conductings

laters on Larson is out in the Caddy with
a whore he thinks is a woman
he’s too deep in his schnapps, whimpering
fussing over his shag steering wheel cover
telling a story, did ya know i was the very last
customer of Blockbuster in these united states?

the hooker lines him up, says there there
makes brushings of Larson’s tears and
soft pets mons pubis and the more southernly
Larson turns a cheek, says he loves her
pays cash just for the company
at home he writes out a will, free-handing
the mice bear witness
he leaves his estate to an unnamed whore

rats, mooks and scandal sheets

wood-pussy knocks a door
tries to huck, pulls wares eyes glimmering
promised though i ain’t solicitin’
mark the bitch-ass-mark answers,
views pawn, collaborates

next scene (POV barista)

soda jerks snowed over in wild plumes
phantom smoke screens, all be doing work
that’s a fucking job
fat lungs asks after a game of poker
says how bout some pokerino!
lifts his gut, cums discreetly
moves on, devours waifs in ball crawls

a make-out artist with dumb dora, she pleads
walks a line, falls, disappears
drowns troubles with lewd pin-ups
it’s all just made up scandalous, &c.
none of it is real

Larson’s underground caper

pro-pack prophylactic for heartsick Larson
snookered, eating his beet salad in Moscow
enlivening the trains departures
some young sylph has given him shingles
all aboard in loud American English
and a bum grabs a handful of rods
Larson don’t tattle though
after all, he’s in the Bronx

Larson descends to make rites at garden level
checks the heart of the captain, deduces
plugs his anus something awful
waves off a familiar spider named Bruce
crunches pistachios…
makes heavy way to a floor mattress,
where he makes due with folded twenties
snaps his fingers
he wants a ligature this time
confirms his safety word (“————–“)

in steps an old saw, Sandy, matches lighting and such
she is redolent of new leather
she has an Adam’s apple, a professional
she pockets folded bills
Larson hits dextro, gulps an aquafina
half wanting to die in orgasm, he
says, let’s fucking ride

Larson’s killer chaplain friend

wiggling Larson, goings-on and
stealing from his graveyard shift
at the welfare office,
a gutbucket holding heinies
he’s rich since he sold off his niece’s
beenie baby collection without consent
his brother still whining after the unsolved burglary
twas Larson and his spare key
after schnapps bedevilments and the like

Larson on the next tomorrow
comes sailing through his screen door
it cloaks him like a cape as he tears down the lawn
and tackles a canine most violently
for making relievements on his flowerbed
dog’s owner beside himself, hollering, phoning
Larson throws the dog into the street

weeks later Larson is thickening at
a college party
he brought his own beers
and a besotted chaplain that he
once french-kissed in a deli
Larson says his name is Pinkerton
which it ain’t
Larson and the chaplain are made to go
the chaplain exacts revenge by
attempting arson and suicide on the next night
the flames took out the whole first floor
and a theater major’s light went dark
as for the chaplain
he had a hole in his head that
was the diameter of a classical Sharpie

Larson sees fat lungs

Larson, thumbs out, a roustabout
maundering beneath his breaths
tongue tucked in onyx, a headache
doesn’t want to work
won’t
not like aesop, moliere
he wants to be encased in
an ancient jar equipped of wine or oil
whets his pallet, griggs
mostly a schnapps scene
does he go?
i trow not
he ain’t fixing to look
for a steady job just yet
he wants french fries

renaissance people are hideous says Larson
he is stooling in a mcdonald’s
in walks fat lungs, counters, drops change
bends…
fat lungs looks harmless
truth is he’s a kidnapper
it be up in his brain
it ain’t been worked out yet
Larson has not this reckoned with
fat lungs lets out chirps,
eyes the workers, places his mouth
to make the words for milkshake darling
he is deft, and troublesome
Larson turns away
his breath reeks of an otto of schnapps
and sodium currents
Larson is miserable

Prometheus Larson trains his eye

Muck-a-muck Larson
Instigating high wide and handsome ain’t he
gets his post-Elvis haircut, wants a woman
sips his schnapps, plots, cranes
find his honey, she’s snazzy, weak-jointed
Larson gets a porcelain hairnet
Only crummy images of the scatter-joint
Larson down at the forty-leven
Fights the tender, a marble-dome type
plays heartthrobs, but he has a blade in his boot
and brass knuckles in his underwear
Larson ain’t a mama’s boy, truthin be told and such
Planks out dough on account of the broken chair
Whistles, puffs, enlivens, then beats it
says hey-ho, galley-west
To where?
He ain’t one from Manhattan
Surely we’s never gon know and the like
So I guess I’ll end here.