Goodwill
—after James Tate
My coworker told me he found ten thousand dollars cash
in an envelope in the pocket of a sports jacket
he bought at the Goodwill.
I said, “Wow! What are you going to do with the money?”
He said, “Invest in some dong.”
I said, “That’s interesting.”
He said, “There is talk of the dinar redenominating,
leading to the dong revaluing.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about
and wished him good luck.
Maybe I should follow the money too instead of writing poetry,
I thought. Or maybe if I listen to more disco.
Then I went to the bank down the street to see if they
knew anything about this.
“Give me fifty dollars in dong,” I said.
The bank teller said, “Our computers are down.
Why don’t you try the sex shop on Harbor Boulevard.”
So, I went to Spankys and they sold me a box of dildos.
“Maybe these will be worth something one day,” I told the girl.
She said, “They hold their value, especially if someone
is really lonely.”
I said, “Yeah, there are a lot of lonely people out there.”
Then, I started feeling bad, thinking about the state
of the human race. I thought of what some people do for
money. I thought of what some people do to other people
for money. I thought about the money in the suit pocket.
Who could forget about ten thousand dollars?
Was it drugs? Was it a bad bookie? Was it grandpa’s savings
for his grandchildren, but then he died and his own children
cleaned out his closet?
Was it karma? Was it the devil’s work? Was it god’s will?
Was it some goodwill towards men phenomena?
What about other than men? What about otters?
I remembered sea otters hold hands when they sleep.
Then I went home, ate a tunafish sandwich,
and cut holes in all my pockets.
.
Mooners
There’s the picture of the bare asses,
my friend’s father and his cowboy friends,
four old men at a California ranch,
full mooning, blue jeans pulled down
for a spur of the moment snapshot
placed in a roped frame on the granite countertop
of a beautifully crafted Southwestern kitchen,
next to the elk spaghetti on the stove.
This picture of moons has been etched in my brain,
one ass looks like a cracked beige pumpkin.
It doesn’t matter, Halloween, Christmas, Easter,
the cheeks are there to greet each cycle
of twenty-four-seven-three-hundred-sixty-five
instead of O’Keefe flowers or Degas horses.
Such potty humor amidst copper pots
and patinated antique elegance, truly
the filthy beauty of Mozart’s canon in B flat
for 6 voices singing Leck mich im Arsch.
Likeable, depends on the day. Bear in mind
the gravity of life. If you can’t stand the heat
of the moon, then get out of the kitchen.
If you want to be fed well, kiss the cook’s ass.
What awaits us in this looming apocalypse,
the absurdity of conquest, war, famine,
and death, and perhaps the Four Horseman
are actually mooners, coming to help us ride off
into the grim sunset with a grin on our face.
.
Stink Eye Magazine 