Trina: A Slice of Death

Trina chats with a snake in the garden.

The snake curls up on Trina’s lap: “What if I die and never
come back?”

Trina replies: “I saw a slice of death, once. When I got to
heaven flash bulbs went off and I heard a chorus of angels
go ooooh.”

“Then what?”

“I saw lots of homosexuals: they danced and had sex and made
everyone jealous.”

“Then what?”

“Then, I passed through long tube and came out here!” Trina
smiles at the memory.

The snake looks up with concern: “Is that what’ll happen to me?”

“I don’t know.” Trina pulls out a notebook. “God doesn’t like you.”

“What are you doing?” asks the snake.

“I’m writing a poem.” Trina replies.

“What’ll you do with it?” The snake slithers up and onto the notebook.

“Sell it to Proctor and Gamble, silly!”

The snake drops from the notebook to the grass. “Have you given much thought to space?” he asks.

“Not in a million years.” Trina replies.

Then she sighs and writes her rhyme:

I was feelin’ kinda shitty
really small and itty bitty
garden snakes talked and
my lovers all walked
but at least
I was still very
pretty.

(c)Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Trina: The Plot

It was then I realized Roy had murdered his first wife and cared
nothing for his son, Little Jimmy.

I strolled with little Jimmy to the New Haven Green and asked if
he wanted a new Mommy.

“N-Not if Daddy kills her!” he replied.

It was then I thought of cigarettes and contrived a plan.

I married Roy and slowly introduced him to cigarettes.

He smoked a carton a day by our first anniversary.

One day, twenty years later, Little Jimmy returned from Yale.

Roy wheezed as I lit his cigarette.

“Trina!” Roy gasped, “You whore!”

“Shut-up,” I snapped. “Here! I’ll break off the filter!”

“Muthuh!” cried Jimmy, “Leave Fathuh alone or I’ll report you to the Surgeon General!”

“You and what lobby?” I sneered.

However, I was nervous and hastily swallowed the lit evidence.

I asked Jimmy what he had learned at Yale that day.

“Schematics,” he replied.

“Liar…” I grinned. “You were cruising the men’s room in the library.  I slipped into one of your Father’s jackets and wore his aftershave.

I saw who you did in the stalls vile boy!”

Roy chortled and slid face first into his ashtray.

I held a mirror to his lips and caught the ashes of his last breath…

(C) Rob Goldstein 1986-2017 All Rights Reserved

Born Into a Carnival of Souls

Here are a few words I’ve seen scrawled in the alleys of San Francisco’s
Mission District:

We can’t know what we won’t comprehend.

We can’t stop the damage we won’t believe we cause.

These are the crazies, the dregs of the earth, the losers, and every other demeaning and dismissive word used to dismiss the powerless who suffer
the worst of the GOP’s abuses of power.

These people can’t afford to vote their conscience because they’re dying from the lousy choices of people who can.

I saw this scrawled on a wall in late 2016: Why do u want 2 Kill me?

That’s a damned good question.

A mind that ain’t inquisitive really doesn’t got
shit to live for if you can’t explore the
realms of thought you ought not test lest
you be chomped up, like a pop rock, stopped for a
bead from the weed lady, thought it was the bomb
Really wasn’t nuttin but a bag of strong palms

A human ain’t a human if he doesn’t make mistakes
And the name of this song is Swan Lake

Save

Save

Quicksand or Time

kneel into

self

as thick as

quicksand

or time

as short as

life

the mind goes

fritz!

and still soft

words

are the fashion

is the suck-off

are the

dreams

of

more me

of me

on the street

stretching

absorbed

into

niches

where the

envious

self

fails, extending

contempt

to the

“worthless”

to the

owner

of a sleeping

bag whose

mind has

snapped —

onto mine.

 

(c) Rob Goldstein 2014-2017

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