although the scratches on the record
add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,
i don’t believe the boy at the counter
gave me correct change.
the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress
across the street, but the gangrene on my leg
cannot be hid by pheromones alone.
the stench is likened to war.
but that is not the fact.
the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz
when it was good, the bad leg was bad
from the beginning.
the root, the marrow, the veins,
the sinews all of it; rotten
all over. i wear pearls and smile
at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.
Buddy Clark in my head,
i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre
merely to see Bogey again
on Los Angeles Street before
the nuclear heat pushes me down
words less spoken 