Thursday, October 12, 2006

The Getaway

I scream in my sleep
Martin Scorsese's eyebrows are chasing me
across LA
I carry a tired cardboard suitcase stuffed
full of my old writings
novels and screenplays
and scraps of ideas
jotted onto bar napkins
crowding away the
phone numbers
of lovers gotten
and forgotten
notes for unwritten books
spill as I run
Martin Scorsese's eyebrows are chasing me
across LA

Sartre On The Rocks

I am nauseated by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...
Like standing up in a rowboat after drinking too much Jaegermeister...
Like e-coli spinach rotting slowly in the warehouse of my guts...
Like Darfur, like bad Boston accents, like spinning myths out of cheap spaghetti...
I am nauseated by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...
Have you seen them dance?
There used to be a chicken down on Canal Street, in an arcade,
Who used to dance, but the arcade is gone,
the chicken is long roasted --
Obsolete, your services are no longer needed...
You have been replaced by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...

I'm Haunted By Martin Scorsese's Eyebrows

I'm haunted by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...
I study the way they wiggle for hidden Satanic messages
I wait with dread heart for some cartoon devil to pop out
Cackling and screaming like some Guinea/Mick Jiminy Cricket
on crack
I'm haunted by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...
Thick and bushy, luxuriant as mink,
Supple as a ferret,
black as tar
nimble
noble
Nobel?
Able to leap tall emotions in a single bound --
I'm haunted by Martin Scorsese's eyebrows...
Haunted, sleepless, obsessed with Pasta...
Studying Vodka for lunch...
Haunted, Marty, haunted...