The Jivin' Ladybug

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Jeremy Pilapil

Dali Felt Disappointed.


At a vending machine, his dribbling wrists
misread the code for M&M's. Though
he had the 85 cents required
for the delicious snack he craved,
he got nothing.

Dali had a hobby, and his blood dripped like honey.
Early, it rambled onto half-melting paintings.
Now, all he wanted was a pack of crunchy M&M's.
Good shit. Chocolate. Only melts in your mouth,
unlike ice. Comes in a pretty blue wrapper. Doesn't get sticky.
Dali's hands got a little shaky.

Frothing, drooling at the outh, he palm-smacked the glass.
Twice to try to break it, twice more
'cause he liked the thumb. Once more when
his back hit the glass, he slumped down,
crumped, and pouted by the slot with the flap
that made sure he couldn't reach
the Pop Tarts and popcorn on the bottom row.

Dali's M&M's were on the row above the bottom row.

Dali's hands were deafening. The sound of
callus on glass, the running rush of red wine
from the half-oopen sleepy eyelids in his wrists.
Dali couldn't hear himself think, and he
couldn't see a thing past his life: flashing
behind his eyelids and fading before
every blink.

Awards and praise, rewards, accolades
were sent to him for his life's work
in the mail
last autumn.

Dali had a little problem:
He never got 'em.

 

 

Noir

 

I didn't think the afterthought,

nor did I egg the funeral on.

you got the wrong man, man

I turned the other cheek

'til it was a full moon

(fun!)

That was my only crime.

 

a lightbulb's swings

provide squeaks to light

to the match, the silence

 

the detective sighs

 

What about battery

without intent to recharge?

or breaking and entering

without leaving a note?

 

MY GOD!

 

The perp's perm shivered.

You're right! Lock me up

immediately.

I'm out of every control

but my own and that office

-the office where I control-

is a bureaucracy

of the most ordered kind!

Your whispers only tell me

your tone, for sakes (God's).

 

The detective's eyes rolled

Okay, you've convinced me

 

the light sways between

 

just a moment

 

            I'll set you free - sounds of doors opening

footsteps sinking

 

The detective snorts,

unpockets gum

like he's pulling

a pistol from his coat

 

 

Everything in a Second

 

  There was a way out:
the window, his right hand clenched
He could definitely jump
and get minimal cuts, scrapes and regrets
except the silence
gave him a little too much time to think
The gun staring at him
had no eyelid and would never blink

The ashtray in the trash
And the cigarettes in the ashtray
One rough draft
A crumpled love letter could burn down this place
The gun was pointing
Accusing him, a rigid boneless finger
United so tightly
With the bent flesh digit on the trigger
The window shades
made a highlight on the gunner's eyes
"I'm gonna count to three"
Said with authority, like in a movie

Once he got to three
There were only two sounds in the snow white world
The door opening
And the gunshot that got the last word

 

 

Danny Tells Me Something


No, just let me-just listen.
Please.
I had a dream in my sleep in my head
that was lifelong in the two hours between 8 and 10 on a Saturday morning
that was hazy like movies about the 60s from the 60s,
But more Easy Rider or Bonnie and Clyde,
maybe a little Hard Day's Night and Batman; Not so much Dr. No.
No, that morning was hazy. Foggy. And the haze-fog
didn?t spread to the dream I had
that took place in the present in the fantasies I've had throughout my life but
as seen through a cracked glass eye.
But the dream! Back to the dream:
From behind the counter selling cod and salmon
that were of questionable freshness
(but always fresh if you ask my mouth)
to uppercutting the undead in snow
that had just fallen,
an old job, a new life, my hobbies and zombies
were all in my dream.
It was Arthurian questing on acid in a blender
for a milkshake that tasted so damned good
on a haze-fog morning in my sleep.
Part of this dream, I was in a record store
that treated me like a foreign diplomat.
I could buy some Air Supply or Hall & Oates without
that sniggering clerk, and it was
that diamond-in-pavement kind of beautiful dream:
no guilt or shame in having
that cover, Prince's Lovesexy, on top of my stack of CDs.
I see that you're getting impatient!
Hey, the story is not the one the dream told! The story is
that I could have a dream.
That a ski lift, a grocery store, a hike and a girl
could come together in a man's head from 8-10
on a paperweight eyelid Saturday morning after soda fizz Friday
while I wasn't even trying to dream.
I was just sleeping.

 

 

 
Autobiography:
Jere is not the following:
a hair dresser
a sinus infection
a great guitar player
a bad guitar player
a prankster
a mobster
a monster
your mother's poet
a hand job
the bank job
a narc
a druggie
one of those new-fangled dune buggies
a gallon of milk
the GPS device in your iPhone
a house pet
a dollar or day well spent

The truth is, Jere would probably have enjoyed being a dinosaur in the Caribbean somewhere. As it is, he has four humble goals in life: to have a woman he loves who loves him back (check), to have a job where he writes all day (check), to have time to write poetry and songs (check), and to listen to a whole lot of music.
 
Not so humble goals include: To have a statue of Orson Welles character from Touch of Evil erected at the top of a mountain, which will become a place where villagers go for advice and sometimes candy. The children who come will play simple games such as jacks or marbles or battle royale. Rocket sleds will be available to ride down the mountain in the wintertime and penguin butlers will be paid in fish. Jere will live on the other side of the mountain, patterning his life after Howard Hawks' latter days.
 
he will eat one (1) grilled cheese sandwich on thursdays at 1:00pm

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
 
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