No Hanky-Panky in the Dude Dude Diner

No Hanky-Panky in the Dude Dude Diner


Goddess she chewed as goddesses chew

7 years ago an only-on-her-back first-time chemical virgin

In the back seat of her daddy’s car

In lovers lane

Narrowly before a vigilant policeman with his

Vigilant proud Billy Club arrives—

Not Catholically unsexed by some Holy Holy Pope tho—

Now inexplicably in the Midnight Dude Dude Diner a diner at an in explicably brunt 4:01 a.m. in a black bastard morning

Drawing sex pulling—my loneliness—yellow eggs to her lips

Which are painted like a Cherokee chief’s war-paint face

Hotter than a skinny model puckering in a multibillion dollar artificially lighted advertisement an ad in Meretricious Vogue Magazine

Red, her color, the color of her fingernails, too, like red Italian pasta boiling in an alchemist’s

Metal profane pot

At 4 thousand 7 hundred and 24 degrees

Hell Fahrenheit.

She a Clairol blonde goddess

A chewing and vanilla-milk-shake and iPhone too goddess

Unaware unlike a good whore

Of my whimpering and whispering chronically lonely preoccupation with my Dr. Strangelove bodily fluids

Unlike my good unselfish and giving too Mary Magdalene whore at the Bethesda Maryland USA massage parlor

My favorite glorious whore

Who understands

My electric gray mushy matter octopus psychologically unmad brain

But my all-night diner girl

Does not know I am in a state of pure upside down anything-but-missionary mortal sin.

Of course she would not

Say hello to me after considering

The two pronounced American-farm furrows

On my would-that-I-were Walt Whitman

Badgered-by wanted-by harassed-by the IRS white sun sensitive freckled Irish face

Furrows shooting from my my-my long bent male whore nose

To my perverted old virginal lips

Ignorant like a baby

Of my happiest of sex drives given to me by the same Holy Holy Pope’s God

In cirrus clouds and stained glass windows

In churches where Jesuit priests with sometimes two sometimes three PhDs

In philosophy and theology sacred shake incense

Which dissipates like Camel cigarette smoke

Over and around and above a crystal diamond shiny cheap apparently diner vinyl brown casket

Circled by a chorus of 6th-grade altar boys in white and red too-short cassocks which show their priests-would ankles at a 10 a.m. Robert Bresson funeral on Tuesday morning at 10.

Me independent drunk-on-Matisse-celebrating-life alone

I sit tarantula-like

Breathing snoring snorting contorting hoping helpless

As if on a green paint-chipped weathered-by- I-am-59-years-old-of-symbolic-rain park bench

In a tree park filled with trees and bending stretching peristalsis nymphs and

Yogis in New York City

And Grecian gods of good lewd dirty pornographic sex

And unfaithful matrimony, I wonder

“I love like Einstein” sings the chef

Out of nowhere

All for scientific brute love

“Dirty old man dirty dirty old man I am a dirty old man” now sings the chef

Frying flying bacon and searing love eggs

Who stoked heroically sexed men off to war against

A country full over oversexed mortal sin mortal sin mortal sin sheep-brained men goose-stepping in Fuhrer uniforms pressed at the patriotic local German dry cleaners.

 “I love all girls” now sings again the John Lenon chef.

The waitress, Susie, dawn, learned, her love transposed from Horny Cowboys Dallas Texas,

Flattered, smiles—

Not my immortal Clairol champion American girl.

She gestures like a Nazi Sig Hiel

Demanding the $7.87 milk-shake check

Pays in a huff, and leaves, disappears,

Until all saints and other God-creatures quietly despairing

In a country of beauty unfit for old men meet in heaven.



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