Jay Passer

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 7, 2012

Passer lives in San Francisco, tussling with the elements, using fire and sharp implements to feed people he never sees.  He has two chapbooks out this year, Only Human By Definition, from Crisis Chronicles Press, and At The End of the Street, from Corrupt Press.
BEATIFIED
walk down Mission Street through
the conduit of condoms and ratty pigeons
smashed phone booths
and smears of hooker nylon
the distillation of ammonia and traffic
of the pilfered shopping cart
home to the less and the free
as above the windows painted
with replication of the Gods and
above the gods the edifice of cloud
imbroglio transfixed by the heat and screams
a seagull gleams by the fountain at Civic Center
the crack fiend lists and careens brandishing
moronic exclamations of bliss like fists
thrust into root fissures of spent dreams
the city is fiendish and weird and
walking through is carnival ride
no Hades ever knew.
7-12-12
Jay Passer

I WOKE UP THIS MORNING

with some misgivings,
as a cascade of piss hit my hotel window.
I shrugged it off.
that can’t be piss, I thought, no pigeon is that big –
6th and Mission being a refugee zone, the fact is
when there is little money, less hope, and few prospects,
one might occasion God for answers.
I noticed one of His representatives near the entrance
to the liquor store, reading
from a dog-eared New Testament,
a pint bottle poking out from his ragged jacket pocket.
he didn’t seem all that thrilled,
street preaching amidst
the filth and degradation and howling sirens, the garish
pantomime of painted streetwalkers, the rowdy fury
of thugs in training –
and myself, nearing the mirror image
of long deceased grandfathers.
I woke up this morning with
gratitude
that the world still revolves while forests burn, water cranks
in the piping and there’s still
glorious vice galore to
keep a man from doing the dirty work himself.
I paid the rent today, but eventually someone will take my place
when I’m out of here –
they will stare at the dirty flowered
sheet that serves as a curtain,
they may brave
a medical emergency to wash their feet
in the sink, as the bathroom down the hall is
owned by a colony of roaches, God bless.

 

 

THE COACH

shooting snooker with smoke
rings.
the Coach in a fuddle, spills
half a pitcher blaming
it on God, and
poor aim
the part of a misbegotten character
loafing in the cortex
of hummingbird logic

Sally and Rainy giggling on the pew under
a portrait study of the Shroud of Urine.

itís just a towel, from when
we beat the boys from Bogey’s, back
in the summer of ‘83
for the ‘ship,
drones the Coach,
looking over his cue sight shiftily – he of

the bleach gray hair and
bleached white undershirts and
Fester Addams
sunken cocaine eyes.

this place is chock full of studies in default and
stupidity, he goes on, pouring
once, shooting
from onion hamburger cheese gut

as Rainy presses against
Sally, finger floating blue
pansies of delicate
rhyme,
a couple white trash floozies
so becoming in their
lack of media gestalt

enchanting this glorious
landscape of panache bewitchery.
get me some pink
stink
glory girl, roll me in sunshine daily,
sings out Sally, fumbling
with the blurred lyrical
turquoise green expanse, pitch of dreams,
the snooker table beckons
scrappy fandom.

I hit with the Coach for a couple racks,
he takes me down to the black number 7 ball
on fouls, so
masterful is bone
powder and line of entropic deity
potentate to the brain
while chancing
half smiles for the sluts.
I wouldn’t fuck that
with a crutch, the Coach nods
sagely

after a bout with leukemia removed one of
his testes.

you win again, Coach, you old
dog,
pour me a golden from that there decanter
of filthy modernity.

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