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.