Stanley

I ate all this Adderall, 
reading an OK story about a dead bird 
Beethoven’s last piano sonata on 
because I have trashy taste in Classical music 
the futura palm trees swaying. 


The pianist Rudi Serkin minds his fingers 
as Stan comes out of the house dazed and naked 
Staaaanley from Newark who likes it there inexplicably 
who looks like he should bump into things 
more often than he does. 


You look at that sky he says wrapped yellow in gauze 
I grunt I’m reading a Very Good story about a dead bird 
it Just Reaches Out of the Page 
plus Rudi has plenty to show me with his friend van Bee. 


Stanley turns over his soft goldenrod ass lifted to the wind 
rippling his taint hair fine and blonde but there is so much of it 
but wait it isn’t the wind it’s him it’s Stanley 
thrusting himself into the green seat cushion
to my trashy Beethoven 
a sudden rush of keys Rudi drops in time 
he pushes in a wide slow circle 
ragged at some junctions at others delicate 
and I think OK OK Stan 
I can set aside 
my little dead bird book.


If only you could have seen his ass as I did 
hungry for cold cuts the ocean behind
split tetrahedrons that caught the light 
threw it back
sky took pinks, reds 
he missed a beat, try again 
the song played 19 minutes. 


And when he was done 
a concert hall in Berlin applauded 
Stan rose at a 45 degree from his inseam 
flopping back into the house 

 

ta da 

 

                                                 ta da 

 

               ta da.