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©2003, by Jeff Glovsky

originally published (2004) in Strawberry Press Magazine


Tap Tap go my teeth as I gawk in the mirror. I tap them: They’re hard, sort of white…One is broken. I see skin cascade from my bones like a faucet. A walrus bulldog-looking, blank apparition…

There is nothing behind the grey teeth, walrus laughing…The dull, bulldog skin dripping udder-like, down. There is madness. Unrest. Discontentment. Starvation.

I go out, and sunlight insults me, offends.


I squint horribly. Horrid the heat and its light. “Fuckin’ cunt,” now I’ll murmur, as one breezes past…

"Fuckin’ cunt." An old woman stopped, stooped at a stop light…

"You cunts.” A young couple in love, arm in arm…”Fuckin’ bitch!”

I am happy today. Today’s Thursday.

On Thursdays, I splash from my bed like a whale…Tap Tap on my teeth, pick my face, step outside…It’s the day of the week, every week, I get off.

I go down to the Kino and get my rocks off! Rocks are solid. They hurt if I don’t do it weekly…I come, and then bathe in the full emptiness. Like a cave in a mudslide, soft walls squeezing in…Head is swelling with silence, soul pounding with void.

Leave my stain on the pungent red floor of the Kino.

I'm hoping I won't have to see anyone.  No one move me.  There's no one I care to enjoy...I mutter out loud to myself as I walk.

There's the people:  the fuckers who crowd my each day...Drive me back to my place after breakfast...The women:  the beauties who know, and their egos; the men who want these, and their painful, thick stupors...I'm stupid.  You want me though, righ'?  Word.

Yeah, boy-y-y...She's drunk at a sidewalk café when I see her.  She's crossing her fat, craven thighs in a skirt...Now in real Life, Cristina say she's a comic.  "So say something funny," I say, and she farts.

"I hate being ordered to say something funny!"

"Get over it," I say.  "So what do you drink?"

"Well, I'm mourning.  The loss of my sense of myself.  So I'm finding myself -- trying to -- with a drink."

...'Bye.

She follows me, though, to a place called the Kettle.  We order a third Flaming Cucaracha.  "Welcome to your new addiction."

"So like, are you as fucking trashed...?"

"As you are?  I don't think so, baby.  I don't think that's possible.  Your ass is pretty nice, though.  Stand up (isn't that, anyway, what you do?)".

"You only want to look!" she slurs.

I lift her short thick, craven skirt.  She squeals, runs off to the rest room.  "How much for the drinks?" I ask.  Dude brings the bill.  My eyes fall out.

I reach into Cristina's purse and pull out three crisp twenties.

"You need change?"

"Of course," I blink.

Dude brings it, and I leave the bar.

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To Natalie, who inspired the title and Patti, who inspired me ... and everyone else who appears in these stories and in me, in some way, to this very day ...


Underwear Woman Digs the Sea

(These Are Some Travel Stories!)

©1999-2013 by Jeff Glovsky.  All Rights Reserved.

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