The Dick

by Ray Freed

      THE dame came into my life
on one of those August afternoons
when the air feels like
watered down diner oatmeal
and the Jockeys hug your buns
like Saran Wrap. She was a looker
with 36-D implants and hips that
spoke Lambada, and her luscious red lips
made Jumbo bend the zipper on my jeans.
I looked into her eyes and knew
it was time to burn the credit cards.
      You the Dick? Her words dripped
like x-rated honey.
      That's me. What can I do you for?
      I want you to find something for me.
Something important. A poem,
I want you to find a poem for me.
      A poem? You want me to find a fucking poem?
Get outta here, lady. I'm a dick,
not a simpering Lit major.
And take this with you:
      OU SONT LES NEGLIGEES D'ANTAN?
      I had gone too far. Silver tears
did the gravity thing down cheeks
I wanted to get to know the insides of.
      All right, sit down.
I opened the drawer and took out
the Old Gill 400 proof Methane Vapor
and poured us each a thimbleful.
Tell me about it, I said.
      Her name was Luna Peach. She grew up
in the days of the Church of The Holy Dozer
and Blessed Chainsaw, survived memory
reconstruction and escaped the mandatory
breeding farm stint due to a genetic anomaly
enabling her to alter skin color at will.
She spoke dog, monkey, and bear as well as
several subtropical bird dialects and made
a living translating at the Parliament of
All Sentient Beings.
      I may be a sucker for bawling dames
but I'm not stupid, and when she started
to describe the missing poem a light
went on in my head.
      She said the poem's outward and visual aspect
consisted of 14 lines of unrhymed pentameter
but that its inward harmonic resonance
resembled a continuous stream of unpunctuated
utterance in non-linear holistic mode producing
a subjective cerebral gestalt in the form of a duck.
      That was the giveaway. Duck. My psychobeeper
wailed and before she could disintegrate
I snared her with a wall net. It was over.
I called the precinct and watched
as they took her away.
      It could have been nice, she said.
I mean you and me.
      She was right.
But could have beens
don't pay the rent.

(Watch Freed read this poem.)

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