nake pages

At the service of a lifetime
I noticed your burnt ‘Norbit’
and your Special K.

I said, “Get that out of here, Paul,”
but you said,
“Paulo.” ??

“Well, It’s Paulo now.”

Winter snuck up on you
and your ass
because an amalgam of funny-sounding,
boyish names
ran its course and said,
“STOP HERE FOR WE HAVE REACHED GILBERT’S HOLE.”

A discovery was made in Eastern Los Angeles,
babe,
and you threw your head back,
side to side,
threw d
and asked me for advice:
What to do in response
to the discovery’s
being made
public; the publicity
that surrounded Gilbert’s Hole.

A lack of dense,
persuasive imagery is here
inconsequential, though I could
treat you
to a darkened back-row
smelling of ‘lord knows what’
or the run up a narrow set of grass lawns
in the SFV
that got us back just in time
for no one
to show.

Come and smell the heliotrope…
I can’t do ‘this shit’
anymore.

I think you did cartwheels,
backflips and blowies,
and I know about Gilbert’s Hole;
everyone knows
about that
stuff.