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Excerpt from THAT NOUVEAU GREASER, CHARLIE AT THE LUNA
CAFE
alice, you talk a crocka shit.
last week you had me convinced
that you cooked on marble cylinders.
That s what you said to me.
You can t get out of it this week.
Now, you re belittling our gang
when you say what s his name is a Swivel Head.
Don t take THAT back. So what if a swivel head
could be in a horror movie like
THE EXORCIST. Frankly, I d rather
you admitted you think he s a PIN
Head. I heard you (like so did every-
one within the near mile earshot)
tell him his favorite coffee house
is not high camp but is just a general
dump. You said he had a nice jacket
and he looked like Sal Mineo or some-
thing. (Marlon Brando in "Streetcar".)
He s totally COOL. He even hugged you
goodbye. What kinda double helix
are you going to hex him with, you
Cackle-Head Witch, you?
- Alice Oids-Ellingson
___
Having Failed, Miserably, at Communication He Decides To
Take Up Smoking
We sat at the table,
two strangers.
I was polite,
and smiled a lot.
She did the same.
I asked her
about herself
and did my best to look
interested
in whatever it was
she was saying.
She did the same.
On the surface
it must have seemed fine;
two nice people
having polite
conversation,
smiling, nodding,
sipping at their coffee.
Yet there was a wall
between us,
invisible,
impenetrable.
The things I said
did not make it through
The things she said
did not make it through
All of our words,
nods, smiles,
never reaching their
destinations,
being sucked into a void
somewhere along the way.
All around us
was real laughter,
people engaging in real
conversations,
effortlessly.
Or perhaps they were just better
at faking it.
In any case,
after an hour or so
she had the good sense
to save us both
by saying she had an early
class and had better get some
sleep.
She smiled and politely
apologized,
I smiled in return.
We rose from the table,
two strangers.
We walked away
in opposite directions,
me toward the nearest
bar,
greatly in need
of a beer and a
cigarette,
even though I didn t
smoke.
- William Taylor Jr.
___
Mojo Cafe: SAY, CAN YOU SEE THE PIGS ROOTING?
not quite, but the down-home
garbage scene out back the Mojo
Cafe, a sight for sore eyes, why,
the fruit-flies own it and I,
ready to read askance the dripping
stuff of high camp "lounge" chairs,
smoking the ashes in leftovers of some
forties' habit, I adjust my judgement
to the aperture of some romantic
garret artist newly slumming—just
in town from some Beaverton manse.
This is "home" for my compatriots
who ve never lived it in ghettos
before—just imitation High Con-
centration Camp, like this smoking
den—never any more real than Doc s
charming outpost Cannery Row.
You can get into this picture
be an extra out back, smoke
added to the huge conch shell
of butts. How the rain fits
it s wry tattos (sic) to the silence
of the flies and it is silent
movietime how everything turns
out gay like LOGO-Therapy works
for the starving Jews, the word
is believe how pretty everpresent
Christmas lights like these out
back just pretty because they re
cheaply strewn over the broken
bottles, bungled bike parts, trash.
Kids like garbage because it s
all over new again. Here s the
future: no picket fences just
open air mangled attractively.
Back in the sixties, my cousin
kept offering me screw-
drivers "can t hurt you!"
maybe, i ll adjust to
this in the future and the future
is snapped up like a flash bulb
yes, it s an alacrity. I like
the prospects of a brand new
old-time shaft.
- Alice Olds-Ellingson
___
Venus in Pieces
Licked up the front
And down the back
Like a lollipop
Waiting to explode
Laced up and locked down
At play with waterworks
and a chainsaw
That's how this ditty goes
She's willing
And I'm available
With nothing to do
On a Saturday night
A buffet of fantasy at play
Working hard
Strumming that harp
. . . And licking that fucking lollipop
Having exhibited a certain facility
At making me salivate
She finds it hard to appreciate
Lurking in shadows
And supposed "unsolicited" advances
She decides that worshiping from afar
is entirely acceptable
And, therefore, has agreed to coffee
She's a real piece of work
in B-flat
That's why she will be flat
After Saturday night . . . .
- Victoria
___
Coffee Shop Fantasy
He shuffles into the store, his body jerking across my newly-washed
floor like a fish struggling to get back into water. I cringe
as he stutters out his request. Orange juice today, he's skipping
the coffee—black, one sugar—that always makes his shaking
worse.
His fingers, their nails jagged and broken, long-stained with
yellow, grasp my hand a moment too long as he hands me his money.
He stares at me through his thick glasses with their dark tint.
I look away.
He doesn't smell like alcohol today, this won't get ugly—like
the last time.
I hand him his change, smile the vacant cashier smile, wait until
he's shuffled to his seat at the counter before I breathe a sigh
of relief.
He sits down, his eyes boring into me. I know he's sliding off
the polyester in his mind. It's hard to ignore his adoration,
it's hard to ignore him.
I can't decide whether I like being the coffee shop fantasy of
this strange little man. The power is fascinating, but the fear
that grips me when his breath slaps me with vodka, like his hand
slams onto the counter, is overwhelming.
- Krista Lamb
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