*laundrymatte
idyll’08*
the chunky,
mouth-breathing slack jawed, godDamned tweeny
w/ the formerly inflammatory haircut & the incendiary t-shirt
waddles out of the fluorescent lighting of the 7/11,
skuffling & shuffling his flip-flopped feet,
w/ his hands palms turned up, in the pale, westward slanting
lite
of the valley afternoon
...he shakes his head
...roads that were once old, (if not ancient), horse trails, led
here,
up from the wide basin, thru the cool canyon,
into the valley,
thru the viral decades & parasitic urban sprawl,
to where i’m now waiting
for the dryer
to buzz
my clothes all fabric-softener-sheet-fresh, & warm
...sitting on the rear bumper of the car my sister gave me in
exchange
for a promise
that i’d get my shit together,
studying a cinder-block wall painted pastel,
trying to look like southern california stucco
...an uncomforting breeze tickles dried weeds the color of dirt
that jam the crax in the strip-mall parking lot
...all they need is the non-chalant flick
of the pan-handler’s cigarette butt
to go up in a pitiful flame,
sending weak, greasy, smoke plumes
into the smog-smudged valley sky-bowl
...godDamned tweeny’s mom slowly realizes
the godDamned kid is right;
they’re not gonna sell him any smokes,
even if he tells them that she’s right outside in the parking
lot,
& she’s gonna hafta get out of the car
& deal w/ the rag-head cashier on her own
...sitting there sweating, i’m
thinking about the awkward symbiosis of hope & fear,
& faith & stupidity,
& pondering where the heat & light go
after you blow out a candle
...robbie robitussian sits stoned on a cool fiber-glass bench
in the laundrymatte
w/ her feet in a rolly cart,
spastically banging together the toes
of torn, filthy high-topped canvas sneakers
w/ unintelligible ballpoint scribbling ‘round the rubber souls
...she likes the sound of the all the machines on at once,
whirling & humming,
she imagines a bunch of robots at a church
...she doesn’t like the hyper-chatter
of the male & female hispanic talk show hosts
on the dusty TV bolted to the wall
...she’s such a rebel; she doesn’t own an iPod
...godDamned tweeny’s mom passes me on the way in to the 7/11
& gives me a side-ways sneer
...she has a face like a truck-stop just outside of bakersfield
...she adjusts her ill-fitting bra under her tube-top
...i go inside to see how many minutes are left on the machine
...robbie robitussian is pretty sure
you can tell a lot about a person
by the way they fold their clothes,
but she doesn’t know what all of that might include really
...she sees me folding my clothes
& knows at least one thing about me; i don’t
have anybody to do my laundry for me
for love, or money
