The Man Who Buried his Poetry Notebook
by Mark Weinstein
That old poet.
People around here
could never tell whether
he was queer or just from out
of town, or if he had seen
God inside a Rorschach.
And while the townspeople all
insisted she was a saint he
considered his wife a succubus,
though he conceded once
she wore a rose-colored
monocle on her mind’s eye.
Dream Vapor
by Mark Weinstein
“Freddy the pianist knows
this great place for ribs,”
whispers the bartender in
the infinite whorehouse.
“It’s illegal, and free,
And you only get to go there once.”
The Girls Downstairs
by Mark Weinstein
Between the two of us I’ve devised dozens of absurd scenarios, elaborate schemes
for these girls downstairs, these three girls living there since the old lady passed,
the old lady Rose, the kindly old lady who once brought me a box of Florida citrus
candies for helping to carry her groceries one afternoon. Groceries.
Been thinking groceries for months now. Working on it. Those three girls living there,
downstairs mind you, (these testimonies further evidence for the bughouse lawyers)
These girls downstairs might well one afternoon similarly knock and ask “lemonjuice?
Trouble you for some gouda? What’s you name, again? Hey, isn’t that guy dead?”
And I fantastically possessing all of these things, owning a gilded cheese knife
and angostura bitters, fine grocery accoutrements, these three girls living downstairs
expecting a host, a man who offers “can I take your umbrella, madame? Would you
like a fish sandwich? A taste of bourbon? How about a ride on my platypus?”
Walking towards the delicatessen Third Avenue most nights thinking “groceries.
Groceries. I could pretend to have groceries! Easily! I could be the guy on top of his shit!”
Having, in actuality none of the neighborly things one borrows. No eggs or milk
or bread or cheese or flour for these girls downstairs, the three of them. None of it for months now.
Instead lots of mustard. Canned soups. A large box of kosher salt. Three quarters
of a six month onion. Somebody else’s leftovers.
And I—I always talking about the one girl, the one who’d ask demurely “mind if I
use your bathtub? Spare a comforter?” That one. And so “no no no the brunette!”
I shout at my roommate. “The one! I met her!” I declare, and passing her, the one girl,
in the stairwell the night before saying “hey” and nothing more, brisking by
as if exiting a subway, the sound of our jackets whooshing thinking groceries.
About the Poet
Mark Weinstein is Mark Weinstein’s worst current alias. A nonfiction book editor (a.k.a. wageslave) by day, Mark releases his pent up aggression and stifled creativity through his mic work with the hip hop hybrid-style musical outfit Regenerated Headpiece. His poems have appeared in numerous short-lived, unmentionable publications, including but not limited to imaginary ones. He lives in New York City.