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Wesley C. Harrison

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New Orleans, LA, US

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SHE LOVES NASCAR

by

Wesley C. Harrison

she loves Nascar
i prefer Mozart or Whitman
but
she loves Nascar
it's a southern fascination
as Dixie as
Faulkner and Williams..
"i love Nascar"
she squeals like tires burning
out of breath
the only thing that moves like lightening
in the south...
Nascar
guys driving fast
making left hand turns
i prefer the curves in a Picasso
the speed of a swallows flight
she loves Nascar
her eyes smoke
smiling like a checkered flag
spark plug laughter

When the twisted wrecks
have been cleared
the hum of the engines
are still
in bed
in my arms..her hair
smelling of excitement
and exhaust
"i love Nascar" she percolates
i whisper "we have nothing in common"
"don't be silly...
we both love Nascar"
she reaches for me under the sheets
GENTLEMEN START YOUR ENGINES
she draws me inside
a pitstop...
i'm her one man crew
"we both love Nascar" she idles
yes but...
not for the same reason
my gears now shifting
my heart racing
i love Nascar


ran into jesus, elvis and your memory at wal-mart

by

Wesley C. Harrison

toothbrushless...
mine pilfered
along with razors, toothpaste and shave cream
i suspect gnomes at the last
homeless shelter
found me wasted in wal-mart
his name tag said Elvis
aisle director
navigating shopping cart jockeys
madness in their eyes
cherubs riding shotgun
"past hair products" he snarled
lip curled
a vacant corridor in houseware
void of housewife print skirts
among the toasters and waffle irons
your memory purchased my thoughts
forging past bedding
sheets of linen that we once
tangled and ravaged
is that your voice singing
from heaven's speakers
was that your image
disappearing into lingerie?
jesus on his plastic name tag
"love potion" i ask
"we don't carry it"
he suffered from price tag
neurosis
"vagabundo loco" he mumbled
under picante breath
you once told me i could
find anything i needed here
but not even wal-mart has
what it would take
to make you
love me again

i hope k-mart is open!


can't stand myself any longer

by

Wesley C. Harrison

lonliness...
tastes like earwax
sounds like an unanswered phone call
smells of fear
looks like my reflection
feels like my heart exploding
...it leaves me senseless


my siblings' father

by

Wesley C. Harrison

other children feared
monsters under their bed
i feared the one
living under our roof
his hair was nimbus black
with a storm's thunder
in his voice
his fists were freight train brown
ball bearing knuckles
frostbite blue was his touch
with empty icebox eyes
his smile untrusted
growling words spoken like
tangled spaghetti
he was my mother's husband
my siblings' father

a childhood of baseballs never thrown
bruises and shattered bones
medicated with lies
happiness diluted with tears
in a house with screams undetected
when asked what i wanted to be
i testified"far from here"

now...fiber optic home front news
faceless words
cancer eating away at your life
with the fury of a piranha
your disease now my champion
fighting with the courage
i was unable to muster

your epitath written in my adolesence
while plotting your midnight homicide
again you leave
unaccountable for your actions
i'm left to wrestle with the demons
not the strenght to forgive
my memory too scared to forget
i'll keep the battle lines drawn
your monument
let the puzzle piece fall where it may

good bye old man
you'll be missed like a pit vipers bite
your pain can no longer
touch me
from the grave


diatribe

by

Wesley C. Harrison

on guard!
weapons drawn
spewing words like acid
staining our masterpiece
colors melting into gray
bubbling with the sounds of disater
fuck yous crescendo into the odor
of hate
your teflon tongue spills explanations
with non stick sincerety
a resevoir of i'm sorrys burst
into a flood of tears
you become a one woman waterfall
your love was financed
compounding interest
loan shark terms
with a heart that carried a second mortgage
and i'm the victim of foreclosure
left empty
blindsided
cold cocked by your drive by lie
our love now crippled and mamed
searching for a handicapped parking place
no
you're not beautiful
when
you're angry


A question of surreal importance on a need to know basis

by

Wesley C. Harrison

does he touch you?
with deep cabarnet dreams
or is it all white wine passion?
does your heart race from his nearness?
is there surrender in his scent?
does he tempt you?
leave you breathless?
tantalized with jalapeno kisses
like butterflies
stinging spicy pleasure on your inner thighs
does he entice you?
do you feel wicked and waxened?
scream bruja's incantations
moan verses of ancient runes
is your orgasm seismic?
does he read like a mystery
with a hint of gypsy blood?
does he consume you?
can he make you laugh in color?
does he feed your madness?
calm your storm?
does he feel betrayed by your shadow?
is he envious and jealous of your light?
does he sit in stillness
while you listen to your muse?
does he make you feel complete?
does he?
does he?
i did once!
din't i?


my three vanities

by

Wesley C. Harrison

arizona goddess
blossom of society's elite
living your mother's dreams and wishes
scottsdale pretty boys

vail heiress
your wealth cultivated
from green beans and canned corn
condominium queen

santa barbara debutante
daddy's money choking your freedom
b.m.w. mentality
calculated bad girl

i'm flat beer and stale cigarettes
not cognac and cigars
it's your world with...
checkbooks balanced
paris holidays
matching bras and panties
questions answered

mine is...
sweat stained collar
southside of chicago worn like a tattoo
exposed in my speech
dago kid with coarse demeanor
public schools
vagrant morals... empty pockets

yet you take me in
like a stray puppy
you name after bronte's heathcliff
i bark poetry...scratch words of love
i howl romance

you give me groomed pussy
airplane tickets and dead presidents
in return for orgasms
complete with receipts
a gift with the price tag unremoved
you make love to my in pity
i tongue your trigger in triumph

holes in my socks amuse you
tan lines and lipstick shades
your life's concerns
my exsistence paid for with humility
yours with credit cards
never overextended
balances rising
long distance phone lines crackle...
more empty promises.


Stolen Poem

by

Wesley C. Harrison

i should have been a photographer...
but i couldn't work the shutter,
i should have been a painter...
but i don't have an eye for color
instead i've become a poet
do you know how diifficult it is...
to get a woman
to pose
naked for your poem?