The Rip Post                                                                                              

I want to go back to the formica
And the crap carpet and the air conditioning that smelled like
Old beer
And the windows that looked out on other windows
full of formica and crap carpet
And the summer night roar of a streetfull of air conditioners
Proclaiming electric comforts
To globs of college kids stuck together with hormones and heart
Impervious to time
And the summer nights that felt baked at 450 in an oven for ten minutes
The wilted midnight trees
The forlorn birds
The warm 2 a.m. front lawns where you lay on your back
And said nice stoned things to the stars
And maybe made out with the older girl across the street
I want to go back to the sweaty box rooms of kindness
And together
And Beatles music and laughter that almost defeated
The universe
Down to the corner, synaptic crackle, misanthropic boys
To the pie place, to stare at the legs and cleavage when they
Bent over
Those waitresses with the orange skirts and flouncy blouses
Each one perfect for you if only
And she smiled at you yes she did really you should ask her out
Right jackass and then Iíll take my pants off and ask her to fellate me right here
You should! You should!
You wanna get some cigars and shoot pool?
I want to go back to comradely amble and midnight stoned candle
And flopped out in the morning sick as dogs
When the brute sun spills yellow pain through curtain cracks
And the air feels already exhaled by other people
And somebody puking in the bathroom is funnier than Buster Keaton
When girls were unattained and music amply sustained
And the promise of who knows was a valentine
Itís all in my head, it slips out at night when Iím not looking
And mixes up bodies and names and times and hopes
And heartbreaks
Chagalls and Picassos them,
Dalis and Van Goghs them,
Except once in a while
the formica is clear and clean and the
Air conditioner hums and rattles the keys on top of it
And Farkash knocks at the door,
And Scott and John
And Kallberg with a six pack
And Ball with a bag of pot and bonhomie
And Mahler and Beethoven
in a sweaty box room of kindness
no more.
---Charles Bogle



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