JohnVick.org

Valerie Fox

poems with audio from The Rorschach Factory

Order Information for The Rorschach Factory

You're No Axl Rose 

You're no Axl Rose but your sentences are

as complex as your hair, in an unintended,

wiry, I will live forever way, the way Axl

swings his hips and smokes just enough

to achieve his pristine scratchy scream.

You're no James Dean but when you can afford

to drive a Porsche I'll let you drive me

to the Acme to buy aspirin or milk.

Soon you'll gradually discover I talk to Lucy

a cat who lacks discipline like a person

on two legs. Her lack of knees reminds me

of Axl who reminds me of you.

That first night I said know any Beatles

you asked where'd you get that postcard

"Tutankhamen's Mummy Mask"? In the Acme

we were delighted to speak with a new secret

attainable goal, an account overflowing in interest

in quiet SERIOUS music that never offends.

The second night your voice oscillated from speaker

to speaker. Tonight, the way you clear your throat makes

you sound like you didn't shave,

the way you didn't shave draws blood

with my fingers from my fingers. You could write

a new sentence and steal mine and I would still

love you. You could never happen and I would,

you know, this is how possessive I can be.

Emma's 

Emma Goldman appears poof at Table 8,

the booth that overlooks the Susquehanna.

Tapping her foot to the compelling cries

of the laborers, she asks the man in safety

yellow pants for a light.

Why did she marry then remarry that impotent man?

She can only love an abstraction.

She can only love Orion and his invisible dick.

Eventually the woman with the six-year-old tattoo

blue eyes begins to speak. She stands up

on Table 6 and her mouth drags open slow.

Yes, she could drink from this bottomless cup

of coffee 24 hours a day including holidays.

She could drink until there is no more

unemployment or coffee or joy.

In a World 

where Jesus has a tattoo,

"Rosie" or "Lucille,"

Hell must be a holy bore

you sit in vegetable stew

the meat in a meal

for a typical family of four

your Dad is the waiter who

resists your appeals

to him you hold no allure

in this world where you do

unto others, steal

out to the Adult Book Store

on Route 130 while Jesus

and the old man ride

Harleys and drink at Sinbad's

you catch the crowded bus

a free-willed 15

year old    offering lurid

accounts of your dolorous

Mom, her lucrative

last cigarette business

on the skids, if she was

still alive

she'd still be dead