This is a reposting of my poem, “Bachelor Books”, to go with the recently posted poem, “Lady Books“. Together, they are strangely writhing bedfellows.
Off the swelled main roads,
those with county highway numbers,
dirty fountains supported by stone stags,
bookend a shop for bachelors.
Through the mirrored entrance
lonely brown-papered faces,
eyes angled high or low-
ly darting, become fixedly occupied
with whistling wall crack inspection,
tattooed by overripe desire, in these
narrow, yellow-lighted porn halls.
Embossed genre signs hang
on rows of pressboard shelving
like lowbrow library call numbers
(licking Dewey’s decimals):
Black On Brown
Brown On Tan
Tan On White
White on Sheep
Load-bearing Bar Matrons
Man To Man
Straight Talking Cowboys
Throughout darkened viewing booths
or Plexiglas-divided Live Girl stalls
apologetic and unapologetic pistols
dangle or salute the fall-
ing away of lonely skin thirst, and the
ramping up of bare flesh excitement.
Among the rows of glass displays,
bursting with vibe, flex and glow,
unwed men, collegians, and rampant
fugue-staters with Viagra bloodstreams
wander about staring, grasping, squeezing,
pressing their post-industrial disaffected lust.
It’s sketchy and served up cold, but at least
it’s immediate, tactile and pungent deep in a
bookshop for bachelors.
(Books not found in the Library of Congress)
(However, Congressmen and Senators love them!)