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New Voices From San Francisco |
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New Voices From San Francisco |
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Cruising the Mission for hookers with the Buddha and Billy By Hunter Austin
Turning
left onto Capp from 16th riding south in
my splotchy green Dodge Valiant dents
and peeling chrome bumpers rust
underneath looking
for love Our
bellies filled with burrito from Puerto Allegre The
Buddha never had Guacamole or Jalapenos before or
burritos His
smile and belly full lips
burning excited a
dab of green at the corner of his mouth he
looked content Well,
he is the Buddha Billy
sat in the back with
his bean and cheese seemingly
uncomfortable Out
of his element He
started to recite “The Art of Drowning” with
his mouth full He
said the word panic And
a saucy kernel of rice flew over
the seat landing
on the top of Buddha’s light
brown large pudgy hand The
Buddha glances at me Serenely
sideways Smiling
he turns up the radio All
along the watchtower And
Buddha’s smile spreads throughout the entire car And
I have to open my window to let some of his smile out Billy
realizes there is not some
kinda way outa here as
he leans his elbow on the broken pull
down, torn and cracked green naugahyde armrest and
sighs The
Buddha say’s “Hol’ up” and
motions to the right with his chins Billy
begins to perk up I
pull over The
Buddha and Billy are rolling down their windows The
two strumpets pacing in the alcove of
Rite-Aid’s delivery entrance hesitate staring The
Buddha’s smile embraces them They
float to the car Brunette
and platinum Flesh
filled fishnets Pink
satin hot pants brimming with backside Bound
up breasts spilling up and over Fighting
with Buddha’s smile for control of the car Genuinely
happy to be here Billy
has climbed out of the window He
is sitting in the space where the window was his
elbows rest on the faded Dart’s roof his
loafers on the cloth and vinyl back seat bench The
women are transfixed with Buddha Billy
can’t seem to get their attention I
guess enlightenment is not only it’s own reward Platinum
Marlo flip says Billy? What
kinda name is Billy for
a growed up man Billy
wriggles back in Frustrated He
folds his arms over his chest and sighs again He’s
not upset because
he will go home He
will write a poem about tonight It
will turn out the way Billy Collins wants it to turn out The
Buddha will be in it and I’ll
be on the cutting room floor with
the burritos, the Dodge and the
hookers content
to not be snowed
by the truth of Buddha
being the ultimate Mack-Daddy
Copyright © 2008 Hunter Austin |
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Also
by Hunter Austin on SoMa Literary Review:
Slowing
Down
Hunter Austin - born 1955 in Brooklyn, New York. Hunter started writing poetry and prose at the age of forty-six; he is now fifty-two and resides in Crockett, California, across the street from the C & H Sugar Refinery. His poetry has been published in the Listen and Be Heard. In 2007, his Novella Cherry's Last Trick was a finalist in the Quarterly West novella competition and a semi-finalist for the Faulkner-Wisdom award. |
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Reproduction of material from SoMa Literary Review pages |
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