kicker
it’s 4:30 a.m.
i’m sliding milker cups
onto greta’s teats
i try not to swallow
as she slaps her shit-loaded tail
into my mouth
i’d prefer french toast for breakfast
but that’s five hours away
greta’s the meanest jersey cow
i’ve ever handled
she kicks my wristbones
then kicks her cups off
just to land them in her load
it doesn’t matter
how recently
i was a big shot
beverly hills designer
i’ve chosen to end up
with a spring-loaded stool
strapped to my hips
machine-milking 125 cows
shoveling shit so often
i pretend
it doesn’t stink
or it stinks
and i can live with it
or better yet
i’ve learned to love
its perfume
~
yesterday i read
my old boss’s obituary
recalling that day
greta’d busted my nose
with one of those bitch-cow kicks
and i walked out
of his dairy
for the last time
though he championed that cow
for his generations of breeding
toward perfect jersey confirmation
i offered him
the price of her weight
per pound of ground meat
so he said he’d milk her
if he had to
no champion cow of his
would behave that way
i packed my stuff
and moved on to manage
a less dangerous herd
of longhorn cattle
~
i’d seen him not so long ago at walmart
he was kinda lopsided
i asked whatever happened to greta
he ducked his head then smirked
said that god damn cow
busted his left humerus
he said for a whopping ten grand
he’d dumped her
on a saudi arabian prince
who was breeding
a model herd of jerseys
Exposed
Aunt Kitty slams me up against the wall
Presses her great blimp boobs into me
Warns me not to speak at his service
Says she saw somebody do it
at somebody else’s funeral
and it was so awful
Look — I was born first son to him
Looked up to him
Loved him
Came to hate him
Distanced myself from him
Came back to respect him
and in the end
loved him for who he was
Now he’s dead
I want to stand up
in front of his friends
Talk about him
Kitty’s scared my feelings might show
(God forbid I should have feelings)
Kitty’s scared my feelings might prompt
others to feel their feelings
(God forbid they should have feelings)
in front of others
I slam her (and her boobs) back against the wall
Make not one peep
Divorce myself from her
I enjoy speaking at my father’s service
Enjoy feeling my feelings
Enjoy feeling other’s feel their feelings
Recently
I receive word of Aunt Kitty’s death
Distance myself
Have no feelings
Nothing to say
A lifetime of mental illness and decades of psychotherapy provide rich material for
Spiel to work with. At age 74, queer and confounded by loss associated with vascular dementia, he struggles to keep his lips above desolation. Internationally published as The Poet Spiel, Spiel’s most recent book is: “Dirty Sheets: 28 stories of passion, pathos and payback” published by Rain Mountain Press. He has published more than a dozen books. Learn more about his body of short stories, poetry, spoken word and his lifelong career as a visual artist at www.thepoetspiel.name.
