Posted in Steve Calamars, tagged poetry on August 4, 2011| 2 Comments »
the kung-fu movies
and the kafka stories
are no longer a large
enough distraction
the hours have
crawled away like
half-smashed spiders
with enough energy
and ingenuity left
to weave webs that
trap the night and
allow it to putrify
into the morning
where at 5am
i find myself
ensnared by a
time clock
promptly pounced on
by a job that feeds on
my youth and sucks the
life right out of me . .
Posted in Steve Calamars, tagged poetry on January 22, 2010| 2 Comments »
You were wearing a pair of red heels, blue jeans, a low-cut red shirt and a black sweater tied around your waist.
The sweater tied around your waist is what caused me to take notice as you walked towards me. I could see that you had a flat stomach and a slim waist. I could see that you had thick thighs and full calves.
I knew instantly that the sweater was being used as a device to conceal something that you were ashamed of.
When you past me, I stopped and pretended to look at the cantaloupes. I adjusted my eyes and looked over at you. As I thought, the sweater was being used to conceal, but honestly it was useless.
There was no hiding the fact that you had a phat, juicy ass. I smirked to myself. My pupils traced the contours of your ass, down along your thick hamstrings, along your round calves, finishing at your gleaming red high-heels.
I smirked to myself again and couldn’t believe that you were ashamed of an ass so perfect. You didn’t understand that 99% of the straight men strolling the planet love a woman with a juicy ass and some thighs.
And you in particular are especially loved now days. You’re such a rarity. A white girl with a ghetto booty.
You see, most white women I know spend hours on a treadmill to “get in shape”, and in a few months they are reduced to sickening slumps of skin and bone. They completely forget the fact that guys like curves.
And here you were trying to conceal your perfect, couldn’t be duplicated even with a cloning-machine, kinky-girl curves.
You made me think of Nina Hartley. With your blonde hair pulled up, your black-framed glasses, your ass popping out of your jeans in those heels.
I watched you till you turned into the cereal aisle and were out of sight.
I should have said something.
If I ever get the chance to see you again, I’ll say something next time.
I’ll try to make you feel comfortable. I’ll try to get you some place a little more private than the sales floor of a grocery store.
I’ll try to get you down to your panties and do what I can to get you to understand that you have nothing to be ashamed of—
Posted in Steve Calamars, tagged poetry on September 8, 2009| 1 Comment »
69ing
with a
45
a bullet
the size
of a
soft ball
knocked my
head off
my shoulders
feeling satisfied
i could no
longer have
a cigarette
so i had to
settle for the
smoke from
the barrel
deuce coupe 