New Poems: Wendy Rainey

 

The Dancer

 

He put the brisket sandwich

with melted jack

on an onion roll

on the counter,

the way he had for thirty-five years.

Order up,he said.

Reaching into the pickle barrel,

he sliced a dill lengthwise,

put it on the brisket plate.

Pickle juice dripped 

across the numbers 

tattooed on his forearm 

when he was a boy.

 

This was one of his somber days.

Everyone who worked with him at the restaurant

knew to let him be.

The part-time actor

who worked behind the counter with him

provided comic relief

whenever an impatient customer 

gave him a hard time.

 

A waitress whisked away the sandwich.

He walked over to where I was standing

behind the register,

cracking open a roll of quarters.

 What did you do over the weekend, Jack?

He pushed his bifocals up,

I danced naked with my wife 

all night long, he smiled.

We barely slept.

He was working the dance steps,

swiveling his hips,

humming a tune.

You should try it with your boyfriend sometime.

He gyrated again,

reaching for my hand.

I took it, spinning three times,

my uniform skirt twirling up,

before I leaned in, 

whispering in his ear,

I love you. We all do, Jack.

And with that 

he tipped an imaginary hat

and shuffled away,

whistling a tune

and dancing.

Patty’s Pajamas

 

When I was a child

I saw a woman in pajamas 

pushing a cart at the market,

shuffling through the cereal aisle,

cigarette dangling from her lips,

rollers piled high,

bathrobe open.

I asked my mother

why she was wearing her pajamas

at the store.

My mother told me to, stop staring

and go get the Pepsodent.

As I walked toward the toiletry aisle

I saw her grinding her cigarette butt

into the floor with her slipper. 

I watched as she helped herself 

to a cold Schlitz from the case.

In seconds

she had downed the beer,

crumpled the can with one hand,

threw it over her shoulder.

I retreated behind a Gallo Burgundy display.

What’s your name, little girl?

I stared at her.

Well, my name’s Patty,she slurred.

She pointed to, “Patty,”

embroidered on her pink terrycloth robe.

She lit a fresh Pall Mall.

My husband’s with his little prostitute

on his boat.

You like boats?

I nodded yes.

He’s gonna dump me

and install that little whore in my house.

She grabbed a bag of Ruffles from her cart,

ripped it open,

shoved a handful of chips into her mouth,

tipping the bag in my direction.

My mom told me to never take food from strangers.

Good answer, kiddo.

But you just wait.

It’s eat or be eaten out there.

You’ll see.

Just then my mother appeared,

yanking me away by the arm.

Remember sweetheart, she pointed at me with her cigarette,

it’s a war zone out there.

A tear fell down Patty’s cheek.

My mother dragged me down the aisle by my sweater.

We turned around when we heard Patty scream.

She was being escorted out of Safeway Super Store

by the manager and a male cashier.

He said I was the only one

who made him feel alive,she shrieked,

smacking the manager across the face.

She made her legs go limp.

They dragged on the ground behind her 

as the two men deposited her outside

in front of the store.

My mother and I watched Patty, 

curled in a ball

on the concrete,

her hands covering her face,

sobbing uncontrollably.

I noticed a pattern of hearts

falling like confetti

on her pajamas,

while the customers walked by,

barely noticing her at all.

Pet Planet

 

There’s a theory

that our planet

was created by a civilization

much more advanced than our own.

It speculates that a higher intelligence

is using us

as their little plaything.

A pet planet

if you will.

 

It would explain

why earth seems to be locked

in an endless loop of misery.

Maybe our pain,

our chaos,

our stupidity,

is fodder for their entertainment.

Our world

is their Roman Coliseum.

A Disneyland of degradations.

A Las Vegas show

of vapid perversity

 

Like little children

peeking into a library

filled with books 

written in a language 

they cannot understand,

we sense the mystery of the universe,

a cosmic order,

but can only comprehend

the most rudimentary concepts.

And most of us

can’t even grasp those.

 

Maybe they watch us

in the way we watch slapstick movies

or game shows.

Munching popcorn,

slurping soda,

surfing the porn channel and back.

Sometimes they reach in, 

stir up a tsunami,

kick a few tectonic plates around,

throw an asteroid our way.

 

They’re tickled 

that the most delicious foods

are bad for us,

though mystified

that we let so many go hungry

when clearly there’s enough 

for everyone.

Amused by our variety of religions.

Such imaginative storytelling! they squeal.

Entertained by our ability

to come up with ever new reasons 

to hate our fellow man.

Kinda sexy

how they’re always at each other’s throats.

Intrigued by our desire for domination over others.

Curious how it’s never enough

for the rich to have everything,

one of them smirks.

They’re not satisfied 

until the poor have nothing! 

At times they almost pity us.

The little half-wits never learn,

do they?

How can it be

that there has never been a war

shocking enough

to galvanize them all

into ending their madness?

 

Peering into our windows,

they sense our loneliness,

feel our despair.

Look, she’s eating a frozen pizza

by herself again,they murmur.

Maybe you have awoken from dreams,

in the dark chill of night,

never remembering 

who cradled you in their arms,

who lullabied you to sleep

in the moonlight,

under a thick blanket of stars.

Douglas Aircraft

 

My mother had a job roller skating 

through an airplane factory,

delivering blueprints and memos

to desks and drafting tables.

When she’d come home after her shift,

she’d melt into the couch.

I’d rub her aching feet,

her blue eyes smiling

at the touch of my tiny hands.

 

Years later, my mother told me

that she had to be speedy

on those skates.

Not only was she being timed by her supervisor,

but some of the men had wandering hands.

And there were so many isolated places

where they could grab you,

remote areas,

where no one would ever

hear you scream.

She flew

as fast as she could.

Fifth Grade

I don’t remember why I stopped bathing,
or why I stopped playing soccer at recess,
or why I stopped talking altogether.
The school transferred me to a class 
of mostly older students in the sixth grade, 
who were different

than any kids I’d ever known.
Some of them would go berserk

at the slightest provocation. 
Others were sullen, 
droning on like forty-year-olds
from their desks in the back row.
A few of the girls smelled of cigarettes
and cologne,
their breasts bouncing in tight t-shirts.
They eyeballed my flat chest with disgust.
The one wearing mascara asked me 

if I knew what a blow job was.

She flicked spitballs at my head

when I turned my back to her.

The teacher was a bearded sixties dude

who called us all by our last name.
So, Rainey, when do you plan on joining 
the land of the living?
I told him I didn’t want to talk.
I told him I wanted to be left alone.
I brought paperback novels to class
that I would hide inside my textbook
and read while he was teaching. 

The next day he was talking to the class 
about Mayan civilization,
while I was reading Slaughterhouse Five.
The Mayans believed that spilled blood
was a gift to the gods.

He walked between the rows of desks,

gesticulating with his hands.
Usually only the highest nobles

participated in the ritual blood-letting,

which played a major role
in religious and cultural functions.

He snuck up behind me,

yanked the novel out of my hands
and tossed it across the room.
The class erupted into laughter.
He continued walking through the aisle,

his voice amplified.
Sometimes a rope 
embedded with razor sharp stone flakes
would be pulled through holes in the tongue
or earlobe.
"Sooo gross,"Mascara giggled.
The blood was collected and burned. 
Archaeologists say this ritual was performed
to feed the gods 
with the life force.

He came back around to my desk.
What are you going to do, Rainey?
I just chucked your book across the room.
What are you going to do about that?

He stroked his beard.

Narrowed his eyes.
The class was howling by now.

Mascara and her friends

screamed with laughter.

He motioned for them to quiet down.

He stared at me.
I stared back.

I wanted to run out of the room,
but I just sat there.

My face burning.

My heart pounding.
Unable to speak.
He leaned down, whispering in my ear,
Go get the book. Now!
I got up,
grabbed the paperback off the floor, 
and threw it onto my desk.
Standing there, hyperventilating,

I imagined my fists pounding into his soft pudge.
I pictured him collapsing to the floor, 
while I pummeled him with paperbacks,
and kicked his fat, hippie ass across the room
with my Wallabees.

Sit down, Rainey.

He motioned for me to take my seat.

I sat down, envisioning my hand

yanking a spiked rope through his tongue, 

his granny glasses flying off his face.

I watched as he fell

from the top of a Mayan Temple,

his head hitting each stone step

on the way down.

His mangled body falling 

into a vat of blood.

I set it on fire

with Mascara’s cigarette.

 

I love it that you’re reading.

He put a hairy hand on my paperback.

And Vonnegut, no less!

But save it for after class,he winked.

He turned around to face his students.

So, how many of you have heard about the plight 
of the California Gray Whales?

No hope for the human race

 

I may have been having a bad night.

Or maybe it was the nervous breakdown

brewing just below the surface.

Perhaps I simply didn’t like the customer

who ordered pie à la carte.

Where’s my ice cream?he scoffed

when I set the piece of apple pie

in front of him.

You didn’t ask for ice cream.

Yes, I did, hon. 

I asked for apple pie à la carte.

He threw his hands up,

shook his bald head.

Pie à la mode

is pie with ice cream, I explained.

A group of women

at the table across from him

convulsed into snorts,

sloshing wine on one another. 

One of them gave him the finger.

 

He was so flustered,

his hand knocked the pie 

to the floor.

Get the manager! he seethed.

 

On my way

to the manager’s office,

I noticed a dirty diaper

shoved between two booths.

As I tossed it into the trash,

pieces of feces fell to the carpet.

An old man in a walker wheeled over them,

tracking excrement throughout the restaurant.

 

After explaining the pie situation to Chuck,

the night manager,

he waved me off, Apologize

and comp him,is all he said.

Apologize?

Comp him?

Sure thing, Chuck.

 

You’re pie à la mode, at last!

With a flourish of my hands,

I set a plate of hot apple pie with ice cream

in front of him.

And it’s free of charge!

Chuck lingered, somber faced,

in the background.

I refilled his coffee cup.

“Look, I’m sorry you embarrassed yourself tonight.

It must have been humiliating 

to have been wrong in front of everyone.

I put a saucer of creamers in front of him.

But doesn’t it make you feel good

that I’m in trouble now?

A smile crept across his face.

 

Chuck led me to the office,

closed the door.

That’s two complaints in a week.

He shook his grey head.

You’re your own worst enemy,

ya know that?

He looked at me for a moment,

then stood up.

You’re fired.

Stay here. I’ll get the paperwork.

Another waitress popped her head into the office.

That pie guy is a jerk.

You can fight this, ya know.

“No, Gale, I don’t want to fight it anymore.

 

It’s a shame, really.

Chuck came back into the office

shoving papers in front of me.

I had high hopes for you. 

Suppressing a giggle, I signed my name.

I have high hopes for me, too.

I rose from my seat,

unsnapped the bow tie from around my neck,

tossed it onto his desk.

Untied my polyester apron,

threw it into his lap.

But I have no hope,

I thought as he escorted me out of the diner,

onto the busy sidewalk,

I have no hope 

for the human race.

Little St. Jeff

 

They come from the Walmarts of Nebraska.

They come from the corn fields of Eastern Europe.

They come from the mobile home parks of Florida. 

They come in their pep squad sweaters,

unshowered after soccer practice, 

Pioneer Chicken

and 7/11 hot dogs on their breath.

 

They come to me

unaware of their power,

afraid of their beauty.

I am their mentor,

their father confessor.

I treasure their broken homes,

their impoverished souls.

I fall asleep kissing their lips,

cradling them like babies

in my arms.

 

I own an island,I tell them,

where you are free to explore

your wildest desires.

Dispense with the conventional,

the pedestrian,

and I will change you

into something you never dreamed possible.

You can be the star of your own movie.

And then I send them in

like gazelle

to the starving tigers.

 

You see, the world is an intricate network

of hustlers and recruiters.

A pyramid scheme built on empires

and trailer park daughters.

A boutique of children

there for the taking.

Beauties in black slip dresses

and thigh-high boots

who answer only to me.

Men of science

plucked from the laboratories

of Harvard

and Princeton,

all orbiting around me.

I own dictators,

presidents,

judges.

I own the CIA

the FBI,

and the IRS.

I own their wives.

I have footage 

of them with the nubiles,

while they and their colleagues

watched.

I have the boys in blue

on a short leash.

I keep their balls 

in a climate-controlled aquarium.

When I get bored

I feed them to my Komodo dragon.

 

If I’m guilty of anything

it’s that I hold a mirror

to your face.

Look into that mirror.

Let me help you

make your dreams come true.

 

I had a dream

I was back in high school.

A couple of blonde jocks 

were shoving my head

into the toilet.

I was on my hands and knees,

my mouth wide open.

That’s my wish for you.

I want you groveling,

your head shoved

into the toilet bowl,

mouth wide open,

your lips quivering.

Crawl to me.

Crawl, 

and I’ll rock you to sleep

like a baby in my arms.

Also find Wendy Rainer’s short story ‘You’re So Beautiful, I Can’t Breathe’ here on Bold Monkey: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2022/06/short-story-wendy-rainey-youre-so.html

Wendy Rainey is author of Hollywood Church: Short Stories and Poems and Girl On The Highway. She is a contributing poetry editor on Chiron Review. Her poetry has appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Trailer Park Quarterly, Misfit Magazine and beyond. She is a 2022 recipient of the Annie Menebroker Poetry Award, and a runner-up in the 2022 Angela Consolo Mankiewicz Poetry Prize. She studied poetry with Jack Grapes in Los Angeles and creative writing with Gerald Locklin at California State University, Long Beach.