The Bluest Balls – Jasper Schlaffer

Whom loves makes so mad a rover,

‘LI take a cuckoo for a swallow,

 If she say so, sooth! He thinketh

There’s a plain where Puy-de-Dome is.

           Till his eyes and nails are gone,

He’ll throw dice and follow fairly

– such as old stories never vary –
For his fond heart is foredone.

Arnaut Daniel


It’s hot, the ground is wet

undoubtedly summer but I’m

thinking like a sled dog as the streets unwind in front of me

like a Russian tundra

or wherever they have sled dogs these days

Finland maybe. Or Alaska.

The smell of rain
on hot pavement; ethereal dampness

It’s good to see those petals

pearly eyed and laughing and breathing.

dry grass makes me sad,

and still        

I’m feeling like a truck
currently, temporarily         – perhaps –

what do?

with all these dogged thoughts of mine

I’m late, heavy-loaded and low on gas

a nuisance  

pacing, thinking

at a hundred miles an hour

with my mind astray

like a dog on the loose

chasing tail

the long leash dragging

behind me,  

I’m hoping

it won’t get entangled on some fire-hydrant or

other pole-like object

                                   or woman’s leg (likely)

– apologies in advance –

as I make my way with

only the locust to stir  and the

rattle from the motor compartment.

So long everybody, meant

no harm, just

worthless – Okay?  

Truck’s broken down again

no one left

to think of it, fix it or refuel

no gas in the tank, and no money in the bank to fix

my broken wheel and my
dilapidated muffler – complex metaphor for constipation and flatulence – emotional and physical

Congestion, inertia
                               fuck it,  leave it.

walk on.

There is a girl
with the warm smile and open heart of a used-car salesman.

What a


I am naturally suspicious when people want to

sell me stuff

especially so when I need it.  

I’m a tightrope walker on a barbed wire fence, telling

jokes that could make a grown man weep.  

I’m a rooster walking upon

broken eggshells on a meticulous search

for grains or worms.
On must be picky as a poet

looking for the right metaphor or simile

one must be


I am sure of my predicament

it’s gooey like egg yoke

My mind goes crazy when the taste is sweet

It starts again every morning


powdered pancake existence

and a cup of coffee

strong and bitter

to get through the day.

My troubles are numerous and immense

unaccountable, uncountable like cash

in emptying pockets.  

I’m hyperventilating, I don’t know how to breathe

my life is a debit account

my life is the Dow Jones industrial average June 15th 22

All my crypto-investor friends tell me

it will get better but
I don’t think so

I don’t think at all

except occasionally of

chicks as I stroll under starry canopy night

like a rat crawling through a drain pipe.

Inundate me, drown me out

flood the market.


is a tall lean lady

in synthetic leather boots

I have taken her home with me

more than once

She’s also a dope fiend

and a terrible roommate

smokes all your cigarettes and softly coughs up bedtime stories

She says “Stay with me, speak to me”

But what does anybody have to say these days?
“I’ve hit a flat tire on memory lane. Perhaps
Nostalgia sells well because there’s hardly a future ahead of us. Meaning me and you –”

“You have told me already” she sez
“But It’s hard to say if anything is gonna sell

and anyway

I couldn’t care less!” As I roll up in a Pangolin fetal curl, face

to face with    
Her heavy coat of make up

it cracks as she tries to break a smile.

Her eye-shadow is dark like carbon, pubic hair black

like a late Rothko[1] – sublime, profound and VERY EXPANSIVE


Maybe I’ll got to Houston one day and see for myself  

curl up, reenact the scene and then

whack off in the visitors restroom.


is what art does to you.

Splendid, marvelous.


[1]        References the Rothko chapel located in Houston Texas furnished with distinctly black paintings