GENERAL REVENUE CORPORATION

This poem was published in the latest Main Street Rag:


GENERAL REVENUE CORPORATION

I used to work for a collection agency
so I know: you invent a code name
and sit at a desk with a headset and dial
hundreds of telephone numbers each day
to try to find people and convince them
to pay old defaulted bills plus interest.
My technique was to lever on their
loved ones, religion, to come down hard
on morality, duty, guilt, etc. Anyway,
now it’s years later and some collector
who calls himself “Eric” has been looking
for me. He phoned my boss. I called him back.
“You found me, Eric,” I said, “you’ve
earned your seven bucks an hour.” “I
try,” he said. He was a laid back, good-cop
kind of guy, a pal, a technique I never
cared for. It was an old loan: eight grand.
“I’ll pay you 25 bucks a month,” I said.
“200 is as low as it goes,” he said. “Sure,
Eric,” I said, “I’ll give you 50 dollars
a month.” “150,” he said, “Now I’m already
breaking policy.” “85,” I said. “Let me
talk to my supervisor,” he said. “By the
way,” I said, “how’d you find me?” “I
Googled you,” he said, “I found out you
were a writer and a taxi driver in Tucson,
then I called all the taxi companies.”
“Pretty good,” I said. “Thank you,” he said.
“By the way,” I said, “I don’t make a penny
for the writings.” “Don’t worry,” he said,
“I believe you.” There was a small silence
before he put me on hold so he could
go talk to his stupid supervisor.

DROUGHT RESISTANT STRAIN is now on Amazon

David Bates from Interior Noise Press has got my book DROUGHT RESISTANT STRAIN on Amazone. Check it out and buy a copy HERE

MY OTHER JACKET

I have a story at Bastards and Whores HERE.

THE ROAD TO THE CASINO DEL SOL

I have a story in Smokelong

HERE

NEXT TIME TAKE SUNRISE

Thanks to Brian Fuggett at Zygote in My Coffee for publishing a story of mine

HERE

RUSTY BARNES INTERVIEWS ME

HERE

DOUBLETREE LIZ

This poem was published recently in Main Street Rag.


DOUBLETREE LIZ

She's sixty now
and from Yuma,
moved here to Tucson
twenty nine summers ago
and got hired at the Doubletree Inn
on the switchboard.
She's worked there
ever since.
She lights up
forty cigarettes a day
and wheezes from the ten ghost-like paces
from her apartment door
to my cab.
I say good morning
but she only puts a finger up in front of her
cross-hatched agony
and rolls her gravelly mucous
up the hill to the back
of her throat
before raising a white handkerchief like a flag
of surrender to her lips.
We can never talk
until we get a mile
or more down Wilmot
towards the Doubletree
where construction makes
it stop and go, where between
puffing workmen
kettles of tar boil and
stink at ten a.m.
If she's able
Liz tells me stories
of a world clogged with bile
and privilege.
If I'm able
I wave her money away
like smoke.