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by Steven McCabe
I was a dishwasher at the Executive Motor Hotel on King Street. The waitress with early 1960s-style hair, who was, maybe, 28, said, ‘If you want to come over after your shift I live nearby.’ Maggie May by Rod Stewart was playing on the radio. Seriously it was. At the time I was reading the writings of Antonin Artaud – founder of the Theatre of Cruelty. He claimed to own a walking stick stained with drops of the blood of Jesus Christ. I was trying to connect dots on a map that didn’t exist. I partook of the green, brown, and black herb. I partook of the artificial chariots. She was, maybe, 28.
from my book Meme-Noir (2019)
poemimage 
See, as I was saying to you at the coffee shop, you gotta be the dishwasher, the plumber, or some other kind of hands-on man. Easier to invite home. Easier to love. After all, loving is all about hands. Busy hands. Unashamed hands. Hands that do not judge but touch feelingly, exploringly. But who said the dishwasher couldn’t be a poet too? More challenging to love.
Cool stuff Joe. Sounds like a beat poem! I can hear the jazz musicians in the background. Thank you.