Right in the middle of a massive
Walmart parking lot
An enterprising young lady
preyed on cars in a most unusual way
Weaving in and out of crowded lanes with consummate skill
she soaped up every windshield for free - no charge - no bill
Her calling card sticking out from the wipers at a hyper-extended angle
she fully expected to cash in on her ludicrous finagle…
But alas and alack, her business was about to go ka-plooey
For just as she sponged extra soap on her two-hundredth car
The sheriff of the town approached her, trying not to grin
“If you wipe down all them windshields, darling
~ ~ I may not put you behind bars”
paint drips down small hands
artists’ mural’s a fridge door
—soaped, sobs for new skill
"canon service"
“We follow the rules here”, he said incorruptibly
like he was untainted as holy water
from the incorruptible font,
he had an upward inflection in his voice
at the end of every punctuated point,
delivered like a canon service
his gun and bullets were larger
apparently...he was high, the pulpit lofty
far above the soaped-up sinners
some of us inside were grinning
too much alter wine
he was probably juiced,
then unctuously he shared his fat sermon
as if to convey to the congregated
a good and proper sluicing,
the service was poetic
no hymns in this church
salvation tamborines
to beat the devils out,
some of us inside were grinning
Candide Diderot. ‘23
canon.
cannon.
He turned off the running water,
soaped his face not glancing at the mirror,
a long night ahead.
He had four shadows
on the four walls of this rental,
not a good sign.
When later he turned the bedside light on,
the glowing silhouette of his head on the pillow
burgeoned, swelling upwards until
it pancaked on the ceiling above.
Still groggy after the hashish
still psychoactive,
he got dressed.
Out walking the dark Luxor streets
he found a coffee shop still open.
The thick sweet brew was served to him,
a lime green dwarf
sporting a banana yellow fez.
Never again he thought,
patting his pockets hoping to find
some curative cancer sticks.
A cut-throat razor is being stropped.
A chin lifted, neck extended,
a soaped throat exposed.
There will be blood,
not in the close shave,
but on the keening blade
of that singing steel
we all must feel.
A shank unseen
where a thin-lipped death
trembles
with expectation.
"A Game of Snakes and Ladders"
It’s like a game,
a game of
Snakes
and Ladders,
some spend their lives
climbing ladders
up the corporate sticks
sliding all the way
back down on their sore
sweet and sorry revelations
soap boxes thrown and burnt
like needles lost in hay
we all become
redundant at some point
on some slippery soaped-up stage
greeted by the Dickinson himself
holding all the horses’ reins...
“She parked Silver Lady by The Road's side,
placed the keys in Her pocket
Her hands were warm Her eyes were cold
She smiled a tight smile
You know, full of passion, full of ire -
Her heart was an inferno,
inside her was a Wicker Man
Her heart was burning up, on fire
Ferociously She slammed the car door
and walked into the Woods ...”
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity – “
Of whooshy bottoms I do speak,
Across the tub they do squeak.
Cheek to cheek over tub and tile,
My little girl likes to slide in style.
She invites folks over two at a time,
Splits their quarters,
And keeps a dime.
Sets her friends up at the tubs far end,
Makes sure bottoms are soaped for a slide to the end.
Speed trials have always been fun,
Until the soap holder came to an end.
Halloween Two Oh One Nine
By Franklin Price
10/31/2019
Halloween two-oh-one-nine
Not what it used to be
As when I trick or treated
And the candy was for me
There were no giant super stores
With costumes by the score
No internet, no Amazon
For delivery to my door
I wore a sheet, went as a ghost
For candy took a sack
Did not have an I-phone
That my parents then could track
When young, my siblings took me
Was the youngest of them all
They were too old to trick or treat
So they took me to the ball
They wore masks, just to please me,
To show me how to play the game
When doors were opened, with the candy,
They held their sacks to get the same
No one would refuse them
For they had a tyke in hand
And did not want soaped windows
Or a place for eggs to land
Today is so much different
Trick-or-treaters very few
Might be taken by a pervert
Maybe even poisoned too
Trust is there no longer
To trick or treat from door to door
Back in the day, when we got home,
Dumped our candy on the floor
Was not put there for inspection
But to see how we had fared
From the trick-or-treat providers
Who gave us goodies 'cause they cared
in her shower
she showed me
how a simple
soaped soft
hand can
palm
a naked
body so no
trap doors can
be found yet while
mesmerized by dance
what are the chances that
from out
her underarm
she smiles her
smiling charm and
says softly to me is this
breathing seductively is this
your card
our card
shall ever
be if it is
the Queen
of Hearts
Most Delectable You
In a shower, beneath a rainbow
waterfall of colors,
So beautifully, radiant are you!
I adore watching my Adonis soap his
enticing, glistening dewy skin.
He's so hunky and hypnotic,it makes
my head spin.
He's a delight to my soul and the joy
of my days and nights.
That slippery soaped, olive-skinned god.
The quintessential~love of my life.
Panagiota Romios
4/7/2019
The shower
By Franklin Price
9/13/2017
It's early morn near London town
We're outside for a smoke
The story I'm about to tell
Is real and not a joke
Across the street apartments
and, at this early hour,
In the middle of the second floor
Is a woman in the shower
The window large and crystal clear
No curtains in the way
As we watched, I'm thinking to myself,
What a way to start the day
There was no fog to block the view
Watched as she washed her hair
Then as she soaped her body
Could see all the parts were there
I felt I was a voyeur
She had not a thing to hide
My wife, the other one of we,
Said it's time we went inside
My thoughts are laundered,
all soaped up and soaking;
cold and hot water rushed
round and round in bubbles.
Dirty and clean blend in the soup
swirling in the mixed myriad of dreams;
lost to its original form and use intent
faded colors mixing in the froth.
A word spoken, taken back again, slips and slides
mesmerized by the true reality guides
of wash and rinse, dry wrinkles unhinged
as life adheres to the cyclic spin.
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
...for Ted Kooser
It belonged to my dad.
More antique than useful it lay
in my tool box begging to be used.
Soaped and sharpened so many times
before use, its blade was now dull and lifeless.
I took it with me everywhere I went
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up. The skilsaw
superseded; a cold, efficient
implement that did as it was told
with ne'er a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I'd nicked and cut until I bled
when choosing my old friend;
museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away.
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
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