Shane Allison

In his own words:

Shane Allison has been called a nigger, a fag and a genius. He hates and lives in Tallahassee, Florida. He has been published in a shit load of e-zines, magazines and anthologies. His chapbooks "Black Fag" and "Cock and Balls" is out and tearing up ass.

Read his work now.

the briefcase

We tumble out of the lift he catches the original smile from a pert clerk on lunch, disappearing into the ether of a deserted reception, while I struggle for words with security again. Still he left his briefcase which I stealthily identify as part of the Good Hope Business Collection, brown leather with triple gusset flap brief, slightly scuffed but not without re-sale possibilities.

Of course I open it, hoping to find a forwarding address... tssk as ever no address but find the following items:

1. New York, the entire lower eastside
2. Long Island ice teas
3. Andy Warhol
4. Gay porn magazines
5. My buddy Jarret
6. Journals with wide-ruled sheets
7. A mini tv
8. The Handbook of Poetic Forms, Ron Padgett
9. Allen Ginsberg
10. Butter pecan ice cream

Then I remember the scrappy bit of blotting paper he handed me in the lift and retrieve it from my blazer pocket. I unravel and find the following words and links scrawled hastily in blue biro:

www.eastvillagepoetry.com
www.futuretensebooks.com
www.friggmagazine.com
www.zygoteinmycoffee.com

and remember to mention
www.jarretkeene.com

So no forwarding address as usual but thankfully a floppy disk with selected work on. Phew.

Shane Allison

The Night  My Sister and I Boycotted Crow

Pitch black flocks resting on the wires of telephone poles.

My Daddy couldn’t resist bringing them to their deaths with a pellet gun.

They were like shooting paper ducks at the North Florida Fair.

Pelted by pellets in their crow hearts.

One final caw, caw before tumbling into a thicket

of blackberries. Thorns stuck into silken wings.

“No need to let a good bird go to waste”, Daddy says.

Thrown into the sink, Mama digs out innards

and pellets. She tosses the head

in the blue trash can, plucks the feathers

as they pile at her feet,

cloak her leopard-printed bedroom shoes.

Tender pink meat rinsed beneath scalding water,

baptized in seasoning salt, slices of celery over the eyes

like pennies. Crow drifts on a raft of bell pepper,

carrots, fresh potatoes in the pot. Nothing like the scent of crow

permeating through the house. “Yall can come

on eat now, the food’s done,” Mama yells from the kitchen.

She spoons mountains of rice, baby corn on our plates.

A buttered roll is the great wall between the two.

My sister refuses to eat the meat. She cries for the crow.

“Hush gal and eat,” Mama tells her, but she refuses.

Instead she makes a crucifix out of her knife and fork

and mourns. So I too, follow suit, 'cause I never wanted it dead

Anyway. Daddy sucks the bones whole, sops up its juices

with them buttered rolls. He looks at us with greasy lips

and says, “If you kill what you don’t eat, that’s a sin.” 

My sister and I refuse to give in and ask to be excused.

“No,” Mama yells. “Not until you don ate every bitta that bird.” 

All I do is pick at it, push it around with my finger.

Daddy tires of our boycott and says, “Gone scrape

out your plates.” We leave them to fight and holler amongst

themselves, realizing we have won this good fight.

It's a Sin

A collaboration by Shane Allison and Justin Barrett

It's a sin, she tells me.
But to be honest, I know less about sins and more
about being a sinner.
It's a sin to believe in halos and heaven.
It's a sin not to think that God is a bodybuilder with
a small pecker.
It's a sin to think of another while fucking her.
It's a sin to think of God's small pecker while
fucking someone.
It's a sin to moon a bus load of nuns and not think
that you can get away with it.
She keeps telling me about all the sins I have
committed,
but she's never once told me
it's a sin to kill what you don't eat.
It's a sin to wear burgandy after Arbor Day.
It's a sin not to drink, smoke and snort coke.
It's a sin to piss on the shoes of yuppies.
It's a sin to steal bread when you're starving,  or
water when you're thirsty.
It's a sin to have only one wife.
It's a sin to die alone.
It's a sin not to cheat multiple times on your
boyfriend.
It's a sin to be a millionaire and still an asshole.
It's a sin to be a know-it-all-boy scout.
It's a sin to down load music off the internet that
you haven't paid for.
It's a sin to be a holier than thou girl scout.
It's a sin to eat magic mushrooms without sharing.
It's a sin to beat the hell out of pizza delivery
guys.
It's a sin, she said, that you didn't eat my pussy
while you were down there.

I Dreamt You Took Me to the Movies

We met at a drugstore

Cuz my folks didn’t know about you and the fact

I was half your age.

We left in your hot tamale-red convertible.

Flying down the street with the sugar baby-brown top,

Cruising to the tunes of Bruce Willis’ blues band.

The parking lot of the cineplex was packed.

Thought we would never find a space.

We needed to hurry; the movie was about to start.

Don’t worry, you said. There’s about seven minutes of previews,

But what you didn’t understand

Was that the previews are the best part.

The marquee lit up across from Garfield’s Bar and Grill.

A line of people slithered around walls, department stores.

I bought the tickets ahead of time.

The usher with dreadlocks,

That went down the back of his paisley vest,

Tore our tickets.

You wanna get some popcorn, you asked.

We stood in line at the concession stand.

Next in line, the girl yelled.

You wanna get a large popcorn together, you asked.

We stared at the menu

Of meal deals,

Nachos,

Hotdogs,

Soft drinks.

Okay, let’s get that, I said.

You want butter? the concessionist asked.”

It didn’t matter to me.

We decided to go without.

Anything else, she inquired.

I looked down into the candy case

Craving Chocolate-covered peanuts,

Gummi Bears,

Sour Patch Kids,

Junior Mints by the hand full.

She shoveled crisp popcorn in a glossy bag.

You got a diet Coke and I a Sprite

I grabbed napkins, as you stood with cold drinks in your hand.

The theatre was pitch.

We could only see when the lights from the screen shined

On the shirts and blouses of people in the seats they chose.

I hate coming to the movies late.

Having to say excuse me, sorry, pardon me.

We found two vacant chairs in the fifth row.

My mother always said it's bad for your eyes if you sit too

Close to the screen.

But I didn’t care about my eyes

Or the closeness of movie screens

As long as I was with you.

At Andy’s Deli

‘Bout lost my mind when I didn’t see the usual.

Where the pies at? I asked the cute, East Indian man

Standing behind the counter.

We sold out, he said.

I didn’t know Hostess Apple Pies were so popular

Among the masses of Greenwich Village.

He knows how much I like my real fruit filling,

The preservatives and artificial flavors.

My world ain’t nothin’ but a flaky crust,

A cream-filled Twinkie.

Gotta get somethin’.

My sweet tooth is killin’ me.

What’s it going to be:

Snowballs?

Ho Ho’s?

Zingers?

Crumb Coffee Cakes?

None of this I like.

Wait, this look good:

Coconut Crunch Donut Delites.

Six in a row.

I’ll take these, I told the clerk.

Place two quarters in his hand.

Pull open the wrapper,

Took the first one out for a taste test,

And right then I knew, this was the last snack cake

That was going to take the place of my everyday routine.

No One Calls Me

No one ever calls me.
I gave Antler my number,
But he never calls.
I’ve called him on several occasions

And he wrote explaining that he doesn’t
Like to talk on the phone.
My sister calls home everyday.
Does she ever call to talk to me? No.

No one calls me.
Ian doesn’t have my phone number,
But even if he did, he wouldn’t call.
Neither would Jeff, who I called once,

But due to bad reception, I couldn’t
Hear a word he was saying.
I have Kalisha’s number,
But considering she just moved

To the Bronx, who’s to say this is still her number?
I called Ben, but his number is no longer
In service. Brian prefers if I call before eleven.
I used to call Mike all the time, but he was always busy

And had no time to talk, so I stopped calling.
Matt is the only one I call these days,
But all I get is his answering machine.
I leave a message, yet he never returns my telephone calls.

Trebor, Kevin and Peter don’t call.
Nick doesn’t want to talk to me.
I know Daniel, Sean and Melanie screen their calls
When I call.

R.L., Todd, and Jonathan
Don’t have my number, and why should I give it to them?
It’s not like they would call.
Vytautas keeps asking for my number,
But he has no time to talk to me when he’s

Writing a script for HBO.
Kirk doesn’t call. Neither does Karen
Or Gerald. Jarret lives in Las Vegas.
You think he ever calls me? Hell no.

Joe won’t call.
My grandma calls, but you think she calls
To ask me how I’m doing? Virgil doesn’t call me.
Doug doesn’t call and neither does David.

I might as well run out in front of a Mack truck
Being that these people never call me.
Rick, the manager at Film Forum,
Never did call to set me up for a job interview.

I get calls from the College Loan Corp,
And telemarketers trying to sell me
A newspaper subscription.
Barnes and Nobles called to let me know

That my book was in. Wasn’t that nice of them?
But other than that, no one ever calls me.
Who gives a shit how I’m doing?
Who wants to burn up free weekend minutes

Talking to a nobody like me?
No one ever calls me. I might as well overdose
On a packet of backache pills, slit my wrists
In a bathtub of bathwater, ‘cuz no one’s going to call.

I bet they would call then.
Bet the phone would ring off the hook.
Would be just my luck to get all these calls
From callers who never called before.

But what good would it do being that
I wouldn’t be able to take their calls anyway?
That is if they would even call,
Which I don’t think they would.

Tallahassee Needs a Bathhouse

For there are too many queerboys
Crying nightly, like wolves, in parking lots.
All those cars on a Saturday night
Where old men sit armed with hard-ons.

For there are too many teenage boys
Walking lustfully and loveless down the dark street of Park Avenue Where old men sit in their vans armed with hard-ons, Where cops hide out, unmarked in plain clothes.

Walking lustfully and loveless down the lonely street of Park Avenue Are preachers and teachers and college boys who seek the joys of gay sex Where cops hide out, unmarked in plain clothes Waiting to catch and cuff prominant figures in the buff.

Preachers and teachers and college boys seek the joys of gay sex On the hardwood benches in Tom Brown Park, But cops await to seal the fate of prominant figures in the buff With their stainless steel handcuffs.

On the hardwood benches of Greene Peck Park,
Sits stark naked, a man named Clark,
Who doesn’t know that cops get ruff with their stainless-steel handcuffs To those who prance around like flamingoes in their birthday suits.

Sitting stark naked is a man named Clark
Who is about to catch heat, by a cop on the beat
Capturing those who prance around like flamingoes in their birthday suits Down the streets of Park Avenue.

He’s about to catch heat by a cop on the beat
But to get this down, in this here town,
To keep things quiet as a mouse,
Tallahassee needs a bathhouse.

What I Remember About Jarret

I remember when I first saw you. You were wearing dark
shades.
I think you said hello to me, but I paid you no
attention & wondered who the hell you were.

I remember black hair that was somewhat curly.

I remember your lips.
I remember white, freshly printed out poems on a desk.
I remember you took my dragon journal and wrote me a
check for sixteen dollars.

I remember regretting cashing that check.
I remember great big handwriting.
I remember low quiz scores written in red ink.

I remember you saying something about wanting to stick
your dick between the tits of young freshman girls.

I remember asking you if you were into fat chicks
I remember eating sandwiches at Schlotsky’s.
I remember a black toenail in sandals.

I remember being kicked out of the office.
I remember boxes upon boxes of undistributed literary magazines.

I remember the picture of a woman on a green cover
eating an apple.

I remember calling and asking, “Did you get any hits?”
I remember the endless lists of magazines you got
published in.
I remember being a little jealous of all the magazines
you got published in.

I remember you calling and telling me you found a
publisher for Monster
Fashion, and how happy and excited I was for you.

I remember the smell of honey mustard and the sight of
an empty Chicken Mcnugget box. (I was sure Todd left it).

I remember a box filled with fat envelopes of poetry submissions. I remember walking in on you with your shirt off. I remember how quickly you put it back on when you saw it was me.

I don’t quite remember the day you left Tallahassee.

© All poems copyright Shane Allison 2004 and all are reproduced with kind permission.

Please email me if you want to contact the author.