Groundhog Day
Michael Angelo Tata

I just finished having sex like
ten minutes ago. Kooky called
right in the thick of things. I
said, “Kris, I’m in the middle
of sex—there’s fat-free whipped
cream everywhere—I have to go!”
and she said, “OK—just let me
tell you something—” and told me
several and he was very impatient,
so I said, “Just call me any day
this week“ and hung up the phone,
leaving it off the hook, since
she’d probably call right back.

A green light on the cellular
recharger goes “Blink, blink,
blinkety-blink” and Plan 9
from Outer Space
is on the
television. He smokes a clove
with the window half-open,
naked on a swivel chair he found
in the basement. Dinner consisted
of rapidly disappearing fajitas with
salsita and corn tortillas. All day
I sat at Starbucks and read
Philosophy about the end
of philosophy. A-Bomb rang
but never left a number so I
couldn’t call him back.
I had to pee, so I asked
a spiteful old man to watch
my stuff, and he said, “Ya
think someone’s gonna take
that?” All the Bill Hallman
was on sale at House of Field,
neon nylon with thick black
zippers—what would I do
without a Gold Card? Winter
suddenly ended—it was warm
and lovely. I wore only a tee
shirt—Moschino—and let the
funky breeze waft me down
the road with breathy puffs
and chords and kisses. Melting
snowmen reconstituted into
liquid gods, sportively rocking
me on gently undulating wave-
forms resonating at the
frequency of radium.

“You are not alone,” as
the Michael Jackson single
goes. Sing it, Money.

Squeezed into Italian
jeans the color of
anti-freeze, my legs
dance out from under
me in the exhilaration
of a pagan fertility ritual.