Fetishism is a pathological disorder characterized by
a peeping creep stealing your panties from the drier
while you were down the block at the café sipping
a cappuccino and talking to a neighbor about how hard
it is to meet straight men in the city. The fetishist usually
holds the desired object and licks, rubs, or smells it,
which reminds him of lonely vacations as a teenager
in which he’d put his arms around trees and fantasize
high heels pressing into his back while his first grade
teacher pulled out his little jigger and displayed it to the
class saying he would never grow into the type of man
that anyone would want. Nearly all fetishists are male
though sometimes women will cross-dress and imagine
their vaginas being licked by bears, wolverines, and
sometimes even lions depending upon their relationship
with their fathers who also were fetishists married to
women who were soccer moms during the day and
devoted churchgoers on Sunday.
The sound of it is ominous.
Like something you’d get from eating too much raw fruit
in a tropical climate or passing bad checks.
Like something you’d get from a dirty toilet seat
or rubbing your eyes after watching a bad movie.
Like something you’d get from bleaching your skin
or reading Antoin Artaud on an empty stomach.
Like something you’d get from what your cat dragged in
that reminds you of a loved one who passed away
without leaving you in their will.
Like something you’d want to say to impress someone
but are always too late, settling for a life of secondary gratification
just like your mother before you.
Something Like That
Certainly, if I had a dollar for every minute I’ve been depressed,
I’d be a rich man. Rich enough to live in a huge mansion with
a swimming pool, a basketball court, and a movie theater. I’d
have several live-in servants, including a chauffeur to drive me
around in one of my Mercedes Benzes or Rolls-Royces during
the day and at night my stretch limousine that would have
a built in bar, television, and library in case I wanted to read
some poetry as a little diversion from the beautiful women
at my side. Then, when I’d get depressed, I’d realize this life
isn’t so bad after all. I’d just sit back in my deck chair in front
of the pool, a glass of my favorite wine in hand, and as I tilted
my face toward that great Southern California sun, I’d reflect
on that old saying: You can’t have a rainbow without a little rain—
or something like that!
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. He’s been publishing poetry, fiction, and non-fiction in literary magazines and anthologies for many moons. Recent work in Coe Review, Mas Tequila, After The Pause, The Inflectionist Review, Serving House Journal, and many others.
Bill Wolak is a poet, photographer, and collage artist. He has just published his twelfth book of poetry entitled Love Opens the Hands with Nirala Press. Recently, he was a featured poet at The Hyderabad Literary Festival. Mr. Wolak teaches Creative Writing at William Paterson University in New Jersey.