There's a tiny hotel in Salzburg I know
with a single bed
and a fuzzy little black and white TV
and a big widow overlooking a quaint Austrian alley
and a disinfectant white breakfast nook
with four tall glasses of orange juice
   Gelatinous forms strewn about the room
breath reeking of OJ and armpit
eau de alcohol
   girls in white dresses with red running gashes
giggling children bathed in curtains and nuns
confronting the horrifying reality of
LIESEL'S CLEAVAGE!!!
   There's a large manchild (Klaus) slumped over on the rug
nursing a two litre bottle of coke as an afterthought
"Decollete schmeckt gut!" he says.
(cleavage tastes good)
and we laugh.
Gad, we know what you want to write on, Rolf!
   And Mumpa stands by the window
(OJ in hand)
inhaling her first life breath
through the chemical imbalance
that had always been there,
but it took three dirty squirrels
(and half her OJ)
to awaken the beast within.
   "Kill the beast," we all chanted,
but the boys only understood one English word-
"Fuck."
   They'd take it from Petra.
or Uschi.
or Johanna.
or Kati.
or even Klaus.
   but they glimpsed the beast
and needed that American delicacy-
"Mumpafuck."
   Mumpa was a squat cabbage patch kid-
overstuffed and pimply
oozing from every orifice
blowing kisses out her ass into the alley,
buffed young Austrian men
catching them like fireflies in a jar
She was sixteen going on seventy.
They wanted to take her away
feed her Mozart's Balls on a silver platter.
   Petra set her glass on the dinette
(half empty now)
and nodded to Klaus
who nudged Uschi
who winked at Kati
who elbowed Johanna
   and they all set aside their drinks
and shelved their respective stupors
Struggling with gravity,
each stood erect
on his or her personal tectonic plate
   Each slid toward Mumpa,
her window,
her men on the street
and her destiny.
   Each placed a hand on the spandex and lycra
pulled taut against her wide hips
and gave a gentle nudge
helping her toward her destinyboys.
   It wasn't the thud or crash
you might expect when she hit
but a great splut across the cobblestones
pouring intestine and bone and orange juice
into the clean city gutters
down past Kartoffelsuppe cafes
past Mozart's Geburtshaus
into the Salzfluss.
   We all crowded around the window
peering out atop one another in height order
to see the pile of synthetic pants and goo.
Austrian boys scattering like tree-dappled sunshine.
   So we sat back down
with our lonely goatherd
and we laughed.
   I looked down at my hand-
the hand that pushed Mumpa out the window
blood on my hands
a flashing neon guilt sign
   I had to look twice
when Mumpa grabbed me from behind
to point out the broken glass
on the snow white Formica
blood and orange juice
dripping on the floor
like the great salt river
flowing from Liesel's Cleavage
to God's ears.

(spring 1997)

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