Potion Magazine - Poetry + Fiction
Walter Moore
My Uncle Manny is a bit off the handle. He's a schoolteacher and in the summers he drives his van to Denver and sleeps in it for three months. I believe he thinks his van is a dance club.
[or]
Welcome To My Van


I.

Welcome to my Van! Hey little girl, hey Rico, Welcome to my Van! Have a portion of my soul or realize your problem. Your wife is cheating on you, sir. Your daughter is smoking the dope, ma'am. Welcome to my Van and welcome your livers. The first drink's on me! See the spotlight, this disco ball, find truth in your ability to feel your pulse. Hey kids, forget your parents. Everyone's related here. If you're lost you will be found, and if you're found then Welcome to my Van! Dance, dance, dance. Don't underestimate the power of the jig. Introduce yourselves, ladies and gents, because all beams are on you. Feel the healthy sweat and dance like it's your last. Don't be bogged down by your jobs. Hey attorney who stretches too much, hey librarian whose panties bunch, come inside and drink my punch! Find something or find it soon. Hey Auto, I'm talking to you. Don't walk by wearing your leather. Have some respect for the man, have some respect for this Van. Hey colonel, bring your wife or your flag. You see my sign in neon lights. Welcome to my Van!

II.

Your sang-froid is welcome too - your second beast don't find it soon. Because here we house Chuck the mind mechanic, BethAnn (Van bless her) and Prefontaine (Eugene's Olympic hopeful dying on curving streets). Abe sitting on twin stools with a walrus sipping juice and gin balls fantismo. Welcome to my Van where kings are lovers and lovers are plebeians. Mason doesn't seem to mind; he's got Ralph on hand clean and keen with his grins. Find It, Race towards that grief flame of life time side ache you call force force forcefulness into throbbing throngs of Less death pain, suffering, agony, and bliss. Trash, crash, wake up and Welcome Yourself to my Van!

III.

It's here for you and here for we rolling off my mind and down your knee. I have my itch my fix my disco ball. You've got your groove, we've seen it all. We've been there before, angelfish! we shout with force. Welcome to my Van you bastard beast, mammoth-hound, 4-wheel drivin' m***erfucker, my Van is your rest stop your death stop your mind drop and so goes that train. Wave it on, noone's getting off or on today. We're sleep dancing.

IV.

The Van dangles, Van chugs on motionless no engine (perhaps) it creeps up on walls of mind. It's more than a party, it's a celebration of existence-it's a galactic mind chant. It's a slow southern drawl it's a fast northern talkmad of walk the curving line; there is no dichotomy! Van permeates Van navigates Van leads to ultimate fantasy fantismo here Earth Venice Boise Sasquatechewan and now. It is It! Welcome to my Van! It's your Van no, but maybe one day you can call it your own. Welcome to this space clinic, this time warpzone of cosmos loud yell—this butchering of cosmos with knife mind-we use mind as gun words as bulletsarrow kill sleepers with talk kill the resters with restlessness-you can kill the Van with van ammunition when sun rises with ultimate perfection world. But until then then Beauty. Beauty is Van. Beauty is Plan if you don't have one. Johnny Macchio waits in driver's seat for you and me to come through clean.

V.

I hear you standstill people. I hear your guise, your anti Van replies. I hear you mister strange socks, misses funny balks, you say to her, hello there wet hair triangle. My body is a faulty masterpiece. I haven't breathed well since birth, my baby is an orange gorilla of hickory, I'm chained to this peace prison cell this lavender comfort hell-stuck in the middle of a jester and a madwoman. No one's home there in the vagabond Van hotel, the leachroach motel the ringworm ill hell "Bartender, O Ale!" Can't seem to find the right synch the right time to tongue the words I want-to breach the bonds I broached. To hell with mantongue in a wastebasket! And I respond to you Van fan club destroyer, Van poo-poo fantismos. And I say to hell with your army pants in a rentfree zone! To hell with mr mann burning peace card sealing his war! I have gone down into the depths of my ache mind ache to heal the dusty brain cloud and then I watch the televisionhypnoticmachine and see my own eyes with no face attached. You Rubbish Rube! The Van is always what you've wanted!

VI.

Apparently in old time India a widowed wife would throw herself into the flames of her cremating husband. It was considered virtuous for her to kill herself in this flame manner. Ouch, lady! Welcome to my Van!

VII.

Hey master with your top hat full of nemeses, we're all masters of our own tube socks, of our own intimidation. Is it fear or laziness that's the problem? I say neither. Neither here nor there. It's the trance daze-it's the landing on the moon with no parachute. Getting in the shuttle with no screwdriver-vodka me, sir. Hello there zombie happenstance, young man baggy pants-who is your master, who painted your mustache? Let me tell you about the shit river-try going through that without an innertube-it's a mess of a mess of a mess.

All shitty I swim to the doors and get a room at the Shangri La Hotel. She, the reception, says "Will this be under Van?" I say, no, put this reservation under Foreskin and wink to the sidewinder. We have a moment, and she realizes I eat vanilla wafers with my one right mind. I look for seashells in the commode. I light my cigarettes with your ill words. I plant my flowers with your spit. I masturbate to your frowning face. I see the mushroom cloud coming down on the hearts of the little boys and girls spewing their soft drinks from room service. My fingers won't quit.

VIII.

Diamonds are a woman's best friend and dogs are man's. For Christmas is a holiday of synthetic emotions. I celebrate pine trees on my birthday. It's a race for the fortune cookie of course, race for that side ache, race for jeers. Think trice-let's flesh it out, flesh it off, keep it coming keep it going keep that streamline, baby hold your megaphone! Ape the show, get it going gyrate, meditate on doing it faster do nothing faster. Plaster the chain and shatter chug train on the vixen misses. Don't mess with cleanliness, take it in dirty like it cruel gritty, figure out how to turn the head of an icon, to bleed the silver of a wooden nickel, to outrage the panda man, to drink the sewer from the model lady's face, to enlighten me with tupper ware, to wear a coat and tie made of salami, to carry a briefcase of cunts, to do taxes for your crotch. Maybe maybe, I don't want to date myself here, but fowk it, Van timeless, maybe one day I'll have a 3 some , man to west man to east, I'll take it for the systems, I'll toss Ashcroft's salad, I'll give Rumsfeld a golden shower, I'll have Electoral College tattooed on my ass. Welcome to My Van!

IX.

We prompt the waves, create gods with the press of palms. Flex the calf, rewrite the mundane to fix zombies in basements, eat shit for breakfast with expensive silverware, lend penny loafers to jock straps. I fuck holes in walls for leftover sausage, entertain my own throat with funny grapes, elevate my conscience with crazy handshakes, let my hound loose on the NRA. Young Spot gets shot for wagging. During Spot's last waking moments he asks, "Where's the biscuit." Oh Spot, I say to him, you weren't Van ready.

Hello there high-heeled red lady dressin for impressin. Who ordered you another bongo? Was it Captain Word Salad over there! He's nothing but a jungle gym of STDs, his Rolex is fake, and his ego slaps the monster. "Get it!" he says, "My swerve is for the ladies. Notch Belt coming through, my laugh is my own best friend. I show my pearls of white for the pootie tang." I say to him that he can't hide the emptiness of his shadows on the wall. His grin is the salt for my peehole-looking at his velvet is a mamba dance with hell. I slide to the end of this art gallery. Bartender, Driver, take me to the intersection of that one-way crooked and beyond! My balls will ride shotgun. Welcome to My Van!

X.

This is it. Are you Van Ready royal family? I didn't drive this carriage of road salad and porridge all the way here to park the Lonesome. It isn't Van Futile extravaganza, it's not Van circus with a poor sideshow showing, I didn't leave my mind at the reststop. For, it's my time to flesh it off with a mesh hat and nothing out-I'm leaving my consciousness dangling, I'm here in the permanent temporary, and my tongue flickers for your dance party: I'm going to get myself a plot of a show acre on pay-per-view, sponsored by Van Light. I'm going to dress up as a cowboy, smoke a cigarette and tell you that fast food is reverse enlightenment for your colon. And here it is: On this pay-per-view channel I'm going to get Howard Dean and George Dubya and fit them into nothing else but the lower half of Underoos-old man superstrength elevated by tight undergarment. I'll give the two oldies wiffle ball bats-We in the audience will throw grandma's pies at them labeled healthcare and gay rights and NAFTA. They will swing for the mud pits, for the bleachers full of puppeteers and salami, for test tubes, for nothing in particular. And the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders will be there. Yes, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, smiling pretty white castles hoping for a good showing and an eightball at halftime. Maybe Beyonce and Cher will be there in yellow hair lip-synching the pie toss-and I will be there-you will be there, the climax of the Underoo wiffle ball fight will come in the last remaining pie round when Dean all politically pie battered and mind scattered will wiffle stroke Dubya in the crotch, and we in the audience might yell, "Should've worn a cup, George!" Then, George would disappear into the nights of ill advisors, and Dean would be declared the winner-we'd strip him down, he grinning all proud of his crotch manner, and Hillary sporting a new mohawk might take the winning underwear and place it over her left boob, Bill playing saxophone for rape rooms. And Dean would jump in the shit river, and that would be the last we heard from that doctor. And Van would be victorious!-The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders would be victorious. We would make 1,000 thoughts per second for promos. Hasselhoff would shave his chest for the death penalty, and I would say to him, "The only nightrider here is this public pubic dance party of Van and beyond!" Oh well, that's a keen prison thought anyhow isn't it? But what it all means is that I have contact with you over gelatin and tax returns. We eat for the last remaining semblance of mortality. We dance to the benefit concert of our genitals. We pride ourselves on doing the Orangutan. We dive into a pool of kaleidoscopic visions. We arch our backs for moonshine. But do you know that I'm tired here, Van and all, because moon clouds and moonshines rain down on households, and I get pretty good gas mileage, but this is Welcome To My Van, not Welcome To My Jet! Oh yes, and you good people will keep going out into the streets of happenstance and confusion and morbidity and bliss and Christianity and kiss-yet all the while, I, soul burn-out infantismo, want you to keep this Van in mind. Keep going with that chug train jug train kiss the misses for the hisses. Keep going for the sidewind one-lane black top of roach brandy and leather. Remember to halt for the kiddies in the spotlight. Keep going for that family of nihilists washing your dreams with soap and congratulations; they realize it's all perhaps a pleasant pipe fantasy doing it up solid and beyond, and that we have faith with a p h , that we give bowls of road hugs for the warmth of it all, and that somewhere sometime the wheels will never quit.



Born in Singapore. Lives in Austin, TX. Recent MFA in Creative Writing graduate from Texas State University -- San Marcos.

Copyright 2005 Walter Moore.