God and the Poet

that God

and The Poet

are

so often

at ODDS

is no surprise

at least not to me

you see

to Be a Poet

a REAL one

mind you

not some ass

looking for a couple of

words

that happen

to rhyme

NO

to be a real Poet

is to be

God

or a little god

at least

it is to be a

CREATOR

of worlds and dreams

a generator of

love and hate

laughter and tears

of human weakness

and heroic strength

but like that

most beautiful angel

fallen long ago

we are not

Him

at best poor plagiarizers

of His creation

and somehow

that

pisses us off

When We Are Rock Stars

i've a friend a respectable women

a good wife and mother

who lives in a bastion of knowledge and wealth

she is kind

of heart and deed

sometimes she comes to see me

AND WE LIVE

LIKE ROCK STARS

there is no limit to our decadence

we eat the richest deserts first then

dinner with heavy sauces of dairy and drippings

DRINKING WINE

from the bottle without wiping it's near

escape

down our chins

WE SCREW

with reckless abandon

committing unnatural acts in elevators of hotels

where we are not even guests

we drive to delta riverboats at three a.m.

and play blackjack and craps

I SHAKE DICE and

SHE BLOWS

on them making points the hard way

AND WE DANCE

early or late in clubs with pulsing music to loud to stand

still

AND WE DANCE ALONE

skin touching skin with no music at all

save what is in our hearts

and then after THE FINAL CURTAIN

we are ourselves again

the homemaker and the hobo

until the next time that

WE ARE ROCK STARS

the arkansas queen

she groaned in pain
as she passed by
and i was unconvinced
that she enjoyed
the symbiotic relationship
she shared with
amateurishly drunk
tourist on her upper deck
the wide paddle wheel
waved good -bye
churning brown water white
easing slowly down the river
befitting a gal
her age

For Bukowski

the suicide kid
is
dead
and
gone
he
died
of natural causes
he drank himself
to
death
i steal and cry
and
crack
all
day

THE SUICIDE KID RIDES AGAIN

In Transit

Great White Behemoths

Pull in One Followed

By The Next

Their Sides Silently

Selling Services

Boldly Plucking Eyes

Puking and Defecating

The Men and Women Who Rush

To Work Leaping

Into The Jaws of the Next Beast

Fathers Day

I sat in

the

back row sweltering heat

while the lay minister

practiced on us

going on way to long to the menagerie

of home deprived hungrys

that waited for the

free meal

Pizza today I guess

nobody cared

to cook on Fathers Day

It might have gotten me down

since it has been a lifetime

without me having seen

the kids

but instead I watched as a

daughter

leaned toward her Father

toes tippying neck stretching and lips pursed at the ready

and he bent his head toward her and

at the second that the lips of those two generations

was about to make love affirming contact

Dad pulls away

She sets up again and again he pulls away

the sweet child postures pretending to be deeply hurt and

finally daddy leans in with a kiss

and she forgives it all

Relative Value

i don't own anything
i mean of any value
if i did i would
sell it drink it up

i have a twenty
year old van
that i live in
and get around

but last night
under the bridge
a breeze blew up
and stirred the papers

where i had written
the words that i birthed
nearly sending them scattered
across the filthy parking lot

you would have thought
a thief came by
and tried to
steal my child

i grabbed and
reached spilling
my drink as
i caught them

Flat Broke At The Shell ( On Broadway and 9th )

" Say young man
Could you hep me
Get somethin' to eat"

I think ' If only
I had a wheelchair
The money I'd hustle'

" I've a buck fourteen
I panhandled and
I need a beer,
Anything left and
it's yours"

" Never mind", he says,
" What kind of beer you want?
Wait in your car"

I shrug my shoulders
And walk barefooted back
And wait

Rolling out of the
Shell Station smiling
A few minutes later

He pulls an
Oil can of High Life
From the back of his chair

I hand him the change
" Now everybody gots
what they want"

I doubt though
That he bought
Something to eat

Dry Hustle

I stole a ladder
this morning
I needed gas

I ran out
On my way to
The pawn shop

I copped 20
Bought cigarettes
And 5 more in gas

BUT I HAD DIME LEFT

I drove over
To a trap
That I know

SPENT 10 BUCKS ON DOPE

Went to see a
Fat chick I know
Smiled and copped 10 more

I told a guy
At the station
That I was in

Quite a bind
20 more dollars gone
10 minutes time

Life ain't easy (but dyin's a bitch)

There is an old joke

About dying

" I want to go peaceful

In my sleep like ol' Dad

Not screaming and crying

Like the guys that

Were riding with him"

I try and guess

How I'll go

People often ask

Which Death I'd prefer

Invariably they pick

Sleep or freezing

Something they think

Will be easy

Screw that, I say

I don't want to go easy

I'd rather get beat

To death with a golf club

Or dashed with gasoline

Murdered by Zippo

I need to be relieved

Of life with panache

I suppose in the end

It doesn't matter

If your eighty

And shit the bathtub

Or if you're shanked

By skinhead Nazis

Who just can't

take a joke

Dead is dead

And that is

Only slightly better

Than a long stoned nap

On a freckled hookers couch

who has taken

The whole day off

To be with you

Untitled

At four A.M.
Mugginess lays
Heavy like a
Fat bed partner
Hogging the sheets

The night quiet
Broken only
Occasionally
By cars
On Markham

Even the river
Sleeps content
No tossing
Or turning
Or fitful dreams

The wind gone
Like a child
At Hide and Seek
While I close
My eyes counting

There is a magical
Strangeness about this hour
A still loneliness
Comfortable
Like old shoes

Secret Weapon

THEY USED

TO MATCH

ME UP WITH

GUYS THEY

KNEW WOULD

WIN

THREE

THREE MINUTE

ROUNDS

THEY KNEW

THAT I'D

LOSE

I'D DRINK

BEERS AND

SMOKE

A JOINT

BEFORE

EACH FIGHT

IT SELDOM

WORKED OUT

FOR THEM

THEY'D SCRATCH

THEIR HEADS

DUMBFOUNDED

I WAS

ALREADY TO

OLD TO

FIGHT ANYWAY

I WAS

UNSCHOOLED

BUT I

HAD A SECRET

WEAPON AND

AFTER I'D WIN

SHE AND I

WOULD GET DRUNK AND

FUCK

Gods Pick in the Second Fight

The fighter bends low at the knees

and leaps, once, twice

into the air.

He rolls his neck and wrists

Swings his arms at the shoulders

In circles big and small.

Jab, jab, block and counter

Some imaginary foe before him

and leaps from the balls of his feet again.

The man in the center walks to him

Raps knuckles to cup.

"Let me see your mouthpiece".

Turning the Ref crosses to the opponent

And does it all again.

Both fighters pray

To God

For blood and carnage

and victory tonight.

The Tramp Trail at Lunch

No wind and

It's a hundred degrees

"... for Lord we know we'll hunger again,

but the Blessing you have is eternal..."

I am close enough to the front

So that I hear the blessing

Of the sack lunches

Most of the other shuffling

Drunk desperate or displaced

Are behind me

Thank you I say

Some Do Good Kid

Hands me the bag

I hustle over

And throw it

Into the van

On to the next line

To eat

A hot meal

And save

The brownbag

Until later

Friday Afternoon in Summer

I watch the girls

Walk up and down

Blistering sidewalks

Along the River Market

They all look so chic- so hip

In their shorts and heels

( calves like rocks from

toe holding high heels )

They pretend not to notice

The looks that they get

They are accustomed

To but not

Unaware of

The heads they turn

I watch as they push trendy

Sunglasses back on

Their heads cajoling

Long golden locks

Restraining them from

Obscuring their faces

At a table shaded by an umbrella

I sit alone and watch

But they do not see me

I am to old

to ugly for
their smiles

Cool Breeze Angel

No

Tangle of Words

Of Mine

Suffice

I Try

In Vain To

Tell Her

She Is

SUNSHINE

She is

A SMILE

Spread Broadly Across

My Weathered Face

She Makes

My Mistakes

Seem Adventures

My Doubts

And Weakness

Human

She Is

So Much More

SHE IS SUNSHINE

SHE IS A SMILE

No Jumble
Of Syntax

I Own

Will Do

I Cannot

Put It Into

Verse

She Is

A COOL BREEZE

She Is

AN ANGEL

Wings Flapping Madly

At My Jokes Sometimes

My Demons

And Darkness

Just Stories

She Is A Cool Breeze Angel

Singing Hymns Of New Sin Shared

The Kindest Death

I watched the roach
As it gave up the ghost
No more crawling
Across the floor

His kindest death
The stomping death
Had past by him
Years before

Broadway Wheels

I saw a homeless girl

rollerskating today

on Broadway.

I have seen

her before

in soup kitchens

and the like.

The places homeless

people go

Though I don't

know her name.

She never speaks;

she just walks about

with a scowl

in silence.

I saw a homeless girl

rollerskating today

on Broadway.

She leaned

back and forth

right side to left

propelling herself

forward, onward,

willing herself faster,

on eight

whirring wheels.

She looked happy,

the happiness of

stolen innocence

long since forgotten

buried with

a painful past

that drove her

to the streets

and

I laughed

for her.

I saw a homeless girl

rollerskating today

on Broadway.

Glory Days

I like to

sit in the sports bar

and watch the

big fights

that are on Pay per View.

I sit drinking

Jamacan beers and

reliving past glories

to anyone

who will listen.

I drink

and watch

as the young guys,

their names and faces

change so fast,

slug it out

with each other

like naked greeks

slick with olive oil

in ancient games.

Sometimes I tell

the waitress or barmaid

how much better

it was at the

birth of the sport.

They smile at me

and crack open

another Red Stripe

and bending

flash a little cleavage

before scooping

up my money

and disappearing

like my

youth.

#113

HATE ME
IF YOU
MUST

BECAUSE
I DONT
CARE

HATE ME
FOR MY
APATHY

FOR MY
LACK OF
WORK ETHIC

FOR MY
THIRST FOR
LIFE AND BEER

HATE ME
IF YOU
MUST

BECAUSE I AM EVERYTHING
YOU ARE NOT

AND SOME OF
WHAT YOU
WOULD BE

I Awoke Naked (Vestis Virum Reddit)

I awoke naked into life

Crying

And when I sleep finally

I'll wear a cheap set of clothes

That my (crying) sister bought.

IN BETWEEN THOUGH BLACK SUITS,

CREASES LIKE A STRAIGHT RAZOR

and thrift store jeans

and prison whites

IN BETWEEN THOUGH STARCHED BLACK SHIRTS

CRISP COLLARS OPEN AT THE NECK

WATCHES HANGING LAZY AT MY WRIST

and hospital gowns

with my ass out

and black and white stripes

of county.

In the Mornings

In the mornings,

the dark blue van

That I sleep in

is splattered

with pigeon shit

Like the gray

speckled age

in my hair.

I open the door

and step out,

and stretch

and piss

Noting the

sticky

dried sweat on

My chest ,

back, and arms,

and smoke

a cigarette.

Only then do I

try and gather up

The hand written pages

and 24 oz. beer cans

That litter the front

of my rolling blue home.

I don't recycle the empties.

I don't rewrite the poems.

They are what they are.

In the mornings I read

what I've written down drunk

and then I walk

to the Salvation Army and eat breakfast.

Waiting on Bruce

A couple of nights ago I was kicked back in the van, under the Broadway bridge where I stay not really doing anything when a couple of guys I know pull in beside me. Wade the Mormon and this black guy with a fucked up forehead whose name I can never remember, Sean maybe, or Chris- both of these guys I have gotten high with in the past as well as committed various criminal acts with in order to finance that dubious hobby. This particular night though I was stone sober and not even minding being just that, I've got one of those digital audio books by some Japanese cat titled "Kafka by the Sea" and I'm just diggin' life. That's when Wade and the Forehead guy pull in, and Forehead walks over to my window and asks if my cigarette lighter works,




"Sure", I say




"How do you get in" he says tugging at the door handle,




" I'll get it", and slide over into the front seat, the outside door pull is broken or something -it happened when the window came off the track and now I have to reach inside to open that door and hold onto the window if I roll it up or down for fear it might fall out.




So then the Forehead guy , who can't get in now because I'm in the drivers seat, hands me a Garmin GPS thing-a-ma-jig like you mount on your dash for driving directions and wants me to plug it up. I'm not surprised because that's his thing- in fact that's both these guys thing- busting car windows and ripping off peoples GPS units. When I plug it in I get nothing so I take a closer look and its got like an extra hole under the one where the power cable goes in, it seems strange,




"That one has been operated on or something" Chris or Dave or whatever the forehead guys name is says, and I say,




" Yea maybe its Pre-stolen or something" and hand it back. He turns and throws it back into the car as Wade the Mormon ( no disrespect to Mormons intended that's just his handle, I mean he is a Mormon who also just happens to be a dope fiend and a thief) walks around the front of his car to ask me for a smoke. No sooner than I give him one all hell breaks loose, from every direction the night explodes into lights and sirens, 15 or 20 police cruisers swarm in, doors flying open and cops with pistols drawn screaming at the tops of their collective lungs,







"Give it up , Give it up - Who's got it."







"Fuck", I think,







"Fuck", I say out loud.

"Get out of the van now" I am directed by the friendly public servant, and when I am not fast enough, I am even assisted in this endeavor.





At this point I am relatively sure of two things ; that I am going back to prison and I am gonna have to purchase a shank to kill Wade and the forehead just as soon as I can. Luckily for me though this cop comes up on one of those two wheeled vehicles that you ride in a standing position- you know the ones that were hyped as revolutionary devices with world changing results- and tells the first set of assholes that I sleep there every night in my van and that Ive been there a while and they know I am not involved in the heinous crime that resulted in menacing 9 millimeter threats to my life and some old fashion bumps to the head, anyway as I type this I am getting thirsty and cant keep focus so long story short they take me to jail for a couple of old warrants and hold me until the this morning, Wade the Morman suddenly gets right with his Maker and snitches off the guy with the fucked up forehead and I'm ass out of a van because they impounded my van and I cant get it back without a drivers license and paper work- but that's where Bruce comes in -see the van legally belongs to Bruce the guy I got it from and I got in touch with him so he's coming from Kansas City to help me out. So for now I am just waiting on Bruce so I might as well have a beer or two.