Tramps

whiskey hard men
square grey chins
shuck and jive and laugh

like peter pans band
like boys lost in time

pulpit pounding gestures
a revival of spirit
malt liquor communion

nicotine smiles
and sun washed faces
handsome and strong

standing on corners
drinking
from brown paper sacks

enjoying the moment
only the moment

shrugging off the past
and troubled tomorrows
like yesterdays shirt

headlights and halos

The tips of thumb and forefinger

Stained brown from smoking

Other peoples castoffs



Drizzling rain falls gently

Changing the days perception

To that of a dream


I stop and watch a girl

In mukluks and a miniskirt

Hurry into 501 Markham


Crossing Broadway looking

Ahead headlights and halos

Rush toward me


I pick up the pace

A little and wince at the

Painful blister on the


Heel of my

Soul

A Boones Farm song

serenades us

as we stand outside

a mom and pop store



in the same

neighborhood

that our parents

first kissed



its hard to dance

When your

drunk and there

is no music



but we would

be in love

so very

badly


lustful youth

lingering kisses

sidewalks

and spring

Play For Me

The trains
Play for me
At night as I
Lay in melancholy

Some predictably
Like Johnny Cash
Others with head swaying
From side to side

Urge me on Jack
And never come back
In the voice of
Ol blind Ray

chunka chunka
clackity
chaunka clackity
clack

I lay keeping time
With my pen tapping
To the trains
And the great songs

Gone by

I got up this morning feeling down. My bedroll faces the rising sun and the thin nylon walls of my relatively new home do little to soften the first lights assault on my whiskey pounding eyeballs. Charlie had left with everything he owned in the middle of the night after I spoke maybe a little to harshly, but he is a surly son of a bitch when he consumes large amounts of cheap Vodka and I already had a headache building from the T.W. that I had drank that day. Babs was gone , he leaves every day at about five A.M. to go and catch out at the day labor place. It was still pretty chilly but I decided not to wear long sleeves I had left a sweater on some church steps yesterday when I got warm so I figured today wouldn't be much different and I just don't have the clothes to keep that up long. I dug around and found some of those little doughnuts that have the waxy chocolate on the outside, but their was no water left so I didn't eat them. Stepping out of the tent into the day, I listened to the sounds of squirrels and birds and dry leaves blowing across the ground and started towards the River Market area. I passed through the train station parking lot with only a brief dirty look from the security guy so I figure things are looking up. After a couple of blocks I pass by the Sally where the last of the gang that comes to eat breakfast most days are standing around involved each of them in their own thoughts and conversations, save one, who shouts out to me asking if I would like a boiled egg. The Salvation Army serves them most days, so I say sure and think of the goodness that still surprises me sometimes in my fellow man. I see a couple of guys that I know on the opposite corner I will let them remain anonymous since one of them works in the Sally and the other sells crack cocaine out front and it would be at the least social faux pas I believe if I named them. Maybe even life threatening. They were smoking a joint and shared it with me. So by now I had no doubt about it, things were looking up. I walked a couple of more blocks and found a coffee cup from a joint at the Market that features free refills, in this case totally free. Enjoyed a cup of joe, walked into the library and kicked it with The Rolling Stones, had a couple of bowls of soup for lunch, grabbed some clean clothes at the clothes closet for my Poets Roundtable meeting on Saturday, then I hear that Charlie caught out today at the day labor place so there will be twice the money for dope and booze tonight. That is if he is not still mad at me. I don't imagine he will be though- things are looking up.

Typical mouthwash warning label: In case of accidental ingestion, seek professional assistance or contact a poison control center.

" I wish they had told me that it would kill me forty years ago"-Mouthwash Jimmy

Mouthwash Jimmy is a friend of mine. His camp is just a stones throw away from mine. Jimmy is among other things a drunk. He is maybe one of the nicest and smartest people I know. I have only seen him drunk on a couple of rare occasions, but there is no doubt that he does enjoy drinking when you see his weathered face in the mornings, and as we are friends he makes no bones about it. I do see him almost everyday at the public library pouring over books about science and history- in depth and obscure topics, things that are beyond me most times. He sits quietly at a table all day filling page after page with notes on a myriad of subjects and then at the end of the day he imbibes, at his space that he has made his own, as best a homeless person can. Many times we have shared conversations about classic literature, early Rock music, and the strange world of addiction. I have asked his opinion on poetry that I have written and took his critisisms to heart. This morning Jimmy sat next to me at breakfast at th salvation army and told me he had a book for me. Over the week-end he went to the book sale at the Central Library and came across a Nortons Anthology of Classic Literature and he thought of me. This is a man who has so little resources that he has forgone store bought alcohol in favor of cheaper mouthwash, but he saw a book for sale he knew I would enjoy and got me a gift. I will never get over the complexities of homelessness and th homeless. Thanks Jimmy!

Me and Charlie

Me and Charlie wade into briers stumbling
Occasionally
Rear foot rushing to find balance
We are heavily burdened
He has a cardboard load and I
A stolen tent

We hope its all there

Hiking along the railroad tracks
Searching
For a place to be home
The fix (angry or otherwise)
Must wait for this work
To be done

Last night we broke into a house
And lay down to sleep
A half pint
and a quart
Our only lullaby

We eased out this morning

The thorns and ivy open up
Inviting us to stay
And Charlie smiles as I drop
The bag that I carry
Landing with metallic clink
And stability

Later we'll meet Thomas and get high

Devils' Due

West 2nd Street was like a lot of other streets in the downtown area of big towns and small cities across the country. It was just past the "revitalized" section, it was old and run down and was a roach nest of people and buildings. Their were adult video stores and filthy taverns. Their were rent by the hour motels and bootleggers. It was the kind of place where you would not be surprised to find a man napping in a doorway just a little after noon, and the kind of place where police cruisers would roll right by a napping gentleman without stopping to check and see if he was dead. In the middle of the liquor stores and dope houses of West 2nd on the sixth block of this dismal place was a boarding house that looked like it might fall over sideways from exhaustion at any time, in front was a sign whose hand lettering had faded and weathered to the point of near invisibility. It read simply:


.

ROOMS

$100 wk.

666 W. Second.

Up creaking stairs, past crawling water bugs and skeletal remains of rodents was the room of Danny Weber. At present it was spinning in circles. Not really spinning but Danny had the distinct impression of a spinning room as he lay inebriated on the stained crumpled sheets of the roll away bed that he never rolled away. Danny was a drunk of the old school variety, spending each day of his miserable life coming up with drinking money, drinking, and feeling like shit. During these days of alcoholic stupor he would struggle to write page after page of bizarre testimony of his life and world- Danny was a writer. In his mind years before he had decided that along with his desire to emulate Hemingway, Kerouak, and Bukowski came an absolute need to be a two-fisted drinker and virtual chimney of stale cigarette smoke, and even if his writing had not been especially successful (at this point his only paychecks came from occasional day labor) the whole drinking and smoking thing had been something at which he excelled. The hangovers were the worst on days that he woke with no booze on his "bed side table", it was actually an upturned milk crate he had found in an alley and most mornings atop it, beside the ashtray that spilled over with so many butts you couldn't tell it was just an old tuna can, sat at least a half of a pint of the lowest quality vodka for sale in America. Unfortunately this day did not open with the usual hair of the dog and so Danny lay as still as he could with a cold sheen of sweat and a hundred dollar a week room doing an impression of a Tilt-a -Whirl from some sadistic carnival.. Recognizing the tell tale sign of salivary glands kicking in as a precursor to ralphing he sat up and rushed to the toilet, vomit leaping the last couple of feet and hitting the commode as surely as an NBA free throw, with only minimum splashing thanks to the poor water flow into the rusty brown toilet bowl. The first wave was always the easiest so Danny steeled himself for the next wave of nausea. He was tempted to gag himself with his finger and get it over with, just thinking about it proved to be sufficient and with a contraction of abdominal muscles that seemed like they would pinch him in half he continued to spew bile and yesterdays booze. Making a good deal of noise, Danny hunched and vomited and repeated.

"ARRRRRR EEEEYAK!"

"GRRRRRR ARRRR"!, splash

"GARRRrrrr", spit

"gerRRRAAAAAak" cough cough

"Yak",

and just when he thought that he might collapse and rest his head on the cool, cool white porcelain, the very air in the room split open with a crack and a brilliance of unnatural light and an avatar of Satan stepped through. Curls of black smoke peeled from his bat winged shoulders and ram like horns. His head was a horses skull and scales covered his sooty torso. The stench of scorched sulfur permeated the air, and with a booming voice that would make James Earl Jones jealous he howled,

"Who is it that summons me with incantations of the ancient tongue."

"Huh?", Danny said.

"Who is it that calls me in the voice of the oldest doomed?"

Danny had slid back against the wall sitting on his backside, his eyes were wide with fright,

"Who, who the hell are you?"

Then the beast answered back in a voice remarkably less dramatic, so much so the stature of the demon seemed smaller than a moment before,

"What is this some sort of inter dimensional wrong number?"

"Are you the Devil?"

"Sheesh, you think that I'm the Devil, Lucifer, the Prince of the Air and Ruler of Hell?"

Danny wondered if all demons were as big on the whole list of pedigree's but out loud he asked,

"Are you?"

"Dude hardly", then with a hint of pride in his once booming voice he added," but I can make certain deals under his authority, I mean I do work for him. He is my boss".

Dannys eye brow scrunched together and he turn his head a little to the side and down and asked,"What kind of deals?"

"You know like Crossroads"

"Like Ralph Macchio."

"Like Robert Freakin' Johnson."

"You could make me a great writer?"

"Well... do you mean like John Grisham great or William Faulkner great?"

"Faulkner."

"Wouldn't you rather be a rock star?"

"Why?"

"It would be a damn sight easier, I'd allow."

" No, I want to be a brilliant writer.'

"Brilliant no less, I could make you rich."

" I would sell my soul to be the greatest writer today."

" Listen I'll do what I can, I mean you seem like a good enough kind of fellow, but I am fairly low level you see, I mean I only work here- tell you what I'll run it past my manager see what he says."

"Okay" Danny said feeling a little like he was trying to buy a new car. And again the weird door between time and space opened and closed and the demon was gone. A brief time later he was back.

"Listen Danny I want you to know that I went to bat for you in there, I really did . The thing is you are a little upside down with the whole soul thing, I mean there has been a good deal of depreciation, you've got some damage there too. Bottom line is we are gonna have to take a pass."

"How about Grisham good?'

"Sorry..."

" Maybe just a popular blog...?"

" Listen sit down here with me", Danny sat with him on the side of the bathtub and they talked about what they could do.

When Danny woke up he had a shit taste in his mouth and the kind of strange sense of memory that you have after a night of disjointed dreams, this one had taken the cake though he wasn't sure he had ever had one that seemed so real. He sat up and saw a pint of bourbon on the milk crate along with a pack of generic cigarettes, neither had been opened. So, reaching he busted the seal on the Kentucky pain killer first and drank deep,

"What the hell it's not like I'll miss it", and tore the cellophane open on the smokes, shook one loose and lit it before crossing the room to the mess of papers scattered across his makeshift desk.

walk on

rain falling washes

hope from me

rinsing away all

but desperation




tall buildings

bully me

lean in on me

square shoulders

barring progress





cars roar by

slashing puddles

in half

headlights staring

mocking me

laughing

i walk on

with my

soaking boots

playing

shhkik kashaw

shhkik kashaw

marking

my progress

like brushes

on a snare drum

what the hell

sitting in a doorway
downtown drinking
smelling like the bottom
side of a saddle
i smile wondering
what the hell
happened

i was pony boy
i was james fucking dean
i was johnny cash and
spun out steve mcqueen
i frown wondering
what the hell
happened

SELF

Did you think
That my pride
That my ego
Would be any
Less
Because I have
Nothing
Because I am
Nothing
Did you think that
I became thirty
Units of
Dope drawn up
Ready to mix with
Blood
One more pint
Less
A man
Unable
To mix
With mankind with
Women
When self is
All
SELF
Becomes huge
An
Egomaniac
With an
Inferiority complex

To sleep

The smell of urine
Chokes me like a
500 pound
Gorilla
I am seasoned
And dry rubbed
Rolled
In Filth
Fuzz from give away
Blankets in the
Stubble of my
Shaved head
I fear sleep
In sleep the past
Creeps
Like mist
On water
Into my soul
In sleep
The past
Smothers me
Molasses thick
I will
Enter her
Only with
Assurance of
Kentucky grains
And
Whiskey rebellions
The day
Comes to fast
And I must
Move on

Love Me

A liquor bottle bounced off the wall beside Jason's head but didn't break, landing on the floor with a thud.





"You never stay with me, you only want to screw then run off to your crazy chicken fights."



"Baby, quit that. Calm down what's wrong."





"You don't really love me, you never did. Your crazy fucking roosters killing each other, your gambling, your dope- you love all of that more than you love me! You never did."





"Baby, no", he says holding his hands low, just above his waist, palms down trying to calm her. As drunk as JoEllen was right now she was nothing to mess with.





She picked up a steak knife from the counter and tears, first from one eye then a moment later the other, slid gently down her dimpled cheeks. She was wearing one of those T-shirts that people call wife beaters, a sort of tank top style undershirt, it was tight across her ample breasts, and panties that looked like a little girls', pink with some kind of Japanese cartoon image on them and knee high tube socks with stripes at the top like basketball players in the 70's wore. Her hair was in total disarray and her eyes as large as a doe deers' were ringed black with yesterdays mascara, one slightly drooping from the effects of the alcohol. As he eased towards her he could not help but be a little turned on by both her beauty and her danger.





"You bastard I should kill you, you never really loved me."





" Jo, baby- Jo you know I love you, you know I love you more than anything. I will love you forever."





Sobbing now she began to shake, she let the hand with the knife lower just a little and Jason walked on over and took it from her and wrapped his arms around her , and held her.





"Shhhh", he said gently , as if talking to a very small child and pulled back slightly to wipe tears from her face.



"Hush now", he whispered and delicately moved a strand of hair from her eyes.





She leaned forward and he kissed her softly on her forehead, and her neck, and her eyelids, kissing away the pain that lived inside of her always. The pain that told her that nobody loved her, and that everybody she cared about would leave her alone in the end. Just like they always had.

"Come on girl, let me get us a beer", and he walked with her holding her hand into the back room to the tiny little refrigerator that was beside their bed. She laid down and he pulled out two Pabst Blue Ribbons and laid beside her.

" You always..." she started to say something but even the beginning was nearly to quiet to hear,then slowly she turned up the ice cold beer , drinking deeply from it.

"Do you remember when we first met," Jason asked, "Do you remember the night in KOs' house?"

" We smoked crack."

"Yeah, and she was gone, and the house was full of crap because she was remodeling and we laid on a mattress in the front room and made love."

"... And there was plastic covering the windows and the wind kept blowing and making the plastic pop and I was so scared."

And the both of them lay there and drank more beers and remembered that night, after the sex was done and the drugs had run out and it was just the two of them so far away from the crazy lives they lived a few blocks over, so far from the hustlers, and the kooks, and the thieves and the whores and all of the others that made up the circle of their association.And honest with each other for the first time they had talked. She had told him about her father and his friends and her childhood, and her scars. How when she had finally gotten old enough to resist and say no to him, and how she wished her mother had not died, and how when he tired of her saying no again and again her father had poured lighter fluid on her and set her on fire, scarring her legs and most of her right side and all of her heart.

And he told her about his wife and kids and how the marriage had failed and how when he could no longer see his children he had given up on life and sunk slowly into the self imposed darkness that engulfed him now. And the drugs, and the crazy chances that he took to insure that he never went without them.

" I don't want you doing stick ups anymore. You'll go back to prison and I will be alone."

"Well, I don't want you turning tricks anymore..."

" It's the only hustle I have..."

"Well what are we gonna do- get straight jobs?"And they both smiled because he may as well have asked if they were going to sprout wings and fly to the moon. So he continued to steal and she to trick and the rest of the time they drank together and fed other hungers and tried to pretend that they could have normal lives.
They got a place together , small , only two rooms. The front a sort of living room and the back, a bedroom with a fridge and a hotplate, tiny bathroom off to the side. Somehow just having a place besides the seedy motels where they had always stayed gave them both a feeling of semi- stability, something that he had all but forgotten and she had never had. She prostituted herself less and less, only doing so when absolutely necessary and he no longer smoked crack which is not to say that he no longer used drugs and didn't drink now more than ever but that one demon at least was behind him. They had money for cigarettes, and rent, and even a weekly trip to Taco Bell- JoEllen liked that. Jason made friends with the neighbor, Segundo, who worked construction and sent money back to Mexico for his wife and children. Sometimes they would drink Modelo in the afternoons and Segundo would tell stories about his kids. Some nights the three of them would eat dinner together, but never at Taco Bell. Other times Jason and Segundo would go to the cockfights over in the part of town where the Mexicans mostly lived. And JoEllen
only tried to kill Jason when she got really, really drunk. Most days she would drink a half of a gallon of vodka, Ariticrat or Heaven Hill, but on other days she would get into Jason's beer, PBR that he would buy in thirty pack suitcases and on those days she might still get violent. She had been into the beer today.

" I'm not going anywhere baby, I'm gonna stay right here with you."

She finished her beer and threw the empty can across the room and he laughed. She nuzzled closer her head laying on his chest, and he wrapped strong arms around her.

" Do you love me, Jason"

" Of course I do."

" Why do you love me?", she asked,"Tell me why."

" I love you because you are the most beautiful women in the world, and because you are so very sad, I love you because of the smell of your hair and the song of your laughter- I love you because you understand..."

"Understand what?"

"You understand... me."

" I love you Jason," and she turned looking up into his face and kissed him. And passion rose up in them both and they fanned it's flames, until, exhausted they fell over spent. JoEllen was fast asleep and Jason smoked a Marlboro Red until the filter crushed between his fingers then sitting up reached for his chinos, and felt to make sure his wallet was there. Quietly he dressed and slipped out the front door and went to watch the roosters fight.

Brand New

A little boy
His father
Or maybe
Moms Dad
Splashing
With earnest
In puddles
The boy in a
Green slicker
Brand new rubbers
Laughing
Yesterday
When I was
Five years old
I sat watching
A Charlie Brown
Special on
Television
In a brand new
Yellow raincoat
And my Mom
Took a
Picture

The Most Beautiful Girl

The light pierced the peep holes that previous guests of the scumbag hotel had poked and torn to ease or feed their paranoia. Oddly enough the perfect line of light found the clinched, closed eye of Griffin Banks, dust particles shimmered and danced in it and Griffin cursed. He threw his arm across his face in a futile gesture but knew he'd have to do better than that to remain asleep, sleep was a commodity that Griffin bought and paid for- once he was awake, he was awake. So like Lazarus slipping free of his death clothes, he slid from beneath the cheap stained comforter and reached for his straight shooter. Taking a straightened piece of coat hanger, Griffin pushed the Chore Boy screen from one end of the straight glass crack pipe to the other, scrapping the insides of it, gleaning the brownish residue of cocaine left from earlier. The wake-up hit was not blinding in its potency but sufficient to allow him to stand and dress. Griffin was a hustler and small time thief, the clothes that he wore as important as socket wrenches to a mechanic. Black slacks and button downs and the nicest shoes he could shoplift, and when the outfit began to show ashes and other dirt he'd go to a mall and steal fresh ones. Today though he thought they would do for a little while longer. Walking past the television, he hit the on button and looked at his image in the mirror. Wetting his hands, then running them through his hair he made himself look, as much as he could , like the television gangsters he admired so. Then he walked into the tiny bathroom to take a leak. That is when it hit him. Without flushing the toilet he turned back into the main room and saw that he had company, in the bed where he had just got up from, lay a girl.




Holy Crap some days are weird, leaning over her, trying to remember. Holy Crap. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, but fate deemed their time was done. She was quite dead.







It came flooding back. Last night walking the strip he had seen her. New to him, he knew most of the girls who worked the streets here, it was a small town. She had smiled like some kind of animal: hungry. He didn't have the time then, backpack full of goods, brain gone dry of the substances that drove him. He noticed her none the less. Predator sniffing predator. Kindred spirits. She walked under the streetlights smiling a vendors smile carrying a half of a gallon of cheap vodka for the world to see. She followed with her eyes as he passed by.







Then later, walking back to the hotel, arm full of nod, head full of booze, and a hand full of crack -he saw her again.



Wanna do an oxy? slurring, one eye half closed.



He didn't even answer, never said a word, just looked up the road a block to the hotel and his room and she went with him, rattling the pill bottle as she strolled, oozing sexuality and desire.





They had enjoyed a buffet of drugs and booze and sex acts not for the faint of heart. At some point, satisfied, Griffin had passed out. Their had been plenty of the Oxycontin left at that point. She must have overdosed after.


Shit.


Shit, shit, shit!





Griffin didn't know what he was going to do but he knew what he was going to do first. Scooping up his keys and money clip from the bedside table he turned and opened the front door.





Hello. How you durin' today?


Flo, the house keeper. She scared the crap out of him!





Jojo in his room still?





Yeah he there,not for long though.





Don't let anybody in here, Flo, Ill be right back.





Trying to look casual Griffin walked as fast as he could to Jojo's room to cope a small piece of dope. Just something to help him focus, to figure out what to do. When he stepped back out of the room Flo was nowhere to be seen. Walking even faster back to his room, fist clinched and sweating around the twenty dollar distraction, he dropped his key clattering across the concrete and bent to pick it up then straightening turned it in the door.



His heart missed a beat, again , then he realized that Flo had brought the whole cleaning cart into his room. She wanted a hit. He could tell from the look on her face that she had seen the girl. Then she put her finger to her lips, so selfish that she hadn't noticed that the sleep would never be interrupted.


Here take this and go. Griffin broke her a little hit off and sent her frowning from the room. Then sat in the obligatory chair next to the bed that every crappy hotel room in the country had. Stuffing the gangster white into the end of the pipe, his hands shook as he pulled a lighter from his pocket. Slowly and with a purpose he breathed the chemical smoke deep into his blood rich lungs. And surely the smoke calmed him and killed the jangling of his nerves. A little closer now, sitting on the edge of the bed Griffin studied her face, her form. She was beautiful. Really not the kind of beauty that you ever get used to, exotic somehow. Lying next to her he finished the dope and wondered.

Later after a call to a great aunt that still trusted him no matter what, Griffin pulled into the hotel lot in a car that looked like it had been borrowed from a trusting aunt. Dusk had begun to shroud him, wrapping dark mother arms about his twisted life. Griffin gathered his meager belongings then walked into the room one last time and picked up the girl gently like she might disappear if he jostled and carried her and put her in the car. Not in the trunk, but belted in the passengers seat like a traveler overcome with slumber. He loved her and could not bear to part with her so instead he leaned over and kissed her cold lips and drove away never thinking of his aunt, or Jojo, or how strange this day had been.

To sleep

The smell of urine

Chokes me like a

500 pound

Gorilla

I am seasoned

And dry rubbed

Rolled

In Filth

Fuzz from give away

Blankets in the

Stubble of my

Shaved head

I fear sleep

In sleep the past

Creeps

Like mist

On water

Into my soul

In sleep

The past

Smothers me

Molasses thick

I will

Enter her

Only with

Assurance of

Kentucky grains

And

Whiskey rebellions

The day

Comes to fast

And I must

Move on

Someone Else

In the building
Where I stay
There is a
Jewish Cowboy
Who wants
To be
An artist
Or maybe
He is a
Jewish artist
Who wants
To be a
Cowboy
Or maybe
He is just
Jewish
Maybe
That is enough
Or maybe at
Night
When he spreads
His bedroll
He is
Unsure
Of
Who he really is
Knowing only
He wants to
Be
Something else
I have been
A fighter
But I
Always wanted
To be
A song
I have been
A junkie
But
I'd rather
Have been
A light
I wonder
Sometimes
If everyone
In this place
Would rather
Be
Someone else

Regret

Regret is
an overcoat
made of wool
and soaking
wet

It weighs
heavy
on me

Dripping
it ruins the
carpets of
the places
that I
go

I cannot
sleep
most nights
because
of its
icky itch and
its stench

Some days
I change from
it into
coveralls
of
guilt

Cowboys

I went to
A gunfighters
Funeral today

Not a
Cowboy hat
In sight

The glamour
Of toting
Pistols

Not quite
The same
Without them

The sad faces
And souls of
The men though

The same now
As a century
And a half ago

The guilt maybe
Or the things
They have seen

Or maybe
All the bandits
Then and now

Started life as
Scared little boys
Of desperado dads

Why Are Your Poems So Dark? : Poetry Everywhere : Video : The Poetry Foundation

Why Are Your Poems So Dark? : Poetry Everywhere : Video : The Poetry Foundation

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not happy

the briefest moment
really
compared to the three
score and ten
if typical
neither beginning
nor end
of personal timeline
of sadness
but the
saddest still
she looked at me
tears welling
"i'm not happy"
the next day
like a lioness
defending me
the bondsman cuffing me
sending me
to jail
and weeks later
the papers
dissolving the union
"not happy"
she said
crushing me
killing me
dissolving me
and all of
these years
the dreams
of her face
the tears
and the most
minuscule
portion
of time
haunt me
still
in sleep

All The While

Sometimes
i wear
a monsters skin
GREEN
jealous of
people
i knew
long ago
i was still
unburdened
Some days
i dont
BELIEVE IN GOD
though i try
very hard
and
i pray
that i will
And
Most days
I DONT FEEL
a(part)
at all
more like
a sad
goldfish SHOUTING
insulated by
half of a gallon of
water
half an inch of
glass
SILENT
This morning i
saw a five year old
POP open an umbrella
watching
and walk to
the childrens
museum
chattering to MOTHER
along the
WAY
and i remembered then
that I am
human still
I have been all
the while

passion

soft curves
bosom
and buttocks

tiny beads
of sweat
above candy lips

tops flung
across
the room

jeans hurriedly
escaped one
leg turned out

bed clothes
pushed down
knotted

and no cares
in the world
for now

rhetorical passions
spoken and
answered

The Night

My lover, the Night

Lays naked save

Jewelry of stars



She holds me

In darkest embrace

Caressing my broken heart



I talk to her

And she to me

In whispers and in dreams



Promises spoken

Go unfulfilled

Killed daily by dawns schemes

For Tami

I will

Remember you

Always

First Love

Simpler and

Purer times

Tinged Purple

As sunset sky

Sadly

Details fade

Each year

Your scent

Though remains

Forever

two rooms

we would


get


two rooms


one for


trickin'


the other for


geekin'





in between


smoking crack



i would wait

while she

my new bride

stolen

fresh

the two of us

from rehab

made more money

next door

getting mad as hell

like a little

boy

kicking and holding

his breath

until

she'd get back

with the cash

i would

walk/run

as fast as i

could

across the

hotel lot

to cop

again

and

we'd smoke

when the next

pick-up

truck

came through

we would

repeat

the whole dance

holy crap

what

takes her

so long

you get all kinds

sittin' in a
rock & roll
chicken shack
on a sunday
afternoon
when
the last mullet
in america walks in
wearing a fat redneck
underneath
who in turn
is sporting a
hunt often T
and a freightliner
ball cap
greasy
from the mullet

when the liquor
store
closes in the
bible belt states
you
get all kinds

bruised life

i saw her
walking from
an alley
downtown

wearing a halter top
and jeans and
hand-picked tattoos
another black eye

like fruit
ripened to fast
to soon plucked
from the vine

never maturing
developing
the sweetness
nature had in mind

the only value that
she placed on herself
the crumpled bills
serving selfish desire

and i knew
that this was
her life
a produce market

reselling the same
tomato until
damaged and bruised
no one else

would buy it

A Pox On You, Criminal

I guess
there are
pagan police
officers in
England.

They are
allowed certain
days off.
Summer Solstice.
Halloween.

I have
been cursed
by the cops
here in the
U.S.,

But never hexed.
I have got to
quit listening
to morning
radio.

Brother George Plays Ukulele

Brother George plays ukulele
Sings Hawaiian songs.
Smiling through the lyrics,
Soul laughing out loud.

People passing by him
Listen,
As he cries
Haunting notes.

I drink wine from
A coffee cup and
Follow rhythm
With my foot.

Brother George sings
Of a wonderful world
Somewhere over a rainbow
Back home.

coffee club

sunrise at the salvation army
i join others milling about
waiting for boiled eggs
and coffee
the saddest people
i have ever known
smiling
through strained sobriety
i see my friend and speaking
unlock the personality
he keeps
secreted away
proudly he shows me
an ezra pound screen saver
on a trac phone
and begins to share with me
the madness and lines
he has entrusted to
pharmaceutical mind
i nod
wondering
what they are talking about
at starbucks this morning

The Value of Poetry

In my senior year

Of High School

I met her and

She smiled

She studied English

Or rather how to teach it

At the local

University

I was quite smitten

Taken with her

She asked us to write

So I did

I wrote stories

And she read them

Poems and she giggled

I tried to be provocative

In puberties most

painful/beautiful way I held

books low and center

while we spoke

When she left

Eventually

I learned lifes

Most valuable Lesson

Love is bitter sweet

They all go eventually

And even bad poetry

Can get you laid

Check Paris or Rome

Sizzling steaming circles of
Red meat at the start of
A fast food assembly line
Pop and burn the scarred
and veiny backs of my hands.
The pen set aside so few hours
ago, so that a shiny silver spatula
can write it's own verse. So
I can trade Time for Money,
Money for Stuff; like the stiffs do.
A pimple faced boy, not much older
that the son that I haven't seen in years
yells at me to pay attention to
the daunting green screen suspended
over my head with it's demands of
Super-sized sandwiches and
french- fried potatoes.
My mind will not focus on these.
Instead I am in Paris.
I am in Rome. I am drinking wine with
Chinaski. I am in Khans Pleasure Dome.

Forgotten

Childhood dreams

Unchained

Free

Unconfined by

The night

Heated at the

Forge of Life

Hammered by Time

Compressed

Beaten and folded

Anvil ringing

Eventually

Smaller

And smaller

And smaller still

Not quite

Gone but small

Enough

To be

Put away

Forgotten

Hippy Buddhist Vegan Wren

My Buddhist

Friend studies

The words of

Men whose foreign

Names I can

Neither recall

Nor pronounce

She blesses me

Though with thoughts

Deep and filled

With meaning



Tranquility



Peace



Being



She is brilliant

And wonderful

Consuming the

Meat of Philosophy

But eating no

Flesh

Just knowing her

Makes me a

Better person

Human


She freaks out when she drives a car

In the end
She is as
Screwed up as
I am
And I love her
That much
More

Demon Dogs

Shadow dogs

swirling gone

and

here again

nipping at

( the remainder of )

my soul.

Liquid Evil

flows. Demons

real

in my mind

taunt me

to sleep

taunt me

in slumber.

Daring me to

betray the day

to embrace

the night.

Haunting

and coaxing me

to forget

all of goodness

to be one

with

the pain.

To be

one of them.

Damned.

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.