One Hand Armands

2012-02-13T02:34:00.000-06:00

Lately, after a glass of wine,
I've been getting reckless.
I'll call a woman up
say
Hi it's me
and
remember that time
and
when you did that
and finally
Why didn't we

and an hour later we hang up

Then there are the dreams of the road.
A soul of concrete, a diesel soul,
a twelve speed soul, that’s how I rolled.
I hate that it calls and I must
leave the call unanswered.
Ah, time.
You many miles.
I have the heart of a Troubadour,
the flesh of a stone.

A Christmas Card For My Family And Friends

2011-12-22T23:49:00.000-06:00

I think most of us hoping for a miracle want one we can witness.
We can believe when we see. Lotteries and big payoffs.
A negative ( or positive ) on the pregnancy test, an "A" on a final.
If we have a wider view we can recognize that the meteor
that finished the Age Of The Dinosaurs was fortunate,
miraculous in long term.
Noah having an ark handy for the Flood...
luck or miracle, I'll take that.
For me, the miracle I celebrate might not even have happened.
Imagine that while God formed the formless into form,
maybe He sneezed, and while occupied with the sneeze
a comet strayed a bit from it's intended course and out of His intent,
flashed over an ancient desert world, answering an age old question:
Can one birth change what an off-course comet could not?
The margin between miracle and catastrophe,
between salvation and loss, between here and gone
is in the pause of a sneeze.
Merry Christmas everyone.

How 'bout this?

2011-12-10T01:28:00.001-06:00

I don't want to be
the greatest living Poet.
Too much work,
not enough money.
But,
famous when I'm dead...
no pressure, no burn-out,
plenty of time to relax.

I am the poet
with a switchblade corkscrew.
I can type faster one-eyed
and one fingered than
I can read.
Can't write a rhymed poem
to save my loving soul,
but I know the blues
when I feel them.

Fame would just come
between me and the Word.
I can't spare time for anything else.
Call my agent after I depart,
I'll give you an interview.

Yeah

2011-11-20T02:56:00.000-06:00

It is not a good idea
to drunk-text the President,
on face book.
He was selling a patriotic
coffee mug to support
his presidential habit
and I commented
Sir, its a nice mug,
but I think there are other things
that could use a little tending to.
I asked him to remember
the promises he made
and we believed.
And I said
give my love to the family.

We'll see how this one goes...

2011-11-13T02:43:00.000-06:00

BYE

Those many times
when the thought of you
brightened my days...
So many years wasted,
waiting.
I hung on every word.
I knew the color of your eyes.
Well, hearts can be fooled,
yes and laughter can be lost,
but I can get past even this.
Loving you
was the holiest act
of my life.

2011-11-11T01:03:00.000-06:00

What's left behind
when the City leaves?
If time is a thief
and tomorrow a treasure,
why is the past
still here?
The cat on top
of the book case
hunts in his sleep.
One paw stretches,
claws extend,
and some small
thing gets buried
in his fist.
I can hear the rumble
of his pleasure from here,
can almost taste the warm.
If time is a thief
I am a watchman
holding my light
against the night.

A note from a few babyboomers to OWS

2011-11-09T00:10:00.002-06:00

We stand in silence
because this time speaks for itself.
We cannot give our small voice
to the shout of today.
As always the young are in front,
willing us to wakefulness.
We wish we could let them know
they will not fail.
We would tell them
we never gave up hope.

2011-11-09T00:09:00.001-06:00

Do you remember the longest hour of your life?
I bet it involves a loved one leaving. Mine was.
On a bench covered in green fabric, 4 in the morning,
near the bank of elevators
waiting for my brothers Scott and Jeff.
Our mothers' body on the way to the morgue
in the basement of the hospital.
When the elevators'
doors open it seemed like the gates of Heaven
and a bright radiance filled me,
and the hour was done.

2011-11-09T00:07:00.002-06:00

Been years since these late October winds
have blown through this melancholy heart.
The rattling noise comes, I guess, from a faulty framework.
Once said "What cannot bend in the wind, breaks."
That is what I hear, late at night, as I lay to sleep.
What was once sturdy stands unsure in these winds.
I am not frightened, that lies behind me,
I feel like I want to be cast up, outside,
let me go where I will. Roots mean little to me now,
how can I stand still any longer while the geese
follow the same road that I paid for with my love.

2011-08-15T21:34:00.001-05:00

Lock-up Lucy was a Prozac junkie,
a certified ward of the state.
She was a main street maiden,
an alley cat hellion.
All the cops knew her on sight.
She was a cross-eyed vixen
in need of a fixin'.
She'd pull out her no string guitar,
and sing like the chorus of Heaven.
She works the corner of Main and Market,
across from One Hand Armand’s,
in Tangle Town.

One Man, One Poet

2011-08-12T00:02:00.000-05:00

When asked what kind of poem I would write about America,
I would rather write about how we beat the PACs
by grass roots smarts, an angry vote, and facebook.
By Yankee stubbornness we caught the wind,
harnessed the Sun, grew our fuel in cornfields.
I could write this, almost, and tell true.
I would write, instead, how we are nearing that point
where our only choices will be Yes or No,
not when, not if, not why.

When the poets gather in their hundred thousands,
in malls, in bookstores, in squares,
I will rise up among them, poem in hand,
I would rather read how children are happy,
how delicious the rivers of my home taste,
how the histories of our lives are carried forth
in the stories we tell around the table,
generations in one room,
telling so that we will remember
where we are from.

My poem will not be that one.
It will be the one where I fear
for the sitters at my table,
and hope we are as strong as we need to be.

What's shaking, dude?

2011-08-05T18:02:00.000-05:00

There is a man I know
who does big important work
and makes impressive money
but shakes his wife when he's drunk,
leaves her bruises like jewelry
and turns tears to fear.
AC/DC playing Ride On
and I killed a good bottle of Pinot Noir,
and remembered when his wife
was the toughest girl I ever met.
The light of Buddha shined in her,
and the earth caressed her very feet.

2011-07-08T21:36:00.000-05:00

2011-07-07T16:06:00.000-05:00

Sandy Beech,
( and before you start ripping on her name
she knows 'em all and will beat you to it)
was a crew cook in a smallish show.
We met my first summer on the road,
in Kentucky, or Missouri.
I spent fifteen hours cutting wire
and making cords, dealing with
thieves and sneaks, near-broke carnies
trying to keep their gear running
haggling a lot harder than I was.
Sandy brought me a plate of ribs and beans,
and a cool quart of Milwaukee's Best beer.
I offered to pay her and she walked away,
half singing "Pay me later, big boy."
That’s as much of the story as anyone needs to know.

2011-06-08T11:20:00.001-05:00

The Bug Man ran game tables, drop the dot,
knock the pin down, rings over bottle tops.
His Boston accent gave his pitch a bray
you could hear over rides, kids and rock music.
His patter was flawless, slightly condescending,
and totally off the cuff.
He didn't see his hustle as fleecing the public,
precisely, rather as a Darwinian challenge to improve
the species.
He was educated, banal, and without many scruples.
His wife and girl were fed well and happy.
Last I saw of the Bug Man was in St. Louis,
when he dropped me off on a highway on-ramp
pointed vaguely north-east.
He shook my hand, a twenty tucked into my palm.
Gave me the honor of a carny's send-off;
Catch you in the next town.

2011-06-07T13:41:00.000-05:00

Slick was a wrangler at one of the larger traveling Carnivals.
Through a season we would do business four, five times.
Through out the south, on every midway, every newly bare hay field,
you asked a carny about a man named Slick, they knew who you meant.
You'd think in a culture that lives by different rules than most
no one would rise to the status of barely being tolerable
let alone respected, Slick was.
He knew what he was doing, he put on no airs,
he knew when to bend and when to say hell no.
The only times I saw Slick riled was when he had to deal with a fool.
Slick asked him , " Who the hell are you to waste both our time like this?"
Slick walked power cords like tight wires,
juggled forty things in one hand and thirty three with the other.
He knew safety codes, local preferences, phone numbers and names.
Roustabouts and game wagons, foodies and barkers, would likely
rob a citizen of hard earned coin, ( everyone knows how this game works),
truckers like me who followed the shows all summer with wire, bulbs and plugs.
Slick was the one man we all knew, and if your name was good with him,
it was good with us.

2011-05-29T17:09:00.001-05:00

There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
On that day lets be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.

2011-05-29T17:08:00.000-05:00

I duck under a guillotine
every time I enter a bar.
I know the blade is sharp,
the trigger almost invisible.
Walked into a thousand dives
from Michigan to Thailand,
Alaska to Tijuana.
Once the gloom leaves the eyes
the rooms look familiar.
Threats and conquests
taken in one glance,
juke box, bathroom, back door
the next.

Now I'm older and wiser,
I tell myself,
better at getting along.
I know every day has its own
wicked blade.
Whispering names,
humming to itself.
Inanimate, cold,
a tool of time.
Makes the surprise of each day
joyful.

Memorial Day

2011-05-29T17:07:00.000-05:00

They brought a Hero home today.
The brass of his casket was polished,
the flag that covered it crisp and new.
The Honor Guard carried him
past planes,family, Color Guard.
Their shoes were as black
as the storm-ridden May sky.
Forty Harley's shouted their pride,
the Patriot's Guard Riders pulled
off the tarmac, the hearse close behind.
Me,old sailor, old cabbie,
saluting the procession,
eyes suddenly tearing,
tears unnoticed.

2011-05-29T17:06:00.001-05:00

Closer To Blue

2011-03-28T20:04:00.002-05:00

Closer to blue today than when we walked in the city.
Together, alone, drenched in light and the gaze of strangers.

I'm closer to blue than I was yesterday, in the park.
The silent cat-tail stalks, like fingers accusing heaven.

When you faded to blue, all the things I love did too.
I am drenched in silence, lost in the world, way closer to blue.

Ralph Murre and me trading stanzas

2011-03-23T15:22:00.003-05:00

I was tempted to play my flute today
until I heard the wind through
the broad wings of a Red Tail hawk

I tried whistling
blues in the Laundromat
but ran out of quarters
& lost the dryer's rhythm

I heard that stones
were rocks when they were young.
Guess it takes time to
bring out our inner stone-ness.

well-rounded the stone
at work in a foundation wall
after carrying glaciers

The only gift we can offer the dead
is to remember them.
Mortar them into our foundations
and they will hold us up.

There were hold-up men
down at the bank today --
the president, v.p., & branch manager,
robbing patrons.

Who said our leaders are lousy?
We have the best that money can buy.
And when our icons have fallen,
we raise such a hue and cry.

We'd like to string 'em up right now, see?
We'd like to hang 'em out to dry,
but underneath the tailored suits
they look a lot like you and I.

A bottle of wine,
a book of poems and
the moon shining through the door.
So much time I have wasted.

wine for the tongue,
poems for the ear,
moonlight for the eye,
and all for the spirit.
For what is the clock?

LIBERATION

2011-03-14T17:51:00.000-05:00

Ladies, ladies,
line up neatly.

Goddess, whore,
mother, friend,

I see you now
for the woman you are.

I’m sorry I was
typically male in these things.

If I knew you were
as human as me,

hurt as me, sad as me,
as hopeful as me,

back then as I know now,
I wouldn’t a had to write

this fucking poem.

Weather

2011-03-07T19:42:00.001-06:00

You come toward me like summer thunder,
flashing that smile, rolling them hips,
I stand like I’m terrified,
like I just put myself in the path
of a locomotive cold front,
But I’m not afraid,
and wouldn’t move if I could.
To your storm,
I am a rock,
and you do not chip at me
with earthquakes, meteors, or lava
but with rain, soft and cool,
having it's way with me.

Christian?

2011-03-05T19:53:00.000-06:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO
THE MINISTER AND CONGREGATION
OF THE WESTBORO CHURCH

I think that GOD has turned his face from you.
You are like children who want notice at any cost.
What you say is not Christian,
or God-like, or even human.
I am afraid you are lost, bound for bitterness and hurt.
You have forgotten God. You have forgotten the face of your Father.
You have forgotten your brother and sister.
(Your mother doesn't even like you.)
Where in the Holy Book does it say to despise the warriors?
Where in the Good Book does it say God embraces the death of anything?
Read to me where God says it's ok to hate.
You are warping your soul, giving Christians a bad name.

Should poetry mean?

2011-02-27T19:55:00.000-06:00

I guess a poem is supposed to mean something, be true.
You need to put stuff in it, memories or flowers or parents.
It should resonate like a whack to the funny bone.
What happens when the poems won't be written down.
You stare at pictures of your mother, remember the smell
of your Grandfather just in from the barn.
The little arrow blinks at you, like an engine at idle,
the screen blank and white,
and you wonder where your gift left for,
and will it be back,
will it still speak to you.
Sometimes a poem doesn't need
to matter to anyone to mean something.

When things move beyond us

2011-02-27T03:35:00.000-06:00

There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
Let us on that day be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.

Tucson

2011-01-10T19:06:00.001-06:00

Tucson, I remember you as a beautiful city.
The roadside stands where you could get a warm beer
and a burrito as big as a football
for a few dollars.
The old Pima Indian women making fry bread
covered in cactus jelly in the shadow of the Spanish Mission.
I feel for you in these hours.
Great Spirit keep hope in our hearts,
care for the ones lost and those left to grieve, and please,
please let us learn a lesson this time.

2010-11-06T11:59:00.002-05:00

1.

On most paths in my life
there are places to rest,
giving me a chance to gather courage.
I can resume, or not, as I wish.
Not on the trails of pain.
I’ll not do those who stumble
along with me the disservice of claiming
it any further by naming it.
There is no place to rest,
no place to turn back to.
Yet for all that it is one path,
no one walks it with me.
Others on the path see me,
cry for me, pray for me.
So it is that my path
is lined by trees that mock me.
Then I see trees in the hills
that bring me much hope.
I then see only kindling
for one last flame of frustration.
I see bones stripped
by a wind that never ends.
It may happen that I
drag my pain through a desert,
or along a path by a great sea,
waves counting out my heartbeats.
But all I see
are the lines chiselled into my forehead
and the lines hammered at the corners of my mouth.
All I see are talismans.
Each cross, each crystal,
each star or feather or stone.
All I see is the knowledge
of no going back.
No chance to share the burden,
no end but death or life,
no answers.

2.

There is a trash man
that follows behind us who walk.
I picture him like a person in a park;
large blue bag slung over one shoulder,
stubble of cigar jammed in his mouth,
long wooden rod with a nail sticking point down.
He walks slowly stabbing everything
we thought was so important, putting it in the bag.
Snag a thick portfolio of stocks;
countless key rings to large houses and BMW's;
clothes from the Gap, diamonds and emeralds,
silver and gold, platinum and rare china.
In the bag.
I imagine that the farther he follows us,
the stranger the trash we leave.
A lucky rabbit’s foot, a rosary,
a tattered picture, names of the dead.
A cheap locket, a strand of hair,
a pocket knife.
Then there comes a time when
things start to thin out.
Now we are to the real things.
A letter asking or giving forgiveness,
the last will and testament of a life.
A flower sealed in wax paper, a wedding ring.
Or maybe the offerings end long before this.
I wonder then if he dances a little jig
to celebrate finding the end of pain is not always death.
Or does he know the path will resume down the way?
At the end of his shift or millennium or life,
or when he tires of the burden of carrying our treasures,
what does he do with all the fine shiny golden useless stuff
he has carted so far?
Does he keep them and pawn them,
or has he learned what is most important
cannot be carried, or lost?

Been down roads

2010-11-03T18:48:00.002-05:00

Redemption Road ain't in this neighbourhood.
I've walked so many side walks
I know this for fact;
Streets do not forgive.
Streets remember.
The Law life lives by is this:
The only certain thing is this moment.
I have walked down roads.
Known little of the peaceful life.
From one uncertain day to the next,
among strangers I sought shelter and safety,
however brief.
At a Bible Rescue mens center
my immortal soul was traded for
three meals, a pack of smokes
and a ride to the highway.
At a Salvation Army
I napped in a pew through
three hours of fire, brimstone,
and the bloody word of God.
Poor God.
I knew if it was up to Him
He'd pull the blanket up around my shoulders,
pat my head and say
"'Night son. I'll see ya in the morning."

The Great Land Hurricane Of 2010

2010-10-27T18:02:00.003-05:00

These winds,
the late October winds,
hollow me out.
There are so many scents,
each one wakes a part of me.
I do the work of the day
but I am elsewhere.
It's like time travel.
Each leaf is a name
of someone whose life
I drifted into and out of.
Every one beautiful,
their faces so bright.
Swiftly grown,
swiftly gone.

2010-07-16T20:37:00.001-05:00

Every son wants to sing his fathers song.
Sound the horn and drum.
When the Father is gone
Sons burn like a wickless flame,
Attached to nothing, consuming everything.
Sound the horn, pound the drum.
Sons weep to sing their fathers songs.
The need drives them into the wilderness.
They sleep among each other,
The wounded, the drunk, the lost sons.
They wander until they find
The song they need to sing.
When sons honor their fathers
Rightness returns and the words come
To say what is in their hearts.
Our fathers, everywhere they are,
Sing among themselves until son
And flame and song are one.

2010-06-20T15:34:00.002-05:00

Sitting in a truckstop waiting for what ever comes off the ramp.looking for a bluejeaned road woman with many miles on her face, sunsets in her eyes, and faded maps in her heart. The road calls like a nagging ex, where are you, where you been, when ya coming home, you owe me.

Gone

2010-06-15T11:36:00.001-05:00

Hey all, sorry about the lack of imput lately. Life interferes. I need a cold drink, a hot woman and a cool poem. I will be around. Later

In Tangletown

2010-04-22T18:45:00.001-05:00

I am the last lost poet.
At 3rd and Market I sit
at my old table, by the window
on the second floor
and wait, and watch and write.
The trains stopped running
long ago, the nights are silent.
Poems don't come easy.
There are no more saxophones
crying in the lonely dark.
Only the occasional glare
of a window lamp marking
the territory of an insomniac.
The buildings are mute.
Curtains hang heavy and damp.
This place has lost its soul.
The streets are quiet
in Tangletown.

In One Hand Armand's

2010-04-22T18:17:00.000-05:00

the cold outside is kept at bay by
the heat from bodies gathered
to drink loneliness and salvation,
to drink the nearness of flesh
and the fleeting pleasures it offers.
Tonight my poison is wine,
cheaper by the glass, better buy the bottle.
The smoke is thick,
and the juke box can't make a dent
in the conversations.
Armand, let me top off your wine glass.
Button down the hatches and load the guns.
Revolutions start in places like this.
We are tinder waiting only for fire.
We may die but we will set the night aflame.

In Tangletown

2010-04-22T18:14:00.001-05:00

I walk the streets at night.
I am not the boy I was.
The hardness of this place has
crept into the lines of my face.
The rain soaks me but
I am no longer moved to tears.
The shadows are mine,
and the dark corners,
dead ends and alleys.
When people pass me they don't see me;
I am invisible, a piece of trash.
Bothers me not. I've lived here for years.
The stains on my soul are forever.
Forever the streets of
Tangletown.

When we die I believe our essence is thrown back into the stew pot of the Universe

2010-04-22T18:08:00.001-05:00

The body does not need us when we die.
When what animates us is gone,
the flesh has plans of its own.
It starts by cleaning out impurities,
the debris of bad living and fast food.
As fresh air starts the transformation
the flesh feels its own rebirth.
No morals, no meals, no fear of death.
It rejoices itself as a garden.
As the spirit flies unattached
to time or place the body reaches for home
to take a long overdue and much deserved rest.
The body does not need us when we die.
It goes its own way.

iPod muse

2010-04-18T21:18:00.002-05:00

Song Title poem

Babe, I’m gonna leave you

Black

Blown wide open

Crash! Boom! Bang!

Everybody knows

Blues in the midnight hour

Feels like rain

Kiss the rain

Fall like rain

Give me one reason

Good loving gone bad

Hell at home

Hey, hey, what can I do?

I’ve got to go now

I don’t wanna

I want to walk with you

Love is a stranger

Nowhere to go

Side of the road

Smoke and ashes

Tenderness

Thank you

Unsent

Unchained melody

Wish you were here

SAILOR BOY

2010-04-12T11:21:00.000-05:00

On a hotel roof
in San Diego, California,
caterwaul of sirens
and hookers muted,
I read my horoscope
and fed my appetite
for loneliness
and chemicals.
The minutes crept past
slow as thunder.
Smog lit by night lights glowed
like a translucent shower curtain,
and I wept,
thinking of home,
of Ophelia's head
resting over my heart.

I live for the rush.

2010-04-11T17:40:00.001-05:00

Words a friend told me.
Riding through newly-awakened
fields and swamps,
critters everywhere,
birds on every branch.
Deep from the hearts of trees
in the stands and copses
green leaked like life-blood,
burning the air with possibility.
I wasn't driving, so my rush did not
come from speed or
the need to remain alert.
Feeling the blues slip from me,
a coat I stripped off
and hung out the car window
leaving a trail of dust, worry,
and the scent of the sickroom.
Between the two Mallards in the creek
and the riders doubled up on big cycles
hunting the long easy curves of these
old roads, there was a space I felt so human
I can never go back to where I was.

2010-03-18T09:46:00.001-05:00

BUT HE WAS A FINE POET

Sure, he liked the tattoos he got

when he ran with the 1%’s

and he liked burning a bowl before

the stockholders meeting, the presenter

puzzled by the sudden chuckles

floating above the sea of Parker Brothers

suits, silk ties, nightmares of the world

crashing silently among the others

He drank a little wine

some say a little too much

but by damn it was good wine

And it wasn’t so much his touch

with the cue stick that made his name

but the beauty of his bank shots

as the balls danced their gavotte

and whether he made the shot or not

his opponent bought the drinks regardless

Ok, maybe he chased the ladies

and his indiscretions were as dramatic

and fatal like some STD malaises’

Money was not his friend

he went through it like shit goes through birds

and he was depressed and mal-adjusted

and treated people like smelly turds

But he was a fine poet, he ran deep

He brought us all on his journey

So what if he couldn’t sleep

‘till laid out on a steel gurney

2010-03-18T09:41:00.000-05:00

THE SUMMER OF 2008

Where were you when the river rose?
I was running for higher ground.
Where were you when the river rose?
Was bagging sand with other men.
Where were you when the river rose?
I was crying on the shore.
Where were you when the river rose?
Was packing my baby’s things.
Where were you when the river rose?
I was dancing like a fool.
Where were you when the river rose?
On my knees praying No, No, No.
Where were you when the river rose?

Wheeling

2010-02-15T08:23:00.001-06:00

How to explain to someone who has never driven out of state.
When I have driven more miles in a year than most people
drive in their life, what can I say about the drive they would believe?
A lot of bad poetry, and a lot of good has been written about the road.
Johnny Winter sings of Highway 61, bleachers on the shoulder,
Abraham with a knife to his son’s throat, the shadowed profile
of a mother’s seventh son, telephones that will not ring.
The Boss cruising mansions of glory on suicide machines.
The rumble of iron thunder, the thunder of iron steeds,
Steppenwolf providing the soundtrack to a bat out of hell.
The road has my heart.
I have spent more time behind the wheel than any other place.
At rest my hands sit curled, fingers around a steering wheel’s rim.
I always notice the hawks in the trees.
I always drive with the windows down.
Want to find out what kind of a person you are?
Drive from Appleton to Dallas and back in forty eight hours.
Want to find out where your soul is?
Watch a thunder storm roar through the Badlands late afternoon.
Turn a curve and see clouds beneath you.
How could I do other than I do?
Plenty time for one place when I’m dead.
And when I die, don’t plant me in the ground.
Throw my ashes to the wind
and let me go where I will.

2010-02-13T18:13:00.002-06:00

What a Man Leaves

On my last day let it be known that I danced.

I drank some good wine with a meal I cooked.

I read my favorite poem to a lovely lady.

Let it be known I left my rooms clean,

the dishes racked and dry, the lights off.

I love my family, forgive my enemies,

clear my heart of hurt or grief.

I love my cat, the sunshine,

the hard north wind.

Let it be remembered by someone

that a hawk graced my sky today,

that juncos chittered in the cedar

outside my front window.

2010-01-28T19:36:00.001-06:00

OPPENHEIMER'S CHILDREN

When a nephew told me he didn't think
I could get by today if I were his age,
well, what can you tell those who don't know.
He is worried about guns, Aids, bad drugs...
and he's right to worry.
I'll keep the Bay of Pigs to myself,
and the Cuban Embargo, and the Gulf of Tonkin.
He doesn't remember the Brandenburg Gate,
or Bikini Atoll, or the Civil Air Drills.
He doesn't know that from the day of my birth
obliteration was a daily fear, looming,
in the conversations of adults, preached
on the Evening News, taught in schools.
I am a child of the Ultimate Flame,
invented by men of science,
hidden in locked labs,
one of millions who pray at night
that we will wake up in the morning.

Haiti

2010-01-19T18:29:00.000-06:00

What can one poet do, or even two,
when the numbers are human
and very large?
We can write words until our eyes bleed,
stroke keys until our hearts implode,
bury the dead until the fields are full.
What separates the living from the dead?
And who is to draw the boundaries?
I say let the living honor the dead as they may.
Let any act be an act of love,
any labor a labor of community.
From the safe distances of my life, my home
we must let the living tend to their loss,
and tend to them as they bury their lives
in the land they share even with the dead.

TO MY SISTER, WHO BALL ROOM DANCES

2010-01-19T18:28:00.000-06:00

I remember dancing in the garage
listening to the Top Forty,
calling the radio station to make requests,
the station you worked at on weekends.
Your friends Lorelei and Gail,
me the pesky brother harder to get rid of
than a case of acne or a bad perm.
Portable radio perched on the beat up piano,
tinny speakers fuzzing like crazy,
Casey Kaseem sending out long distance
love songs to soldiers in 'Nam,
sweethearts away at college,
and you could tell by his voice Casey
loved them, loved us, dancing in a garage
on a summer day in Michigan far from the war
and race riots and Woodstock.
Decades later, you're married and a grandmother,
me, well, still me, strangers mostly,
but I remember dancing, and am happy
to see one of us still dancing.

2010-01-11T18:51:00.000-06:00

I'm on the phone to my street corner girl,

traffic in the background, voices laughing.

It ain't no biggie, it's not the first time,

some hearts just to need to wander.

Some hearts just wait by the phone.

New reads

2010-01-03T20:58:00.002-06:00

Armand, gonna throw some books at ya.
Anne Sexton, "Live Or Die"
Her third book,
brutal and honest, dark and lyrical,
a kind of free form mental soup,
scattered images, sad memories,
but vibrant and wired, like a prosac cocktail.
There is a neurotic energy here that carries these poems
beyond the lithium fueled delusions you would expect in the chronicling
of a breakdown. Sexton laughs, not always appropriately,
but always deservedly. She is not looking for redemption,
or sympathy, but maybe just a witness.

On my scale of shot of mezcal (Junk)to a dram of absinthe,( Great)
this is a bloody Mary.

NO TIP TONIGHT

2009-12-29T17:52:00.002-06:00

Seven P.M. Thursday,
Italian Bistro, three ladies
and too much Chianti.
They act like old tigress's
who've found a zebra foal
and can't decide between
mothering it or eating it.
From the back of the cab one says
to me will I give a free ride if she flashes me,
lifts her blouse
in all her shrunken drooping glory.
I'm sorry, Ma'am, that won't even cover the tip.
She laughs so hard her teeth fall out.
As she leaves the cab, her claws
drag softly across the back of my neck.

2009-12-28T18:18:00.002-06:00

Happy new year. Champagne, party flavors, kisses with plenty o' tongue.
Be happy, healthy, have fun.

The season

2009-12-22T21:41:00.003-06:00

Armand, another eggnog here, heavy on the rum.
For the ones who are alone tonight,I will remember you.
To those put away, put down, put up, I remember.
Those of you on the road, far from home, I will remember.
Those with family scattered far and wide, I remember.
You in the shelters, the wards, the cells, I remember you, too.
Those at sea, in the air, in harms way, I remember.
To those lost in their own inner wilderness's I will remember.
You who are pursued by old familiar demons, I remember.
And to you, whoever you are, who are right where you want to be,
remember all of us.

Armand, a round for the house on me.

2009-12-07T20:57:00.000-06:00

...and the music of the stars
still stream though the lit night
a Capella, like a kid on a corner
snapping, popping, sizzling
from a secret but free energy,
a bone and blood pulsar,
a righteous Borealis

and I ain't too old to miss
magic when it happens.
The clouds clear out,
the moon is a bright grin.
I know babies dance when they're born.
I know molecules dance, and atoms,
and mountains in slow stone time dance.

Life is bright, time is forever.
Dance like our bodies are gods.

Something escaped from the closet today.

2009-11-30T19:24:00.000-06:00

Snapshot: picture Mel Brooks,
Yoda, and Ebenezer Scrooge
rolled into one old man.
One time a man took me from the street
and gave me home, gave me warm, gave me light.
But a souvenir from ’Nam
ate his family, his little boy, a little girl
their loving mother.
Today at the V.A. I saw this gnarled troll
waiting for his medications
eyes all predatory, same Portuguese nose,
old stale menace his mouth.
Some things are best left buried,
better left put away, out of sight
and out of mind, locked in a cage.

2009-11-06T20:38:00.000-06:00

Friday night and the wine is almost gone.
Sound of buses on the street below my window,
people going somewhere, returning from somewhere,
staring at their faces reflected in the dirty bus window,
making lists, forming speeches, framing apologies.
All the things that make us human;
communication, regret, envy,
are the things that keep us apart.
I send my thoughts out and ask
for nothing but acknowledgement,
an admission of inclusion,
a need to know I belong.
But I am a poet.
What was I thinking.
The voices of the night are mine.
I stare into the eye of the moon
and read omens there.
The darkness is mine,
has always been…
I gave up the light for understanding.

poem from work

2009-11-05T18:21:00.001-06:00

THE BOY WHO DOESN’T KNOW

Kid gets in my cab,
headphones on,
thousand-yard stare,
saliva-coated chin.
Four people walk him
to the cab door and leave.
My eye never leaves the mirror.
He sits and rocks a little,
hums softly.
I think he is his own universe.
There are strange stars
in his sky.
He revolves around himself
silent and stately.
I am nothing here.
Maybe a small moon
casting inconsequential light.

2009-11-05T18:17:00.001-06:00

OPEN SEASON

In my family when a son killed his first buck
he was given a shot of deer blood to honor the animal’s spirit.
I drank mine at sixteen.
Since then every Autumn I would gather
gun and ammo, camo and blaze orange,
knife, tag and flask of whiskey.
This year I am fifty two years old on my
thirty sixth hunt, and yesterday I sat in a blind
and got lost in the wind and the leaves,
the sound of the branches and shouts of blue jays.
Lost and elevated by that beauty…
Movement in the draw below me…
Slowly, nose first, wary eyed,
a buck emerged.
Modest six points, ears tattered
and nose scarred, deep bull chest
brown, black and grizzled grey.
An old warrior, sire to many a fine fawn, I’d bet.
Now, I’ve shot a buck or two in my time,
I am no twitchy fingered youth shooting at shadows.
He was in my sights, dead to right, mine.
I could pull the trigger.
I didn’t. Coughing softly,
I granted him his life.
He tensed, raised his tail, bounded away,
and I was glad to see him go.
Later, when I saw the old king gutted and tied to a trailer
I wept, broke down my gun, and will hunt no more.

Walking the Fox

2009-10-18T15:00:00.002-05:00

I don’t enjoy walking the river when it is this intense.
The rush and roil make my head light as foam
and turns my feet sodden and heavy.
I loose my thoughts.
I start thinking river questions.
Questions I haven’t asked in generations.

Where am I going?
And when I get there, where will I go then?
Are there other rivers like me?
If there are, do they find like I do
that every bend is new and familiar
all at once, that each old tree I see
I have never seen before
and have known for centuries?
Do they watch with the same eye,
one at once the length and width of my course
but small as every drop of water?

I, also, wonder where I am going.
I ponder the absence of any final destination.
I puzzle at why when I look,
the river wears my face.

Dusk, on a shore, one loon cries

2009-10-14T21:10:00.001-05:00

I know this place in my heart
that I take energy from
Deep purple sky still black lake
a loon cry unanswered not repeated

My friends say this is a lonely place
full of sadness and melancholy
I have to agree
but this is where I live

If I could change anything
it would be this
There would be a small campfire
and maybe another loon

tired

2009-10-08T19:54:00.000-05:00

I am tired of being a cripple,
can I get an Amen.
I don’t care if the moon landings fixed,
look where it took us.
Wine, cheap or not,
both end up piss.
Sure time slips away,
it brings us along for the ride.
I am a poet fueled by wine
and some real good pills.
The poets that I know,
that I really truly know,
ain’t all that far away.
We are grey but bright,
at ease with our words,
willing to let some things pass
because we’ve all been there.

Yesterday

2009-09-29T17:55:00.001-05:00

I heard a song today about leaving
and a friend read a poem about the road
where the wind insistently repeats
gusts of approval to the grey clouds.
It’s 50 * but it looks like snow.
The leaves are still green and
refuse to submit, so the wind
claims the dead branches,
the birds nests, and the rummage sale signs.
It isn’t even noon
I’m ready for bed.

2009-09-10T09:46:00.001-05:00

UNJUSTIFIED POEM
　
Black holes never cry.
A stone was a rock
when it was young.
Arrows of love from
the Gods of war, away!
Away! Away to the space
between mine eyes and
save me from
lisping Shakespeares.

2009-09-10T09:44:00.000-05:00

TABOO CONVERSATIONS
　
I was joking with my friend the other day
‘bout smoking stale tea, how tea was a name
for pot ‘way back, beatniks drinking wine and smoking’ tea.
Giving Bourbon as a cure for cowlick, whining,
or to counteract a sugar buzz; this is okay.
But joke about smoking’ a little Gange, some Buddha,
or Humboldt County homegrown and Holy Shit!
Smack me upside the head with a fry pan!
Didn’t matter her and I burned one together.
Ain’t my fault her father called and ruined her buzz.
I guess respectability will do that to ya.
And me, old reprobate, part hippy and part biker,
part stoned seer/prophet/poet
still willing to let my freak flag fly.

2009-09-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

WRONG TURN SOMEWHERE
　
Starting to write poetry wasn’t
the best idea I’ve ever had.
It all seemed so innocent.
A limerick or two, a lousy ballad,
love poems so bad they hurt.
That is all it was ever meant to be.
I would have been happy with that.
Then the poetry turned into songs,
each one filled with its own music.
The words became Shamans, holding
mysteries, and the answers to mysteries.
Suddenly, it seems, I am become a midwife
trying at the least to not drop a poem on its head,
at most hold it up to the sun and announce
“ Here is another.”

Passing the torch

2009-08-31T19:44:00.001-05:00

I want to tell my nephews that
some little part of our blood
comes from the Ojibwa, or Chippewa.
Not enough blood to put you on a tribal roll,
or get you out of an ass-whooping,
but now you know.
They were fisherman, and rice harvesters,
trappers and hunters.
Their warriors were feared and respected.
Yes,
we are corn-fed, fair skinned, right talkin’
sons of western Europe.
But part of us has been here much longer.
It may not be important to you now,
but some day you will notice how
you always end up back here.
It’s the blood.
It speaks, and
we must listen.

A Pinot Noir, and some tid bits.

2009-08-31T18:21:00.002-05:00

ABOVE ME

Her face
risen above me,
the moon through the shutters
just touches the left side of her face.
She is not smiling.
Her eyes are like a cat’s,
but soft, and silver.
I think
My God,
that I should be here.
The moon just touches her face,
and still, I am jealous.
　
　
　
a few really short ones　
　
　
In my Pear tree
a bird I’ve never seen.
His song…
I don’t know if it’s sad or not.
　
　
　
A young Maple
blushing red…
embarrassed, no doubt,
to be losing her dress.

The older Maples
can’t wait to throw
their leaves like scarves
and dance naked in
new snow.

Hey Armand,
a shot and a Bud short.
And stop saying "God bless ya"
every time I mention Haiku.

Walkabout

2009-08-15T22:51:00.002-05:00

Sorry, friends and neighbors,
but the road called and I had to answer.
After all, it is summer,
and you know how those roads are,
how the ditch mist is rich in clover scent.
And how the rumble of dual pipes
bounced off buildings and cornfields
sounds identical.
The people at the end of this particular road
shared their table with me,
and we laughed, and I returned home.
Armand, ya old fuck,
a bottle of your finest grape juice,
and a shot for the song of the road.
Damn it is fine to be back.

When you step out your door

2009-07-21T21:06:00.002-05:00

...you never know where the road will take you."

Bilbo Baggins, Bag- end, Shire.

I'm dusting off my walking stick.
I packed light because I don't know what I'll need.
I have poems, paper and pen.
Pictures of my small furry friends.
My father's pocket knife.
Mothers coin purse.
A bear claw, hawk feather,
and a Bic lighter.
This is all metaphor, of course.
For true, I'll leave with my pain
and hope to return with my life.

Weep not for me, chick pea.
I'm like a tree in the wind.
Thou art beautiful, oh my love.
Yea, you too Armand.
No, I ain't gonna kiss ya.
But I will see you soon.

Thoughts

2009-07-15T20:36:00.000-05:00

Make no mistake,
say the noises in the night…
the only answer to dying
is living like you mean it.
And when you die,
try to make it personal.
This suicide by cop,
this gun in the mouth crap,
the dramatic pose in the front yard…
there is no bravery here, no bravura,
no guts, no glory.
Darkness has harsh words for those
who will not crawl into it and expire
in grace and silence and solitude.
Once you’re gone any need for attention
passes on to the ones left alive.
Make your life the spectacle,
says the night,
not your passing.

Mail Call

2009-07-14T21:15:00.000-05:00

GOD GOES POSTAL
　
Got a picture of Jesus
in the mail today.
8 x 11 inch paper facsimile
of a prayer rug with
Jesus in His blondeness,
His California surfin’ dude beard.
I thought,
if You looked like this back then,
they would have killed You
in the cow shed when You were born.
But hey,
it makes us white folk feel better
about worshipping someone
from the Middle East.
Wouldn’t look good for Gods Son
to look like the fanatics we see every night
on the High Definition Televisions.
Turbaned, robed, angry.
Speaking against the soldiers of a foreign ruler,
wielding hate as a weapon of mass salvation.
Strange what you get in the mail nowadays.

July 8

2009-07-08T19:49:00.006-05:00

On this day in 1976 I stood
on a rolling deck
on the starboard watch,
and saw Mt. Fuji's peak,
high above the clouds.

In '85 I huddled between two soda machines
alongside a gas station and watched a thunder storm
stampede across the Bad Lands.

In 96 my dad and I came upon
the Silver City Co-Op
on the continental divide
and talked our wounds away.

In 1981 I was sick behind a dumpster in
Baton Rouge, swatting rats off my legs,
trying to remember my name.

Tijuana, 77, Rosario.
Olah! She didn't need hands
to pull a cork!

92. Quit smoking.

I could go on and on.
What matters most, though,
is July 8, 2009.
Today was a good day.
That's enough to make it special.

2009-07-07T00:12:00.002-05:00

Long ago, nights like this,
my poison was a shot of Jack Daniels, (which I HATED)
beer, (since replaced by wine)
and repeat.
Ten times or so.

I was young.
I was reckless.
I thought I was having fun.

I remember a poster
that used to hang in Tonnies
down in Menekaunee.
Old Popeye-looking dude
at a bar with a beer in front of him.
The caption was,
"We gets too soon olt,
"and too late schmart.
"Better we should haf another."
Bless you, old man.
And bless you too, Armand.
How 'bout one more for the road...

From the Juke Box

2009-07-05T16:53:00.002-05:00

BOOTY CALL

My skin is sweet like chocolate
My voice is Barry White
I sleep the day away cause
I am up all night

(chorus)
Give me a ring
I'm your booty call
I'll give you lovin',babe
I can do it all.

I got slow moving hands
warm and strong
I'll lift you up
love you all night long

chorus

You'll be my little kitty
I'll be your scratching post
Tell me pretty baby
Who you love the most

chorus

Cabby poem

2009-06-28T19:34:00.000-05:00

THE BOY WHO DOESN’T KNOW
　
Kid gets in my cab,
headphones on,
thousand-yard stare,
saliva-coated chin.
Four people walk him
to the cab door and leave.
My eye never leaves the mirror.
He sits and rocks a little,
hums softly.
I think he is his own universe.
There are strange stars
in his sky.
He revolves around himself
silent and stately.
I am nothing here.
Maybe a small moon
casting inconsequential light.

city boy

2009-06-22T19:58:00.001-05:00

CORN WOMAN

City boy finds himself in the country
finds himself lost in the silence of the corn
in the far misty horizon
in good land rolling away forever

Seeking roots
or a home
or a place
where he can rest

The wide open here scares him
who has loved cityscapes
and cloud-scraping buildings
and the babble of the towers of men

Seeking space
a place to roost
a house of healing
a place to hide

In dreams his soul departs
rides ribbons of power lines
into the restless city
joins in the dance of night

Spirals upward
seeking light
needing love
finding none

His soul trolleys back
along ribbons spanning fields
into the arms of Corn Woman
finding there all he has ever sought

Friends and poetry

2009-06-21T19:44:00.003-05:00

Here are two lovely women with their boots round my shoulders. At left is Sharon, right is Ellen.
They caught my reading of Red Boots at the Harmony Cafe in Appleton June 15. It was a blast.

Throwing Open A Life

2009-06-09T19:57:00.003-05:00

It was early when I left
left the door open
left the raincoat on the hook
umbrella in the corner
I left in the rain
hands in my pockets
whistling a Led Zeppelen tune
about leaving in the summer time
leaving when the summer comes a'rolling
I heard the road call like it used to
I heard it calling me back home

Home is a heart out there
that is leaving right now
purse on the sofa
keys on a hook
an open face
whistling her favorite leaving tune
rolling towards me like summer thunder

2009-05-31T18:27:00.001-05:00

Too nice to spend in a bar.
Catch me by the river. I got a six pack,
bag of chips, and some new poems.
P.S., bring a bottle opener.

Fame and fortune

2009-05-29T19:10:00.002-05:00

Let me buy a round.
Ring the bell.
My friends and dear strangers,
a toast to me and my book.
Damn if today ain't a great day to be alive.
Ralph, Sharon, Ellen, Gary...
next one's on me.

Don't get me to talkin'

2009-05-28T17:21:00.002-05:00

The only interesting thing about me anymore
are my stories.
Things I did.
Where I was.
Who I’ve met.
Better than being a grumpy old fart
gumming his daily bread
with a bitter face.
It is true I don’t walk very far anymore.
Doesn’t mean I ain’t been down roads.
I’ve been from here to there and back.
I have more miles than most.
If you were my age, I’d wager
though we’ve seen the same sunsets
I can name more of mine.
I’ve been in that beautiful place
where loneliness and awe
happen in equal measure.
I’ve met some people once
who I love to this day.
I’ve dodged fists, cue sticks,
bottles and bricks but never the law.
Okay. Maybe twice.
I have tasted rain so sweet.
I’ve drank things from
corn whiskey to Sauternes,
every thing in between.
I have slept in awful places.
I treated my body like
an amusement park and
my mind like a party.
I traded my heart for
bad pennies and sour grapes.
I’ve treated some hearts the same.
Don’t get me to talking…
I got all night.

How was your day?

2009-05-27T17:35:00.000-05:00

How many days in our lives can we say
“ This is exactly where I want to be.”?
Maybe you are in a park reading
Jim Harrison poems sipping a Pepsi
and munching on a fresh pasty.
Or sitting across a table from your best friend,
talking on into early morning.
How about, just drinking a good wine
and waiting for a poem to come.
I think the secret to a full life is
claiming such times as our own,
sharing them as we see fit,
keeping them to ourselves
knowing how rare they are.
I had such a day today.
I wish you many for yourself.

Memorial Day

2009-05-23T22:57:00.000-05:00

To my brothers and sisters in the military,
here or moved on, thank you.
You put yourself in Harms way
or supported those who did.
So, for putting ourselves
through the strangeness of boot camp,
endured the training, the classes,
the humiliation, and finally the bonding,
Then the schools and first postings,
the travel and the rules, always the rules.
And we did it for our families,
for our Country, and for ourselves.
Whatever your battle, engagement,
police action, cruise or flyover;
You lived through it, or not.
Either way, you are heroes.
So, to us Sailors, Anchors away!
To the grunts, and the new Army! Forward!
To you jarheads, Harrroooo!
You fly boys, (and girls),
do, what ever in the hell you do.

i don't know what I believe,
I'll be home on Christmas Eve.
One! Two!
Three! Four!

I tip my beer to us all.

Bug Man

2009-05-21T17:24:00.000-05:00

In Tangletown
when the Bugman walks by
in his suit with his greasy hair,
it makes you want to grab your wallet,
clutch your purse, pick up your child.
He smiles like life is a carlot and we are all beaters
with prices slashed, sacrificed, a real steal.
He will sell you a bridge, part of the moon,
Nevada oceanfront shoreline property.
When he talks all you can hear is the jingle of change,
the suck of air from money leaving your pocket.
The Bugman is a Company Man,
The Banker,
the Dream Pusher with $$ eyes that gleam in the dark.
He is a fat little boy in a candy store,
all greed and hunger,
and we are all day suckers.
The sweetness of life all depends
on if you're the stick or the lick.
Bitter are the days
in Tangletown.

2009-05-20T19:47:00.000-05:00

In Tangletown
Pegen O'Malley
cruises Friday night streets
in blue satin hot pants and orange tanktop
that reads "Poker in the front, Liquor in the rear."
She is looking for her next Boyfriend.
She flips off cops, sneers at housewives,
blows kisses to good-looking men.
Her high heels are lethal, not really legal,
but they do set her ass to swaying.
Her green fishnet stockings
throw multi-colored sparks
and her magenta lipstick
reflects the neon of the night.
Guys check their balls absently,
making sure they are still there.
She radiates lust and hunger.
To her, all men are treats,
" I'll take that one, and that one, and that one."
For Pegen O'Malley life is a candy store,
and her sweets walk the streets
in Tangletown.

The Taxi cab incident

2009-05-15T19:19:00.000-05:00

The day I almost started
a war with the city of Toronto
　
Yes,
Toronto, Canada.
She was stunning.
Short black hair, finely turned profile,
looking smart in board room black.
I asked where to, she told me.
I noticed an accent, asked where was she from.
Toronto.
Canada I asked.
Yes. Canada.
I thought you might be from somewhere else.
The conversation went downhill from there.
I thought I had an International Incident.
Maybe I should warn somebody.
She didn’t even tip me.

a fave

2009-05-14T18:02:00.000-05:00

TRANSLATING ROBERT BLY
　
We start to burn
as we are born.

The barn boards
exhale wheat breath.

We are born knowing
all we need to get by.

The lake, half in shadow,
is a coffin or cave.

Living is an art but
Dying is a saxophone.

The horses in the dark field
will be us in their next life.

The gate in the fence swings open.
We are on the road we were meant for.

rant-n-roll

2009-05-12T18:51:00.000-05:00

Pull up a stool. What’ll ya have?
Ya like the blues? Chicago, Jump, Texas, Delta?
Blind Faith on the juke, can’t find their way home.
Ever been lost?
I asked Armand to turn off the news.
Bad news and trouble every where ya look.
People going postal,
business swiping us blind.
War, x3.
Pirates, Hollywood princesses,
celebrity Presidential family.
It’s a good thing I drink
or I’d sure start now.
Clapton told me to ride the river.
Wish it were that easy, hey?
Listen to this…
“Hard times in the Land of Plenty.
Some got it all and the rest ain’t got any.”
Omar and the Howlers pegged it there didn’t they.

2009-05-11T22:06:00.000-05:00

QUESTIONS FOR PABLO NERUDA
　
Do crows make fun of
the way WE walk?

How come when you need a dime
all you can find is a nickel?

If love is an ailment and leaving a mystery,
where do we hide our hearts?

If grey is green in the sunlight
what color is the flight of a blue jay?

And, speaking of sunlight,
where can I get a prescription for it?

The answers to the Question of living, Pablo,
what can they be other than the wind in the cattails?

What I do

2009-05-08T18:40:00.000-05:00

Li Po, maybe

2009-05-07T20:07:00.000-05:00

The other night at Polly’s
the cool September air added
a gold taste to the beer and the Rhine.
This short elderly cat walked in,
done up in white silk shirt and dark blue silk suit,
gold-rimmed glasses, head shaved and sunburned,
shoes worn and dusty with old leaves.
Polly, ready for damn near anything most of the time,
dusted off an old bottle of plum wine.
The polite old gent bowed like his neck was broken,
pulled out a fountain pen, scribbled something on a napkin.
He and Polly toasted each other, he finished the bottle,
bowed again and left.
Polly clutched the paper to her lovely breasts.
“Show us, Polly.” we ask.
“Show us what the old man wrote
that raises such passion in you.”

At the roadhouse some plum wine,
a beautiful girl.
Polly, leaf; both say last call.

tHE RAMBLINGS OF A CONFUSED MIND

2009-05-06T21:21:00.000-05:00

My Yahoo!

BREAKING OUT

How to walk the line between
utter cosmic radiance
and the same old same old day;
Step out of your life a moment.
Be dangerous.
Get your heart beating strong.
Say no instead of yes.
Repeat it, with hand gestures.
Take no shit,
no stupidity.
Say what you’ve always wanted to say.
It doesn’t take much to be a hero.
It is in all of us,
that desire to be a cause.
It can define us.
There is no difference
between my life and your life.
We are part of a dream,
and God is soon to wake up.
　
　
　
　
GOING　
　
　
I got that road adrenaline
rumbling through my blood.
It used to be my buzz of choice.
I’d be thrown up a notch.
See in six directions,
hear in seven ways,
Knew what you’d do
before you thought of it.
Notice the silhouette
of a hawk in a tree
from a quarter-mile.
I could hear the thoughts
of the men who
graded and laid this blacktop.
The truck, the load, me.
The road signs, the wind.
The vanishing point far ahead.

Thought for the day

2009-05-05T22:38:00.000-05:00

My Yahoo!
In Tangletown
a young woman leaves the clinic
she works at and walks downtown
where the taverns are lined up to fall like dominoes.
She is looking for someone. A guy.
A man with a good and kind heart.
Where others troll for flesh to see them through the night,
Lucy Greene only wants some love.
She shows her honesty and
it is mistaken for The Angle,The Pitch, The Line.
She can't see that she walks around with Doormat
written on her face, or Hurt Me pinned to her sleeve.
She gets nailed every time.
It is a terrible thing
to watch a heart grow to stone.
The streets are littered
with the likes of Lucy Greene
every night
in Tangletown.

Sunrise Blues

2009-05-04T21:55:00.002-05:00

My Yahoo!

I got the blues in the midnight hour.
(with a nod to Guy Davis)
　
And there ain’t no cure for it.
The music on the radio is heartless.
How can it be so happy when I am like this?
I need something so lowdown and fucking dirty
it hurts my teeth, it feels like a kick to the nuts,
it feels like brass knuckles to the mouth.
Girl, I don’t know where you are.
In this whole wide city you wander somewhere,
I can hear your footsteps echo, I can see the light
of store fronts reflect off your face, I can smell your cigarette.
I got the man left home blues. I got the woman
chasing tail on Main Street blues.
The children are in bed, the dog’s put out,
the sun is creeping up, where are you girl?
I look out the window,
I keep the door unlocked.
I wait for the Taxi to pull up.
Wait for you to step out lip smeared, puffy,
red eyed, throw the cabbie a wad of bills,
weave the walk to the porch.
I’m waiting for you to see my bags packed,
waiting for you to see me leave.
I’ll leave you to wonder the empty nights,
to wander the dark silent rooms,
to keep vigil at the window,
I’ll leave you these sunrise blues.

Juke box

2009-05-02T19:59:00.000-05:00

My Yahoo!

A BROKEN HEART IS A SAD JUKE BOX.
F 17,
A 32,
On a bad night, D 6.
Marshall Tucker Band,
“Can’t you see?”
“What this woman, she been doin’ to me.”
It is all “Hey hey, what can I do”
all “Good Lovin’ Gone bad.”
It is being on the receiving end of
“I Got A Spell On You”.
25 cents a song,
5 for a dollar.
Fingers know which buttons to push.
The body dances its own healing.
Remembers how to be alone.
One hand on the wall above the machine,
other tucked in pant pocket,
gazing into the guts of the juke box,
paying due what’s come due.

Hard Road Cafe Pt. 3

2009-05-01T19:38:00.000-05:00

11:30 AM

Jesse Parker, college junior, spells Pete at the stove
for an hour or so. As Pete fills him in, Jackie changes the board on the sidewalk to the noon menu.
Pete grabs a lunch he had packed earlier, walks down the street,
turns toward the river, towards the little park there on its shore. He sits on top of the picnic table, his feet on the seat,
his chin in his hands, and he thinks.

12:00 PM

Four or five factory and mill whistles blow, a discordant
announcement that morning is over.
Barges and tugs ply the river, a few old men on the shore are fishing. Gulls squawk and fight over pickings from the trash barrel. Peters lunch is untouched, his chin is still in his hands, he is lost in thought.
Stella dying in a barrage of gunfire.
4 in the afternoon walking the block to her door.
Young men, boys, really, defending their desperation,
pissed, armed, given to acting before thinking.
Him holding his 'Stell, watching her die.
looking into the empty stare of sunglasses
speeding by. He, left behind, left alone.
Church was too political to help him.
The widowers support group he found at the outreach center
was no help. Even his brief stint with booze did not help.
The only things that helped was his Cafe. Work. Friends.
Then, the other day while listening to the radio,
he heard about plans to march on the capital. One million black men.
It was being called a chance to reclaim male pride,
re-establish male friendship, to guide the youngsters.
To take back our neighborhoods from the criminals.
To get respect for, and from the women.
The march promised so many things.
Farrakhan would be there, and Jackson.
Those were the reasons he should go, thought Peter.
But the bus ride would be two days to get to D.C.,
a day there, two days back. Who would tend the cafe?
Do the shopping, the prep, cooking?
Peter looked at his watch, threw his uneaten lunch
to the gulls, headed back to his cafe.

1:15 PM

Jesse says Long lunch today, boss? I thought I was finally going to get a chance to do Dinner.
When you're thirty, says Peter. He peeks through the serving window, sees Elmer and Stan Lieber playing chess at the end booth, with their latte and Officially Non-Existent silver flask.
Near as Peter could tell, those two have been playing the same position for ten years. Come to think of it, he doesn't recall
ever seeing one of those gentlemen even move a piece.
He low-whistles to Helga, asks her if she has ever seen them move a chess piece. Nope, she says, been playing the same game for ten years, and walks away to serve coffee to a man at the end of the counter.
This man catches Peters eye. Has a pretty heavy jacket on for such a nice day. Reads the paper, has a small pile of ones on the countertop, remains of a ham and cheese sandwich in front of him. Looks out the door a lot, and even in air conditioning he sweats, makes his face shine like motor oil.
Peter does not recognize him. Jackie hands Peter an order,
looks at him, at the young man, back to Peter, turns away.
As she reaches past Helga to put the coffee pot on the warmer
Jackie casually and expertly whispers to her.
Then Jackie walks to the man, tears the top sheet off of her pad, lays it on the counter in front of him, asks Will there be anything else, sir? He looks out the door, back to her, says No. Looks at Helga at the end of the counter,
back to her , says That's it for me. Keep the change.
He gets up, holding his coat closed with one hand, and walks out of the front door, turns left, is out of sight.

1:30 PM

Jackie and Helga exchange a relieved glance. Officer Tam Brady walks out of the ladies room, buckling her Sam Brown, holding a newspaper under her arm, service cap on askew. Peter sees the young man come back into view, coat open, a very big gun in one hand, the door handle in the other. He sees the officer, she looks up and sees him. Peters hand is on the phone. The man runs off, the officer chases him, calling for back-up on her portable.

2:00 PM

The crowd has dispersed, the police are done taking statements.
Helga and Jackie are calm again. Officer Tam tells Peter that after a short chase, the young man turned and fired on her. She returned fire. He went down, was in St. Matt’s hospital in critical condition.

3:00 PM

The ladies are gone, the place is cleaned, and Peter hangs the CLOSED sign in the glass door. As he walks to the kitchen he hears someone try the door. He turns, hollers sorry, I'm closed
for the day.

6:00 PM

Peter stands before a wired glass window, and the glare from the corridor lights makes it hard to see inside the dim room.
Lights from some machines, a small table lamp, an indistinct shape under a white sheet. A dark face, plastic mask, a snarl of tubes and hoses. Peters forehead is against the warm glass.
He sees his Stella. Car barreling down the street, six kids.
Stella dead on a Sunday, her murderer
gone, Stella gone, all of it gone.
Peter says to the dark face on the other side of the glass
not so bad now are you. Peter wishes his tears would go away.
Stella asks him from the shine of the window,
“What are you going to do, Pete?”
He looks at his hands, sighs,
asks, “What can I do?”
The boy on the bed asks nothing,
is witness to no pain,
drifting between the boundaries
of known and unknown worlds.
Peter watches as nurses attend him.
They never saw him with a gun,
never saw the look of angry fear on his face,
or the terror he must have felt
being shot by a cop,
when he discovered he was not bullet-proof.
To the nurses he is a child in need of their care.
Not a thug, not a hood, not an armed robber.
As the day passes Peter watches.
He doesn’t know the boys name.
Stella whispers, “It doesn’t matter.”

Hard Road Cafe Pt.2

2009-05-01T19:00:00.000-05:00

My Yahoo!

8:30 AM
The ladies sit at the two end counter stools, drinking coffee.
Peter leans on one bat winged door, and while they talk
he keeps an eye on the stove. A good morning.
Paddy Tolliver looked real tired, are his kids still sick? And is Chris Raybo looking pregnant?
Good Lord, but that girl gets more ass than a toilet seat.
Peter looks at the clock above the cash register, tells the ladies to prepare for round two.
　
　
　
9:00 AM
Helga works the stove for this crowd, that lets Peter be with the merchants that crowd his place.
Next block over is Market Square, with its shops and stores and stalls.
This hour before they open their places is when they exchange the news of the day.
The tax proposal from the city council, interest rates from the Fed., Johns old lady taking off with the computer repair kid.
Peter walks around with his cup and a fresh pot of coffee,
stops at each table and booth, sits and chats a spell.
These are his friends and peers, and every one who knows him
can see how he enjoys this time.

10:00 AM

A tropically-colored miniature cyclone blows through the door,
a swirl of skirts and scarves and necklaces.
Kiloman Sanjaurro; skin the shade of dark sweet chocolate,
voice smooth as sugarcane rum, tongue like a long machete.
Peter unconsciously checks his balls, makes sure he still has 'em.
He knows that for the next hour or so he is subordinate to Jackie and Helma, at least in HER eyes.
He confines himself to the kitchen, where he can do no wrong. He mutters while he cooks.
Jackie pokes her head in the pass-through window, puts on her Kiloman face and her Kiloman voice and says,
Tell dat goudlookin mon back deer I wan caffee, I wan salaud, I wan tousand Island dressin.
Jackie winks and ducks an airborne oven mitt. As she withdraws she barely hears, goodlookin my ass!
I wan this , I wan that, I know what she needs!
But Peter thinks, my, my, Kiloman sure looks fine this morning.

10:30 AM

Jackie asks Kiloman if she has any new poems she would share.
( Peter perks an ear. He loves her poetry.)
Sure, she says. Dis one I ben workin on.
She claps her hands in a complicated pattern.

“There a burning at the crossroad
devil standin there
young boy blow a blues harp
want to make a deal
Sign his name in red blood
He got blood to spare
devil he be laughin
soul for him ta steal
Mama at the whore house
workin off the back rent
Gramma in the cellar
workin up a mojo
Uncle at the roadhouse
pay already spent
Sister got her bag packed
time for her to go
Rollie play the gitar
lookin for some pussy
Bonnie wearin high heel
walkin down on Main street
Preacher got religion
blessin pretty Macy
Redneck cruisin downtown
lookin for some sweet meat
There a burnin at the crossroad
lightin up the sky
Hard wind come a blowin
fannin high the flame
devil stand there laughin
someone gonna die
Young boy he be runnin
cryin Jesus' name
Mama in the kitchen
prayin to the good Lord
Sister ride the Greyhound
leavin home for good
Uncle got his head bust
with a two-by-four board
Rollie got the clap now
like we knew he would
Gramma makin voodoo
for ta cast her spell
Preacher beg forgiveness
for lustin in the night
Hound set up a howlin
in the pit of hell
Sky is burnin blood red
no salvation tonight
There a burnin at the crossroad”

With a mock flourish and a deep bow Kiloman sits down.
Peter doesn't know to laugh or cry.

Something I've been working on.

2009-04-27T20:33:00.000-05:00

"It's a hard road to be walkin down
bare feet on stone ground
It's a long ride across fifty states
taking the dust that God made
Sowing seeds on a mine field
Making the best of a bad deal..."

from
"Big Road Blue"
Dave Sharp
1991

The Hard Road Cafe
BY
Michael Koehler

5:30 AM
Doodles Maguire rolls out of his cardboard box,
relieves himself at the pee tree, and stepping over
Rollie the bugman stiffly walks up the park path to
Eleventh Ave and shuffles north, peers into trash cans,
alleys, gutters.
At Monroe street he turns into the alley, knocks on a
pale blue steel door.
An arm the exact shade of oiled mahogany answers the knock,
small paper bag gripped in the large fist.
Doodles takes the bag, puts it inside one of his coats,
says "Thanks, Petey." Deep, scratchy voice answers
"Later, Doodles."

5:45 AM
Peter Boudreaux shuts the door, walks the short narrow
hall to the kitchen. Two huge urns of coffee drench the air
with sharp Jamaican aromas, and the six burner gas range
kicks out a welcome heat. He walks through the cluttered
room, pauses to turn on an old plastic radio, and as he exits the batwing doors next to the sink Patty Labelle puts a spring in his step. He does a dip and turn and a bit of soft shoe as he heads to the front door to unlock it, flips the "Closed" sign with one neat twist. With the same grace
he uses the edge of his hand to rake a line of switches
to the ON position, and the overheads blink and hum, then
steady as the sun light up three booths, six tables
and the eight stools lined along the counter.
As Peter walks back to the kitchen the polish and shine
pleases him. Old, worn and well-used, yet every visible surface glowed, and the glow went all the way through. Peter believed a person should treat his dreams as the most precious jewels, and he lived what he believed.

6:00AM
"Petey!", a voice from the back door. " Where ya want the eggs?"
He grins and answers " If they was up your ass you wouldn’t
have ta ask, hey?" . The delivery man returns," If they was up my ass, would'a been more fun than I had last night."
Peter tells him, "In the reefer, Nick, same place as always."
Nick: "Got some blueberries." Peter: "Couple’ a quarts, ok?"
Nick: "How 'bout some chops?" Peter: "Beef or pork?" "Pork"
"Na" Nick:" Potatoes?" Peter: "Hunnerd. Got some chickens?"
" Plucked 'em myself. How many?" Peter: " Twenty friers.
And help yourself to some coffee."
"Thanks. See ya later Petey." "Bye, Nick."

6:15 AM
Jackie and Helga work the breakfast counter,
the heavy laughter of coffee mugs and plates,
banter between customer and waitress a song that
fills Peters heart as he stands over the range scattering
shredded potatoes, turning bacon and eggs, buttering toast.
When he hears his name he pokes his head through the serving window, returns the wish for a great day or trades good-natured
jibes. His face shines like obsidian, the pace of his work is in four-four time, and the poetry of his life is not lost on him. Fifty years is a long time to chase a dream, he thinks,
and by the standards of most, a small, simple dream at that.
A little diner with a down home menu, two experienced and loyal
women to work the public side of the kitchen, and a love of meeting new people and hearing stories.
Peter looks at the clock above the sink, knows in a few minutes
the first shifts at the local mills will start to trickle in,
throws ten pounds of bacon on the stove, takes a precious moment to sip his coffee, and thanks the Lord for a good life.

7:00 AM
Fourteen men and six women surge through the door, head to favorite seats. Their talk is fast and salty, peppered with
laughter. No cholesterol counters or fat watchers
here; bacon and eggs, buttered toast and hash browns, lots of strong black coffee. Peter thinks there can be no better way to start a 10 hour work day. They eat, give good tips,
leave like a mob.

8:00 AM
The graveyard shift from the foundry across the street shuffles in, dirty and tired, no useless talk. Eleven bodies that need energy just to make it home. Helga pushes the soup and whole grain bread. Jackie does a Fonzie kick to the side of the jukebox
and Charlie Pride sings of how hard work can really be.

2009-04-26T21:04:00.000-05:00

In Tangletown
she sits in her car
outside the bar
in the dark part of the parking lot.
The faint glow from the end of a joint
is all that reveals her.It flares and dies
like far distant suns.It takes awhile for her
to get out of the Camaro,to walk a slow weave to the taverns' side door.
She enters an air of sound;jungle drums, moaning guitar, subterranean bass.
The song passes over her like familiar hands,touching raw inner places.
Her lover waits on the dance floor.In the center of the crowd she gives herself to him.
Gives everything she has... promises everything else.
The pot roars through her blood like a thunderstorm.The music rides her like lightening.
She moves as if calling forth rain.
Where others would write or drink,
fuck or walk,hit or cry, leave or die
to get away from what kills the soul,
it is the dance that keeps Tess
in Tangletown.

2009-04-25T23:05:00.000-05:00

In Tangletown
at the Brokedown Blue Saloon
Amy Lowell sits at the end of the bar.
Her husband dances with a big-titted girl,
doing a two-step best left in the bedroom
.His hands are places they oughtn't be,
and Amy burns in the places they should be.
What Amy wants she can't say.
What she needs she can't face.
She knows brandy better than she knows her pain,
and she knows pain like a preacher knows Gospel.
So Amy prays to her spirits and they answer with sleep.
In the morning he will wake up beside her.
But for now it is Saturday night
and hearts get broke sure as
the sun comes up come morning.
It is better than sleeping alone, especially
in Tangletown.