Author: spk68

I am running out
of viable means
for
fire.

What if the lights
go out?

The Zippo is
dry…and I have
misplaced its
fuel tin
(That says something
right there…
losing something
which could consume
this house with the drop
of one careless match.)

What if the lights
go out?

I have shaken
the disposable
lighter
into dry
frustrating
unproductive
flinty sparklings
(If I were on
acid I would
find God
musing among
the brief fiery
technicolors.)

What if the lights
go out?

I cannot locate
the 50 books
of paper matches
I recently
purchased
(I hope I find
the Zippo fuel tin
before these
matchbooks do.
Matchbooks
are allies
of chaos.)

What if the lights
go out?

I have a few
wooden stove
matches
and
a pack
of bamboo
skewers
I can light
with the stove
burner
(Praise be the
remaining burner
which still
magically
lights itself
without
cursing
incantation.)

What if the lights
go out?

I am contemplating
reserving two dry
sturdy sticks and
a tinder pile.

What if the lights
go out?

My lover packed off
all of the candles
when she left
for new apartment
horizons.

What if the lights
go out?

You…are
compromising
the viability
of the remaining
few slivers
of your
mind…

It would appear
so.

What if the lights
go out?

Was it not
bad enough
that they ripped
off thirty
of my prized
CDs?

But…no…every time
I reach for a missing CD
I relive the loss
not of property,
but of the sounds
the music that soothed
anger,
salved
wounds,
restored
a destitute
soul.

I am not near a wealthy man,
have yet to replace even one third
of what was lost,
yet I would have given you
crackhead assholes
$500 to leave the fucking CD case!

So now.I am arranging
a crack induced heart attack
pox upon you motherfucken
scumbags.

Thanks for leaving the
hairy reminders
in the car,
they fit well
inside the voodoo
dolls.

The next sensation
you feel.
is
the
needleprick
of
Death.

Boy
joy
kicking
autumn
leafpiles
with
mischief
foot,
smiling.

Playing
hooky?

1.
For turning the tables,
she a Monster.

For blasting a few good old boys
who were out seeking blow jobs,
she a Monster.

Oh yeah, she a Monster. Sure as I am standing
here talking to you.

2.
I’m telling you sure as chicken fried steak,
we cain’t have no homeless hookers
out blasting away at innocent johns
here in the fine state of Flaw-ida.

When we catch her, we gone fry her like
catfish without batter.

3.
Of course, they caught her.
Of course, they fried her.
Southern justice cannot exist
without electricity,
toxic needles and leather straps.

4.
They created her.
We created her,
but we will never admit it.

Monsters are genetic aberrations.

They’re spawned
from human ooze,
not born of the
same promise as
the rest of us
fine, upstanding
citizens.

We reserve the right
to execute Monsters.

God said we could.

5.
Two conservatively
dressed WASP women
enter the East Hampton
movie theater.

Clearly, they do not know
what this movie is about,
but since one of the actors
involved has just won a prestigious
award, they feel obligated to see
what was so special about her
performance.

They sit and quietly watch
as a desperate, lonely woman plays catch with suicide
handguns,
as she trades openly in the only commodity she has
ever known,
as collages of childhood abuse flash in and out,
as she is bound, gagged, raped repeatedly and beaten
bloody by a john,
as she executes her first victim POP!
as she executes another POP!
as she executes another POP!
as she executes another POP!
as she executes another POP!
as she executes another POP!

They sit and quietly watch until,
the desperate, lonely, suicidal,
abused, sodomized, raped, beaten,
serial killer
begins to make love to…a woman.

At which point, one WASP
with gray hair
leans toward the WASP
with brown hair and
whispers, “We have to go now.”
The WASP with brown hair
nods solemnly.
They rise and leave.

They will probably demand a refund.

6.
This is the state of their America,
your America, our America, my America.

Where we can sit and without comment observe:
the abuse of children,
the bartering of body parts
and
the sad desperation of
debating life and suicide.

Where we can sit and without comment observe:
rape,
battery,
rape,
forced sodomy,
murder,
murder,
murder,
murder,
murder,
murder,
but the line is crossed,
the camel’s back snapped,
the final straw realized,
when two people of the same sex…kiss.

7.
I love you America, but
you get harder to love by the day.

Yesterday,
from the clear blue
two upon the
cup rim.

Today,
a swarm
warming their
bones under the
desk lamp,
fucking on
the cup rim
and injecting
tomorrow’s
generation
into the spent
lemons
on the
cup bottom.

Yes children,
look here
and make
a note…
the simple
miracle of
garbage
when salted
with laziness.

The instrustions on the white can of
joint compound with a green lid says:
Allow joints to dry.
Use a damp sponge to smooth bumps and imperfections.

Bah! sayeth I:
I have watched hundred of hours of home improvement
television, I have never seen anyone smooth out the
bumps and imperfections with a damp sponge. They always
create perfect joints with a few flourishing swipes of
their taping knife and I can damn well do that and besides
I can always sand out any minor imperfections that occur
due to my inexperience with a taping knife, mud and paper
tape. These instructions are lucky I actually consulted
them prior to opening the can. I did not need to, I was bored
and looking to see if the manufacturer knew anything and
clearly they do not, so I’ll just start mudding and taping and
swiping like I have seen on television and all will be right
in the fine state of New York, the Empire State, Excelsior!

And so I followed precisely my vision recipe for perfectly mudded and
taped and swiped joints with less than spectacular results, but hey it
was my first time and besides I still hold the sanding stage as
trump to smooth out any problem areas. The next day…I sand and
sand and sand and then I sand some more and then I quit about
half through the sanding process. I look like a piece of
carnival funnelcake heavily coated with powdered sugar. My
lungs are heavy with gypsum because real men do not use a
particulate, surgical, whimpy mask and anyway this is a small
project and I won’t create that much dust. However, there seems
to be a thin layer of dust on the dishes in the cupboard and
I left a trail of chalky footprints all the way up the stairs to the
bathroom where I rinsed myself in the shower and one of the cats
has rolled in the dust and looks like half ghost cat half real cat and
there are white catspawprints from the West side of the house to
the East and the North side to the South. Wow this is really a
mess. I better get the mop for the floors and re-wash these dishes
before Agnes kills me for not putting up a tarp like she recommended.

So I am now dreading having to finish the sanding phase of this project and
I am employing any means necessary to be away from the wall that now
calls to me every time I walk into the kitchen, finish me Steve, don’t
fear me, finish me, stop being so lazy, see you never can finish a
project, can you, just like they always said and so I find
reasons to not go in the kitchen and ways to be out of the house. It’s
awfully hot tonight, let’s go sit in the air conditioned bedroom and
read poetry or how about a movie or I would like to try out this
new barbeque restaurant out East or I would really prefer to just
drive around aimlessly rather than continue to hear those walls talk
to me because it really is wrong when walls talk. We always have
this starry wish of if only walls could talk, but I am here to
tell you that it is rather disturbing when it actually happens.

In a fit of sudden motivation on a slightly less hot and humid
July night, a Thursday night if recall correctly, I finally finished
sanding the talking walls and I applied the next coat of joint
compound and I let it dry and I figured, in a fit of what the hell, to
try running a damp sponge over the joints like it said to do on the
white can with the green lid and damn it if it did not smooth the
imperfections and help feather out the edges and I think wow this
is the best idea since pre-sliced, pre-package white bread and I
dutifully begin to smooth all of the joints with the damp sponge even
though it is 11PM, past my bedtime and I am using one of Agnes’s
kitchen sponges that she uses for washing dishes and it is far too
small to do this job quickly, but I am like a tornado spawned on the
high plains of Texas and I am going to keep going until I finish
this damned job. That is until Agnes comes down stairs and says put
down your sponge and let’s go make love in the airconditioned
bedroom and I may be thrilled with a certain degree of tornadic
enjoyment sponging these drywall joints, but that my friends is
an invitation I can not
refuse.

So, I’ll finish sponging at some point this weekend and I’ll let
everyone know how the walls turn out, but this instance makes me
wonder if reading instructions on cans is actually beneficial, what
other pillars of masculinity are false or should at least be
call into question. Could it be we really should stop at the
next gas station and ask directions or that we really should call
an electrician to fix the lights because we just might not know
what we are doing and might electrocute ourselves or that opening
the hood of a car and peering in is just folly and show? What other
pre-conceived man ideals might be false? My whole view of
masculinity has been called into question because following the
instructions on the white can of joint compound with green lid
actually resulted in a superior conclusion than my own vision
recipe. My pillars, my foundation, my support structure is cracking and
I do not know what to do. But then God came to me, in a dream, a
daydream actually and said it’s just a fluke dude, you’re good, the pillars
are strong, move on my son and I said thanks God and he said no
problem glad to help, but just one thing, next time…
you really should stop at the next gas station and ask directions.

This is not what I had planned after graduating
from college with a 2.01 in criminal justice. I had
dreams! I was going to be a the best patrol officer,
then detective, work my way right up the ladder and
be…Chief of Police in Los Angeles! The Director
of the FBI or CIA! Head of Security for a pop star,
star athlete or rich dude in the fabulous Hamptons!

But now…I am the man…guarding the panties!
I am the man…guarding the panties!

Excuse me ma’am, please stop fingering the thongs
and don’t even think about putting one of them into
your purse without paying for them. I have my sensible
shoes on. I could chase you down from thirty miles away
and pepper spray you. I take petty thievery very seriously.

This is not what my mother had in mind! This
is not what my father had in mind! This is not what my
Uncle Jim or Aunt Sally had in mind! They never call
or write or send me an e-mail. I think they are disappointed in me.

I think they are disappointed that…I am the man…guarding the panties!
I am the man…guarding the panties!

And sir…what are you doing in my store? You don’t
have a wife with you. What are you doing here? Ohhhhh…
I know. You’re one of THOSE men. The men that WEAR the
panties. Please leave my store sir. You are a sick man.
A sick…sick man.

This is not what my wife had in mind, when
we were newlywed with starry dreams in our eyes!
So she decided one day, that she was actually a…well…
a man trapped in a woman’s body. She left me, changed
her name to Herbert and went off to Sweden to fulfill
her dream…of having a penis.

I think she left me because…I am the man…guarding the panties!
I am the man…guarding the panties!

If you did not know it, there is an immense black market
in women’s undergarments. The Mafia runs it. They run
everything! I’m here in my sensible shoes to foil the Mafia.

I have a dog named J. Edgar Hoover. He loves me. I love him.
Please don’t tell him that I am the man…guarding the panties.
I am afraid he’ll leave me too.

I know…
I do not write enough love poems.

In fact…
I can recall just one and no matter if it
is the best poem I have written and in its
broken uniqueness, beautiful, it is
still singular, standing in a bleak
field of winter white cynicism.

I know…
one is never enough.

I know…
I cannot hang my life’s hat on one
love poem no matter if I can prove beyond
a doubting shadow, its
beautiful
diamond
singularity.

I know…
I should write one love poem per
day dealing with the depth, shape or
texture of my love on that given
day, today my love is a deep calm
blue pool, yesterday it was soft and
electric as silk and the day before my
love was a brutal pineapple.

I suppose I would write more love poems if
I had more faith in them, if they had not been employed
through the centuries as linguistic lever and fulcrum
to gain a certain mechanical advantage, if
I had not witnessed them arrayed on a dingy
whiskey soaked wooden bar for the sake of scoring
drunk pussy, if there was a thimble of honest truth instead
of angles and obvious goals.

Love poems are lies.
Love poems are inadequate.
Love poems are pyramid schemes.

Love poems are bait switch advertising.
Love poems should be sold by used car salesman.
How about this model right here!
Love…is a many splendored thing…
She’s a beauty!
No money down!
No payments for 90 days!
Free carpeted floormats with every poem sold!

Love poems suck.

Why bother?

After all, a love poem can never embrace you gently on
a wild, windy day or comfort you in chaos midst or touch your
cheek tenderly while you sleep late on a rainy Saturday
morning or make coffee with just the right amount
of cream and sugar or drive a thousand miles through
ice and winter snows for you and you alone.

Let’s face it, a love poem sits on its fat ass, flat on a page, like
a child that could never quite leave the parental nest, eating
potato chips, watching bad television, getting
drunk every weekend with its equally unsuccessful,
flightless friends and never taking out the garbage.

So, I will leave the love poems to those who need leverage,
advantage and angle. I will leave the my love for you is
electric silk, a calm deep blue pool, a brutal pineapple or a
many splendored thing to the unimaginative. I will leave the
love poems on their spent, stained couches that reek of bean
burrito farts and instead I will embrace you gently on a windy
day, comfort you in the mist of chaos, touch your cheek tenderly while
you sleep late on a rainy Saturday morning, make your coffee
with just the right amount of cream and sugar and drive a
thousand miles through a thousand icy winter storms for
you and
you
alone.

There was the one that came to us
in the coffeehouse
and completely eluded both of us
the next day.

And the one this morning. I may
still recall it
when my mind stops racing.

And the one last week when I
was too lazy to
get out of bed at 1AM and write it down.

And the one that visited me while I
was driving 75 mph
down Sunrise Highway and could not
find a pen or a safe place to pull over.

And this one, well this poem, quite frankly sucks!

Does anyone beyond my royal self give a
rat’s ass about my lost poems? (O…Henry
look at the poor poet he’s lost his poems.)

I thought not and let’s be honest,
poems about writing poems really do suck!

And besides there are bigger issues I need to concern myself with!

There are children starving!

And poor civilians somewhere are getting cluster bombed!

And the rainforests are shrinking at an alarming rate!

And the Hudson is still terribly polluted!

And illiteracy and AIDs are twin plagues upon the Earth!

And oppressed people everywhere need freeing!

And everyone should become a vegetarian!

And dammit…what about the holes in the ozone layer?

But you know…I am selfish by nature…I want my fucken poems back!

I recall in college a friend who had been hired as security when
the famed musical collaborative known as the Ramones came
to campus for a show, “I cannot wait for next weekend so
I can bash in a few punk heads.” His eyes sparkled with mayhem.

I was also friends with a future New York City cop, a soon to
be low level bank executive and one guy whose dream it was to
be a middle level manager for the Ford Motor Company.

I remember that as college concluded, the future cop and Mr. Ford
Motor Company kicked my ass in separate drunken incidents.

I could have used the Ramones musical compilation that plays now
as I type in the gray morning darkness.

I could have used Johnny Ramones storming and speeding guitar riffs, the
machine gun rhythm of Dee Dee and Tommy, the looming dangerous, yet sing
song vocals of Joey Ramone.

I could have used the insane, perfect lyrics.

I could have used their music to drown out the pap that blared through the
windows of our off campus housing unit. Stevie Ray Vaughn. Billy Joel.
Robert Cray.

I could have used a good astringent dose of the Ramones,
instead,
I was friends with a rugby winger that found an exquisite joy in
the prospect of bashing Ramones fan skull and injuring someone
because they listened to punk music.

I was a tragically lost young man. Very, very lost indeed.

I am no longer very lost nor tragically lost for that matter. It took
me fifteen years, but I have located the beginnings and indications of
a life path.

I found the Ramones. They have helped. They are not my saviors. I am
my own savior, but they have helped. Three quarters of them are now dead and
I never managed to see them in concert because of you Mr. Rugby and you Mr.
Ford Motor Company and you Mr. NYPD.

I never went to that concert because I was so bent on your receiving approval,
your approval, anyone’s approval, I could never have gone to see
those damned punk fags. I could never have made my own decision. I could
never have gone and gotten my brainpan cracked open by the neo-Nazi rugby
team security staff. I could never have gone and assuaged
my natural curiosity about a band that induced such powerful emotion in
people that had never seen one of their shows or tried to listen to one
of their albums. Such magnificent, irrational hatred! I see now, the scared boys
lashing out at things they do not and perhaps cannot comprehend.
I could never have said it then, but I will say it now:
Fuck Rugby! To be in your club, you twisted fuckers
made people drink beer that had been poured into a
smelly boot down the sweaty ass crack of some inbred halfwit.
Fuck Ford Motor Company! It is no wonder the Japanese have a leg
up on American automobiles. Look at the morons you hire!
Fuck the NYPD! Mindless goons with guns, sticks, pepper spray, brutality coverups,
hung juries and acquittals.
Fuck Stevie Ray Vaughn! I hate you not for your music SRV, but for
your defective, malevolent fans. What a sick, horrific lot.
Fuck Robert Cray and his light meaningless blues stylings! Barf!
Fuck Billy Joel! It is not 1972. He is no longer cool. I have sincere doubts
that he was ever cool. Even when he was boning Christy Brinkley.
Fuck your collective bloodlust, your need for violence to prove your
confused manhood and bury your latent homosexuality.
Fuck your dreams of middle class respectability and eternally narrowing
minds! How boring and tragically limited.
Fuck you for the power you possessed and abused!
Fuck you for your part in this, my ongoing oppressed madness!
Fuck you, may you all die in lonely silence!
Fuck you all and long live the God damned, motherfucking Ramones!