Category: POEMS

Cryptic
handshake
commands.
He won’t
feel
the
slice
until
he
tries
to
collect
up
his
final
pooling
word
babble
skeins
from
the
dead
pavement.

“Hear that lonesome whipoorwill….He sounds sounds too blue to fly…”

I named my female cat after him…well…he and “Hank” Bukowski…

“don’t blame me…if sex fails sometimes…”

Hanks follow me…mine is a perfect view of infuriating mischief…and given her namesakes…
a true descendant…

“I got the Honnnnnnnky Tonk blues…”

I believe in reincarnation…and it would serve either one right to suffer a life as a small
female cat impregnated when she was barely graduated highschool…two examples of her early
fecundity and a workman’s carelessness (He left the damned door open we told him to keep shut,
but, he was pretty spent on Urethane and Marine Varnish fumes, so I didn’t sue him) remain in
this house…Mr. Jones (plays a gray guitar) and Squawk (Morris the cat in Gray…with an odd
pink nose)…such unique spirits…Lovable, clingy Jones…The indifferent, aloof Squawk…He
could pass for English aristocracy.

“Yer Daddy’s mad…he done got peeved…now you gotta change or I’m gonna leave.”

Two others were sent away with kindly strangers…one, a female, ended up with the foreman at
work…Whiskers…apparently still now as mischievous and swaggering as her mother and both
male human Hanks…The other…sweet Yoda…stark white with patches among the gray horde…
after spending a few sweet months with another coworker… attempting to have sex with the
exposed insulation in their unfinished addition…ended up roadkill…why do people that live
upon busy roads allow their animals outdoors?…I have buried enough to have learned me
lesson…others remain stupid…

“Now boys don’t start yer ramblin’ round…down that lost Highway…”

That two left and were never again seen…has scarred Mr. Jones…he will not come out from
under bed’s safety if there is stranger one in the house…

“And I as I won-der where you are…I’m so lonesome I could cry…”

I want to tell the world how my skin feels beneath your hands.

I want to share with the world the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

I want the world to experience the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

I think I would like to bottle in old blue Mason jars the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

I think I could sell these old blue Mason jars filled with the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

I could sell them for a profit and we could have six houses worth $33 million dollars.

I could do that, but it seems to me that there would be something terribly wrong about profiting from the joy my skin feels beneath your hands.

In fact, these Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands should be given away free of charge to all of mankind.

Not to be overly idealistic or a moon eyed hippie, but these Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands could accomplish much good in the world.

These Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands could soothe away so much pain.

These Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands could truly make the world a better place.

I want to give away these Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands to every man, woman and child.

Therein lies my problem.

How would I possibly get a Mason jar of the way my skin feels beneath your hands to every man, woman and child on Earth?

I would need trucks and warehouses, drivers and secretaries, managers and group leaders, an immense factory and a huge international distribution network.

I would need a lot, a very lot, no several mountains of Mason jars. I would need cardboard boxes. I would need packaging tape and address labels. I would need a broom to sweep up the occasional jar that slipped from someone’s hand.

I would need to borrow a lot of money to buy all of these things because I currently do not have, nor am I ever likely to have, the resources to distribute a Mason jar of the way my skin feels beneath your hands to every man, woman and child on the planet.

And you know, I am pretty confident that there are no banks or individuals willing to loan money to a certain to lose lots of money enterprise. Even if it were for the benefit of all mankind.

Maybe…I could scale back my plans and distribute our Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands to every man, woman and child in the Town of Riverhead, New York. In other words a real life example of the old granola bumper sticker, “Think Globally, Act Locally.”

I fear that even that would be problematic.

I foresee people complaining because they did not get their Mason jar of the way my skin feels beneath your hands as fast as their next door neighbor.

I foresee people failing to follow the directions on our Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands, over applying it, using up their Mason jar too quickly and demanding another.

I foresee people in the next town over protesting that it is unfair for me to restrict the distribution of our Mason jars.

I foresee people in San Francisco walking picket lines with magic markered placards, “We Deserve Joy Too!” “Kramer is a Fascist” “Share the Love!”

Due to this restricted distribution, I foresee more and more people moving to the Town of Riverhead, NY just so that they can receive our Mason jars. More houses and condos and convenience stores and strip malls will need to be built. Open space will disappear, the buffalo will be sent back to Montana, potatoes exiled to Idaho, sprouts and cabbage sent packing to Texas so that more unending tracts of soulless, vinyl, cookie cutter homes can be built.

Or…I foresee people not using our Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands at all, but selling them to someone on a street corner for a large sum of money, thereby giving birth to a black market.

I foresee the black market expanding, no exploding until everyone is selling their Mason jars of the way my skin feels beneath your hands to an organized crime syndicate that empties the jars, cuts it with talcum powder or baby laxative and sells it to people who are now addicted to the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

As a result of the enormous black market in our Mason jars, I foresee turf wars, blood, violence, gun battles and 10 year old inner city kids caught in the crossfire.

I foresee 12 step programs, detox clinics and halfway houses overflowing with people addicted to the way my skin feels beneath you hands.

I foresee a great blossoming of evil if the world were ever to experience the way my skin feels beneath your hands. So that is why I must keep to myself the entire supply of the way my skin feels beneath your hands.

It’s sad, I truly wanted to share the way my skin feels beneath your hands
with the entire world, but the world is not ready for,
and never will be ready for

The world is Half Assed. You are Half Assed. I am Half Assed.

The evidence is everywhere,
from the boxes of cedar shingles in my garage that
were scheduled for installation in the year 2000
to
the poorly constructed clothes we buy
to
the ceiling at the fast food restaurant that you
can tell satisfied the new motto of the world,
“Eh…that’s good enough.”

The evidence is everywhere,
from my back porch that has been under construction since 1998
to
everything they make that is designed to fail within
a given time frame so that you must go buy another one.

The evidence is everywhere,
from the unfinished trim work in every room of my house
to
the way you treated your former lover or your son or your
brother or your father or your friend or the way that you
were treated by any one, all or just some of the people I just indicated.

The evidence is everywhere,
from my truck that has needed several cosmetic repairs for
the last four years, all of which remain uncompleted
as the Lovemobile moves toward rust bucketdom
to
the unhelpful, rude, ambivalent, surly
employees of every trade establishment, store,
governmental office or gas station you have ever
had the pleasure of dealing with.

The evidence is everywhere,
from my unpublished, still waiting, may wait forever books
of poetry that were supposed to be finished and printed every year since 1991
to
the poor driving skills of every person on the road who have managed
to turn every other telephone pole or roadside oak tree into a miniature
shrine by wrapping their vehicle around it or forcing an innocent
passerby to wrap their vehicle around it.

The evidence is everywhere
from my messy desk that will
forever and ever and evermore be
a shit shined example of unbridled clerical chaos
to
the wars that rage in perpetuity,
to
the non-violent conflicts that will never get solved,
to
the public works programs that will be outdated the day after they are completed
for five times the estimated cost and
three years after the original completion date passed into dim memory
to
the woman on the street with a shaking paper cup, two pennies and a dime for seed.

The world is Half Assed. You are Half Assed. I am Half Assed.

Half Assed is now as ubiquitous and as elemental as wind, water and fire.

Half Assed will soon be a new food group.
You will need ten servings of Half Assed to get your recommended daily allowance,
but no one ever will.

Half Assed was scheduled to become an alternative fuel by the year 2037.
Until studies determined that you will never get as far as you need to go,
as fast as you need to get there
and
there was a 99.44% chance that you will require roadside assistance.

I would say that Half Assed will soon run for elected office,
but everyone knows that Half Assed has been elected
over and over and over and over again
at the local, state and national level
since long before people even
pondered the possibility
of creating the term
Half Assed.

It used to be that Half Assed got solved by natural selection.
Half Assed animals don’t make it on Darwin’s list.
Half Assed civilizations disappeared beneath sand, jungle and water.
Half Assed leaders used to find themselves at the end of a pike
or pondering what went wrong beneath an onrushing blade.
Half Assed ordinary people got plagued, sacrificed for sport
and religion or slaughtered by Vandal hordes.

The world has never tolerated Half Assed, until now.
Half Assed has become a birth right.
Half Assed is not only tolerated, it is venerated and championed.
People write poetry, plays, scholarly tracts and movies about Half Assed.
People think so much of Half Assed that it will be politically incorrect
to call something or someone Half Assed.
You will have to call it or them Excellence Challenged.
Half Assed has in fact driven excellence into exile.
Half Assed has made excellence the life equivalent of
an individual getting struck by a shooting star.

The world is Half Assed. You are Half Assed. I am Half Assed.

Let’s dance, sing, make merry and pretend we don’t notice.

How are we
feeling today?
she asked
with
perfunctory
bleached
starched
pressed
smile.

I don’t know
about you ma’am,
but I feel like
a wiener:
swept
up
pig
lips
peckers
assholes
oinkin’
sawdust
floor
leavin’s
crammed
into
an
artificial
edible
membrane.

The obvious
crease of smile
leaves her face
as she
turns for the
door mumbling
invective laden
straight to hell
benedictions.

We have taken to making lists around here. Lists are a good way to remind one of things that need to be accomplished in your life. I should have listened to my mother and made a list after I graduated college. Anyway…we have a list for King Kullen. This week we already need olive oil, balsamic vinegar, bread and soy sauce. (King Kullen is a frustrating and wonderful place to shop. I have written volumes about the odd horrors I have witnessed there.) We have a list for Wal-Mart. (Wal-Mart is a fine store, that has great prices on dog food, personal hygiene products and toilet paper, but never enough open cash registers.) We have a list of home improvements this old house requires. (I need more money so I can hire a painter, a carpenter, an architect, an electrician and a plumber. Or…money to buy the entire set of Time-Life Home Repair Encyclopedias I saw advertised at 2AM last night. Oh…I also need money for…a flat screwdriver. I’m tired of using a dime to repair my television set.) We have a list of the movies we want to see, the books we wish to read and the music we should try listening to. (Help! I need more money! or a key to the back door at Barnes and Noble’s warehouse. No…really…I’ll bring them back when we’re done. I promise.) We have a list of what we need to do to advance our collective careers as poets and recording artists. (When you stop laughing, please buy a copy of our live CD. I’ll autograph it for free.) If you have not noticed, while you were listening quietly this poem has become a list. A list of the lists we have magneted to the front door of our refrigerator. Lists that neither expand or shrink. Lists in perpetuity. Infinite lists. Lists that when one thing is smilingly crossed away another, is frowningly added to the bottom of the paper. At the end of my life, will I need to make a list? 1. Die (cause to be determined) 2. Ride in hearse. 3. Ride the embalming carousel…Weeeeeeeeeeeeee! 4. Make final appearance with rouged cheeks, crossed hands and solemn expression. 5. Listen to a bad speech by a member of the clergy I have never met. 6. Ride in hearse. 7. Have friends and relatives give me a final lift to the graveside. 8. Ride the manually operated casket elevator down approximately six feet. 9. Wait…for the worms to arrive with forks, knives and little plastic white bibs like what they give you when you go to Red Lobster. 10. Become skeletal and wait for the archaeologists. Lists…are good. Lists…are bad. Lists…are ugly. Lists…are not spaghetti westerns starring Clint Eastwood.

The fruit of
cool
is dilution
by bland
influx.

The fruit of
cool
is unguided
youth
with
an
unprovoked
taunting
irritating
after school
tongue.

The fruit of
cool
is silent
“trying
to make the
best of
a fecal
event”
anger
from
elder
talent
now
drowned
by the
useless
muddy
flood of
part time
poseurs.

The fruit of
cool
is
rotten,
utterly
recognizable
by the smell.

Ahhh…the ignored
stench
of warning.
The Fruit of Cool

The fruit of
cool
is dilution
by bland
influx.

The fruit of
cool
is unguided
youth
with
an
unprovoked
taunting
irritating
after school
tongue.

The fruit of
cool
is silent
“trying
to make the
best of
a fecal
event”
anger
from
elder
talent
now
drowned
by the
useless
muddy
flood of
part time
poseurs.

The fruit of
cool
is
rotten,
utterly
recognizable
by the smell.

Ahhh…the ignored
stench
of warning.

1.
In a quiet sweltering living room
she sits transmogrifying a simple sex act
into wedding rings. She weeps.
A jay screams from the confines
of feral jaw.

2.
Under a similar sun
in a similar room
he is surprised to find
success empty. The base
of a great tower begins
to fracture, he is biding
his time with whiskey
while the 30 day
waiting period
drags on
interminably.

3.
Another man, another leaping assumption. The
fog induced by modern chemistry lifts, but there is
no happiness in the brown sun of reality. What is
this religion of sobriety? Mesmerized,
he twirls his one month key fob symbol,
briefly contemplates drain cleaner,
instead lights a cheap cigarette,
his left hand trembles,
he slides the dead match
into a tuna can ashtray. Another defeat
for the worm, who regroups
beneath a deserted overpass in his addled mind
to plan new angles of attack.

4.
An old woman stares at her long silent telephone
and several nearby family photos in gilt frames.
She frowns. It will be two weeks
before the Con Ed meter reader finds the body. At
her funeral, people, relatives weep over their loss.
while her silent phone sits on the dusty shelves
of a pawn shop.

Some days…
I am ashamed to be
a man…
after listening
to long
horrid
tales
of
abductions,
evil that
would make
Satan blush,
incest
and
mindless
bruised
broke
bone
backhand
violence
(Hospital
Polaroids
of women
bruised
toward
disfigurement
disability
death.)

Some days…
I am ashamed to be
white…
the
deadly
bloody
litany
is long
and
well
documented
(Smiling white
faces
professionally
photographed
around
the lynched
nigger.)

Some days…
I am ashamed to be
American
the holier
than all
morality
and
the arrogant
global
big stick
bully
role
(The
corpse piles,
shattered
lives
and
horror
flashbacks
of
Korea
and
Vietnam.)

Some days…
I am ashamed to be
human…
as I watch
the earth
bow
bend
and falter
beneath
our
multiplying,
poisonous
feet
(Two headed,
three
legged frogs
are not
what Darwin
had in mind.)

Some days…
I am amazed
at the
simple,
improbable
glory
of
witnessing
one more sun
crest and
birth
east of
Montauk
and
having the
gift of words
to
encompass
evil
and
beauty

You have seen them wrapped
in purple paper neatly
arrayed in stepped,
almost elegant displays
near the entrance.

You have walked past them
dozens of times to
pick up a pack of gum,
two scratch off lottery tickets,
a cellophane bag of pork rinds,
twin fried, glazed apple pies
in wax paper wrappers,
cheap cigars in plastic tubes,
a twelve pack of imported beer
and bottles of a nationally
advertised sports beverage.

You have probably asked yourself
the same question I have asked
untallied times, “Christ, what
kind of loser buys flowers
at the filling station?”

After a brief scientific
survey, with a five
percent margin of
error, I answered
this probing question.

Losers with sharp,
careless tongues buy
filling station flowers.

Losers just like me.