June Po 3.0

June 2013     One of my favorite months of the year.  (3nd in a series of 3 updates 6/21)

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August 2012 M 029 this one*

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1st Day of Summer

 

Solstice scimitar shaft

Slicing search torch

Gleaming longest burn

briefest pinnacle of light

declining seconds after

a descent commences….

 

The shadows start their

 Encroaching erosion

Immediately….

 

Beware

Learn that lesson

From those who would

Build their world

On your ashes.

Uncollected Summer 2012

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(Next two selections have been recorded & will be included on the next CD collection coming this fall)

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Curtains in the wind

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In Sonic Embrace

 

June splits open

cleanly down the middle

of herself in the bedroom

just after the grayest

faint whisper that

Dawn could muster

into the folds of

curtains setting sail.

 

Windows wide open

to allow the night out

and perhaps the morning in.

 

I stirred from my dream

just enough to perceive

the bedroom awash

in a sonic embrace.

 

 

Pinpoints of color

Cartwheel in motion

to swaying trees tops

rocking in the yard below.

 

The respirator of late Spring

 laboring in a rush

of the moisture

laden air awash

hissing in soft exhale.

 

 

Then there’s the sound

of a passing freight train.

There’s always that sound

somewhere around this

middle time of June.

 

In the sonic embrace

bleeding all over your face

pouring into your ears.

fans twirl in slow

languid circle overhead

Fans much more busy

buzzing at the foot of the bed.

 

 

June escapes me

as you do here.

 

My half-dream wakes

me in this first light.

The sonic embrace of false

Dawn.

 

Between the two of you

Between the two of you

I just don’t know

what I will ever do.

 

 June splits open

cleanly down the middle

of herself in the bedroom

just after the grayest

faint whisper that

Dawn could muster

into the folds of

curtains setting sail.

 

 

– Greetings from Gridville  2005

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August 2012 M 067

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Dwindling Shadows of June

 

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In the dwindling shadows of June

dancing in her

twilight skirt

gushing vermilion liquid

time is like a broken

Capillarity in the calendars

main line artery.

You can’t hope to contain

any of the torrent

Just drown maybe baby

Because the

big drain is on

You can feel the pull

you can feel the life

leave you

diminished

ever closer to

the finish

Not some abstract

intellectual property

but a cold hard tangible reality.

Your ebbing confidence

in a narrow shallow vision

in the past semi-protected

you from the harsh truth

from too much disappointment

There are no prospects

for replenishment here

This dissipation bathed

in spectacular warm light

is waning

the dissipation grows in the encroaching shadows

and takes

what was given

in the finite

while what is being

taken away

is

infinite.

 

August 2012 M 057 this one 1

 

Sometimes Grief –barks up the wrong tree 2012

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(Update 2 of 3  6/14)

My Old Man  -Spirits of Rhythm  (Great song-link below)

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPKilTpa-CM

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Father son 3

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The Old Man’s Fault

 

Hallmark defines

yet another contrived

consumer day of obligation

but fails to see the

species, phylum, the role

the basic biological

reality as it exists beyond

some 5 dollars of gaily configured cardboard

with sentimentality nobody really believes

or nasty sarcasm that all most

everyone smugly snickers at and buys.

 

No.

Closer to the truth

on this Sunday morning in June

is that the once thought of as

Protector

Provider

Patriarch

of the nuclear family

has been reduced

to an atom smashed

pulverized fragment

waddling away down

the aisles in Krap-Mart

in a sad post-modern procession

of the daddy parade.

father son 4

 

The fat sad daddies

The trim yuppie daddies

Hung over haunted looking

out estranged vacant eyes

ghosts of father figures

Booze fighter Fathers of

medication

neutered

trivialized

reduced to

being walking ATMs

for their families

support and subsistence.

 

 

Big dumb stupid looking

bumbling cartoon cats

lisping along as their

little kitten sons

trail a half a dozen steps

behind them with a

brown paper bag

over their heads

whining…..

Father son 8

O Father….I’m so ashamed…”   

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 All hail

that worthless drunk

drinking by himself

out in the garage

that fragile shaky

blue veined pasty

pile of protoplasm

who holds his family

together with a iron

willed grip of silly putty

and threat of the liability

of alimony

His manhood

emasculated

Balls ?

What Balls ?

He’s been bent over

in a question mark

into a bowling ally

beer gut male pattern

baldness worn down

burnt out shell

surfing porn sites

of the internet looking

for pictures of women

who remind him of

old girl friends.

 

In nature

Especially the insect world

The male role is

defined only

the biological imperative

Basically ?

He’s fertilizer   

after that

it’s off to be eaten.

 

If he’s lucky.

 

father son 7So here’s to your Dad

The father

once son himself

reduced to a lonely holy ghost

 

And if he’s not here

remember

your first teacher

the artist who help

create the piece of work

that is you.

 

Daddy on a lease

Daddy on the skids

Pale wobbly old man

shaking his fist a death

Raging how he still can

even if he never did in the first place.

 

You want to believe that

you’re here on earth because that worthless

bastard thought about getting laid

one night after too many beers

and conceived your existence ?

 

Go for it.

 

But closer to the truth

just maybe you never knew

that once there was a man

who when he looked at you

in the eyes for the first time

in that moment

did see

a world of love

shinning private light

like a gate in heaven

had been left ajar.

fatherson

Go right ahead.

Curse his name as you try to forget him.

 

But….. if he’s still around ?

some night

and no not on this day…

crack him a cold one

and put your hand on his shoulder and say.

 

“ No…..to be fair it’s not all your fault

I would have been so goddamn miserable even without you.”

 

And then duck pretty quick

as he takes a swing at you….

 

And he connects square

and plants back on your smart mouthed little ass?

 

You had it coming

 

          from Sometimes Grief    2012

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(Update 1 of 3   6/7)

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Nanna and me

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Medical Records

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 Says here that I was born 6/7/55

for $125.00 with that you get three consulting physicians @ 25 bucks a pop & a C-section.

And all I’ve heard my entire life was that I was no bargain.

Bullshit.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   -Attitude House  2001

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Yellow Stingray 

The Yellow Sting Ray

 

When I turned 12

 I pestered the living crap

Out of my folks for this

Really, expensive Schwinn

Yellow Sting Ray Bicycle

With high set handle sissy bars,

Gear shift and sparkly plastic banana seat

That I saw in the widow of Terry’ Bike shop

In town.

 

The old man said how ugly it was

 and was just way too much GD money

at 89 dollars for such stupid dangerous thing

But it was my birthday

And I think my Nana kicked

In some dough.

 

So that evening my mom pulls

Into the driveway with it sticking out

Of the rear of the gray station wagon

And I took off on it like a bat out of hell

Not getting more than twenty feet away

And attempted to POP a wheelie like I had

Seen them do on TV.

 

Of course I immediately dumped the thing

Going air borne and ending up

In a crashing concussion

 To the hard into the road surface

Raking myself up one bloody mess

Of road rash from head to foot in

Shredded clothes and with blue stones

And tar stuck into my abrasions.

 

 Not only that I bend the frame,

handle bars

the yellow banana seat

came off as well.

 

And some 45 years later

I’m still doing pretty much

The same kind bullshit

 to anything

I can get my hands on.

 

Just still trying to ride the GD thing

Without going down in flames

And tearing my ass to shreds

Down into the gutter

 

 

                                                                                                                     Uncollected   6/2012 

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Sister in Gemini

(for June Webb)

 

I remember seeing her out in the front yard in the June sunshine

When we were both quite small

Out on a blue chez lounge recovering from her latest operation

Her blonde hair and massive white bandages and cast seemed to glow

 The doctors where trying to repair her deformed limbs

She and I had been born hours apart

I was told that June might never walk again and would probably

Have to struggle this handicap for the rest of her life

Yet it was me who was indelibly marked with harmless

port wine stains  on my face and neck….

Like a Technicolor Achilles

and was told to consider myself lucky

I saw her years later in the marketplace still limping with

Her signature smile and familiar lope

 I kissed her and wished us a happy birthday

And she smiled and remarked…why you haven’t aged at all

I replied with a shrug….you ought to see me on the inside

They knew just where to aim the arrows.

 

                                                                                                  Uncollected /2012 

 

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June Fragments

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Memory

Most of what you are compelled to recall

Arrives in this plain brown reality wrapper

Containing roses and razor blades

 in a hollowed out hymnal

So that all you can really remember clearly

Is praying never to be cut like that again.

 

 

What is a Good Story Teller ?

 

A good story teller

Can relate to you the verbatim truth

And you’ll be so sure they are lying

Through their teeth

And yet

That very same person will in the next breath

Spew the most outrageous bold face lie

And you’ll bet your last bottom dollar

You just heard a brilliant truth.

 

 

The Pyromaniac’s Logic

 

Listen.

You remind of the little girl

Who started a fire somewhere once

And ran away

Only to show later

With coffee and donuts

For the sweaty beat fireman

Trying to extinguish the damage

And when during the coffee break

They seemed none to please to see you

 

You storm away in a huff

Thinking just how ungrateful

They are.

 

                                                                                                              -Uncollected 2012

 

 

Pitching Change                                         (For R.A. D)

 

Look man….

Nobody likes to get the hook out there

From a manager asking you to turn over the ball

And as you walk off that mound being sent to

The showers in front of thirty thousand people

Doing that long walk back to the dugout

It’s ok to keep your head down

And not acknowledge the smattering of applause,

Stray catcalls and having to know what everybody

In place all ready does.

 

You just didn’t have it.

Today.

 

                                                                                                      Uncollected 2012

 

 

In the Batter’s Box

 

Some days

When they are clearly

Throwing at you

Backing you off the plate

With the chin music

Or just keeping it all

 Away, away, away

with some soft junk

 

You’ve just got to keep

Trying to foul them off

 

 

And wait and pray

For a mistake

One batting practice

Flat as plywood fast ball

To square up.

 

And then it’s up to you

Either jerk it up into the upper deck

Or

Smoke a frozen rope back to the mound

At the pitchers Adam’s apple.

 

Your call.

But don’t just stand there

And take strike three. 

 

                                                                                                           6/2012

 

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