August will Adjust
August 2021 Rescue Dog Poetry resplendent w/ typos in tact. Hope it gives some satisfaction to those to say how these paintings are still spelled wrong after 30 years-
Lost & Found Note Book Po
I wonder if I will ever write anything
In one of this little brown notebooks
That anyone will ever read someday.
Wolfe wrote the leaf the stone the door
I am the Mr. Roberts of poetry
Supply officer on a transport barge
Like prose truck driver delivering lost pages of dried ink
To the attic in cardboard boxes to yellow with age
And collected dust awaiting the salvation of recovery and rediscovery – Notebook circa 90s
Open Notebook on the bar
While October awaits
Wearing this year’s mask
All outta treats and tricks
Thinking if the aliens are demons
In the dirt go all our dicks
The cattle of earth
Are merely stray strain of herd limited mentality
So giddy-yap little doggies
And wonder if the genetic crossbreeding will take
Our orbit the merry go round somewhere better than
A sun with the exploding face
Baba black sheep nine spheres full of cold lifeless spin.
Tiny Talent Time (for Frank)
Sunday Night wise guys hold court
Talking too loud to ignore
Like minute white rice yaps
Burning on the stove.
And you could never stop talking to her
More often than not
It was the other way around.
She speaks of sleeping without dreaming.
Tonight Frankie made the Hockey talk
Sound like wild poetry again.
I promised you
I wouldn’t smoke in bed alone again.
4 guys saunter in the bar
They all have girl friends
who smell like patchouli oil and clove cigarettes
They all snivel and gesture a lot
They keep asking each other
What’s the story
Wanna Cheeseburger ?
They don’t wanna
Whata you wanna drink ?
They don’t know- a debate ensues
They all order Kamikazes
She says these are big shots
He says No we are the big shots
Then good ole Ike comes sauntering in like he’s golf pro at the local links
W/two DWI’s under his belt in the last week.
He buys me a beer
Assesses the quartet
Say’s so what’s their story ?
I say you don’t wanna know
And nods in agreement saying
Neither do they.
Remembering the Yuppies
They all have
They all have plans
They all have dates
They are all stunningly attractive
They all have their moments
They have good jobs
They all don’t have a prayer
They all don’t pray anyway
They all have money in the bank
They all have ridiculous debt
They all have their regrets
They all have someone to talk to
They all have nothing to say
They all talk non-stop all the time
They all have drinking problems
They all have cocaine problems
They all know everything
They all admit to nothing
They all have been everywhere
They all never left town
They all have air-tight alibis
They all have stories full of holes
They all cast shallow shadows
They all have broken hearts
They all don’t have them anyway.
I want to talk to the Residents
I want to talk to Larry
I want to talk to the City Lights
I want to talk to Richard
I want to talk to Thanksgiving
I want to talk to the Silent Night
I want to talk to those who it is written in their faces
I want to talk to those who know the answer to this question
What do you call a limbless person without eyes ears mouth or heart
With a scar on their forehead?
But most of all ?
I want to talk once again with you
And this time.
– Lost & Found Notebooks circa 80s/90s uncollected/revised 7/2021
July Shorts 2021
Another Slip-ism For Leo Gorcey as Slip Alawishus Mahoney
Suppose ta rain tomorrow anyway-
Which will irritate da plants
Minor League Poet
I was a minor league poet
Who could play any position
DH pinch hit/run
Occasionally I might square one up
Swat it good- but really
Just warning track power
Or throw somebody out at the plate
Or double a runner off 1st.
Or maybe- just maybe catch one
That nobody thought I could
Ever get to.
Roll the Credits
The light in my kitchen
This time of year in the late afternoon
Looks like the last scene from Iron weed.
What Kind of Guy was He 10.0 ?
When watch people share a wishbone
He rooted for it to snap in the middle
So nobody got the big end
Or their wish
It was in the Script
So I throw myself at you
And you put on a catcher’s mitt
-Claire Trevor to George Raft in Johnny Angel
Dig this Big Beat lie