Apologies to John Prine on Valentine's Day

Fist through drywall,
fist through a door,
dishes all broken
right there on the floor.
Well, it looks like something
Picasso would paint,
a mere matter of canvas,
but, honey, it ain't.
It's the sins of our fathers
and our mothers, too;
the sins of the Nazis
(Whoa!),
the sins of the Jews,
so shake it, don't break it,
and I'll tell you what,
those old men there
were checking your butt.
Sunrise, pot pies,
Rice-a-Roni,
white bread and mustard:
It's all baloney.
Now, you're leaving me
for another jerk.
I don't understand it,
but whatever works.
I'll gird up my loins
and pack up my clothes.
You know,
I always loved you
in that there pose,
arms all akimbo,
head to one side,
hair pinned up in back:
Take him for that ride.

Now wasn't that a Merry Dish

Four and twenty tarantulas
all squirming in a pie
with lumps and bumps and crevices
and sockets there for eyes.

Four and twenty tarantulas
all hungry for a mouse
or a hapless hummingbird
(they're waiting at your house).

Four and twenty tarantulas
press on the soggy skin
and angled legs protrude
like hair on head and chin.

Now, when the pie burst open
the spiders freely crawled,
but, oh, look at the pastry
still splattered on the wall.


(1988)

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream like a Dog

It begins with a twitch, the flip of a paw,
there on the floor before us,
a finger to the lips, "Shh...she's dreaming,"
then flipping paws, all legs jerking,
after that squirrel, no doubt, or...who knows;
she may catch it this time,
in her dreams.
Now a growl, a snarl,
probably for that pit or rotty
(I wouldn't do it, Pinky;
don't turn this into a nightmare),
muffled barks through fluttering jowls.
Quiet again.
Her tail's wagging, "Look at that!"
Now running again, just running, running.
O, to be outside the fence,
free of leash, free of chain,
forever.


01/03/2013

An Introduction to French Poetry: Artaud

ALL WRITING IS GARBAGE,
according to Artaud, the madman,
and the older I get, the more I agree;
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Goethe...pick one:
It's all refuse, debris,
spilling from the mind of man,
chasing God's imagination
(we'll never catch up...trust me),
leading, at best, to models of DNA,
or atoms,
houses built with the spokes and wheels
of  Tinker Toys, Lego worlds,
where descriptions don't adequately describe,
explanations fail to explain,
and dialog is as wooden
as the First Lady's face,
there staring from a pike,
the clarity of her character development
as hopeless as Modigliani eyes.
It's garbage.
PEOPLE WHO COME OUT OF NOWHERE AND TRY TO PUT INTO WORDS
ANY PART OF WHAT GOES ON IN THEIR MINDS ARE PIGS.
That offends me, but still,
THE LITERARY SCENE TODAY IS A PIGPEN.
I didn't say it, he did,
 but then,
Antonin Artaud was a madman,
and yet,
even our own sweet Emily,
with downcast eyes, whispered,
"Much madness is divinest sense."

(August 1986)

Around Kenner's Bend

Two a.m., you're down in a grain barge on the Mississippi.  Around the river's bend is New Orleans, a smiling old woman with too much make-up.  The firehose throbs as you blast rotten kernels from their cracks.  Crazy Joe is sitting in a triangle of half-light down on the low end.  He's keeping the pump clear, cramming his fist up into its guts.  You're wet to the waist and covered with bits of corn from the knees down.  The barge simmered in the summer sun for weeks; the darkness stinks.  Someone approaches making tiny figure-eights with a pale red ember, holds it to your lips.

A ladder leads to a square of stars where the air comes from.  You turn your face up to it and yell, "YO!  TURN HER OFF!"  You drop the hose, and it ascends, the nozzle scraping on the black barge bed, goes clattering up the rungs.  There's a line of men with brooms and squeegees coming up behind.  Crazy Joe is on his knees; the end is nearing.

When the last fistful of corn and cup of water has been sucked up, there's the inevitable bump and push, mad race for the stairs, hands clawing at your legs as you climb, but once out, there's the equality of naked angels standing beneath the stars and beautiful moonlight swan dives into the Mississippi.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, July 27, 1986)

The Good Neighbor

     The evergreen overrun of Balboa Park--9th Street, San Diego, senile mansions sliced into apartments--housed a crosscut of American blood: black, white, Mexican...Vietnamese.  Good neighbors were those you didn't see or hear and only met in passing for hello, the weather and a squint for the dead bird or rat in the dumpster, no doubt.

     One time, the death smell grew and with it conversation; the first rushed you along, while the second forced a stop.  Two trash days came and went, but the stench, nearly visible, remained.  We guessed cat, then dog, and searched, but failed to find one.  Then someone thought to ask about the old man who lived upstairs.  No one had seen him in weeks.  We climbed the stairs, knocked, and got no answer, so boosted a  young man up to the balcony, his feet on our shoulders.  He pulled himself up and over the ironwork, and, looking through the French doors, called down his description:  "It's him, all right!  He's slumped over in an easy chair, dark, slimy looking!  The smell's choking me; I'm coming down!"

     Tina, from number two below, telephoned.  No one knew the old man's name, knew of any relative, but the coroner came flanked by two men dressed in white, angels with hairy arms and black shoes.  They picked him up so gently, the old man fell apart, so they shoveled him into a bag and rolled him away on a cart.


(March 1986)

LC-39

Egret and blue heron
wade through reeds.
See those bubbles?
That's an alligator,
or a really big turtle.
Oh, and look!
There's a bald eagle
on the water tower
with Launch Complex 39-B
in the background.
Do you think they wonder
where the smoke and the thunder
and the fires of freedom have gone?


(Nov 2012)