Ode

Where have you gone, strange
   little man, tiny giant?
in your triumph there were still
         heavy irons welded to your
                 thin ankles, put there
       to keep you from flying away.
 At first glance, you were an illogical proposition
       with your cupidinous lips a tremble
and moustache of another age set
         against the slovenly backdrop of
                    studiously un stylish rock-n-roll
you stood unabashed, your thin pale arms exposed,    
   
    a midst the snarl and the leather and
             uninspired, there you were
              with your merry men, mincing and
    prancing, with outrageous melody.....

            where are you now, Mr. Mercury,
    knight of the air?

            and those ones who might have called you faggot, homo,
                          queer....

are the ones who you swept up in an operatic
        fashion, their heads banging to the
             luxurious crescendos, singing
                  with you when you moaned
                   that nothing really matters

  our fanfare was your joyous voice, being
                     champions after all
        is a universal dream...
   
                  We could use a
                   guy like you
                    to show us the
        way to treat our brothers and sisters
                 and be silly and
                           elegant
                at the same damn time.

Why to teach the reading and writing of it

Because the world is
 confusing and ugly
6.7.8.9.
   they/ we shut down
in the face of all
that noise and smoke
  10.10.10.
   to teach the reading
        and writing of it
"your world, our world, is
       a beautiful place full
            of stories"
We say in our crowded, dusty rooms
         with too much gray
       and not enough air
"your life is a movie, 
        and you are the star..."
We drag and grasp
   the weight of it
the light into darkness
  the cool wind into a jungle
    a place to rise above
          the killing floor
"..give your words power, because
           naming a thing is to control 
 a thing , to kill it , create it, cast it
         aside, 
             to give it glorious feathers
                     and watch it fly"

  Pointless, a bell rings and
         they depart in a cloud of smells and slang.
I scavenge pencils off the floor, among the loose papers
          scrawled with pictures
                         of dicks and "f*&k u"
  there are origami cranes,
                  unicorns,
                       and the seedlings
                             of poems.

Eddie spaghetti, your meatballs are ready

 
 He will not run in a straight line,
     will not keep quiet
                 not stay still
           Listen to his bellowing roar
 a dragon uncoils in his giant heart
 this uncouth one
       who takes everything apart, grasping
the ledges on metal

--Pull,you mighty thing
  tear and hammer--

        the world is a drum
     he dances on

   is a tree for climbing,
is a pile of sand to be bashed
   
hoot and howl
  turn wild, and fill
your nest with scribbled pages
  my  uncouth one
loud and mighty son.

1. 
   

                                                    Taste the Rainbow ( from "Dollar Store Barbies" Rough Draft



             There are places I like to go to that don't seem to change much.  Mostly, I've been hanging out at the Cave Club.  If you've ever been to a punk rock dive bar, you've been to the Cave Club.  The walls are flat black, smelling of stale smoke and beer.  The floor is sticky from wave after wave of beer mud, the combination of sweat, dirt and spilled beer that spreads out from the mosh pit.  There's even blood in all that beer mud, some of it is mine.  I guess, in some stupid way, the club and I are blood relatives and by extension all the other regulars are too.

          So too is the bar.  My friend Angie is always there.  Sometimes, her brother in law, Thor helps out.I like him.  He's good people and like a little brother to me.  Butch is Angie's old man and he and I have been bros for about twenty years or more, since the first day of sixth grade.  He's in Big Springs finishing up his last year on a five year bid for some crapped up smuggling charge.  He got stuck holding a truck full of Mexican liquor without any tax stamps.  They didn't want him, said he could walk and all he had to do is tell them who the truck really belonged to. I can only imagine what he told them to cram up their collective behinds when they came at him like that, trying to shake him like some stupid yo.  He kept his mouth shut because he isn't a punk not because he's fearful.  The dudes with the trucks know this.  We've all known each other too long for anyone to think otherwise.

          It was early, about eight o'clock.  Nothing cool seems to happen until ten or so.  The guys in the band were setting up and the sound guy was trying to find a way to make the loud buzzing in the PA go away.  good luck.  I was hanging out in my usual spot, a corner booth that felt like home.  I don't really drink much.  My Dad was a mean drunk, and I tend to stay sober and watch other people have a good time.  I'm a real people watcher.  My girl Anne, we hang out sometimes and make up stories about strangers when they walk by.  That's another reason why I like the Cave Club.  They don't find my ways creepy, not in the least.  They know me.

        Anyway, like I was saying, it was around eight and there weren't too many people.  That's why I noticed the kid.  When I say kid, I mean he was in his twenties with a short hair cut.  His ears were just a bit too big for his head and he had a whipcord neck growing up out of his black leather jacket.  He had a kind of raw sunburned look to his face.  This kid was skinny and tall.  He looked more like a cowboy or a Midwest college basketball player.  His head did swivel around a couple of times in my direction.  That was when I got a look at his tired, sad eyes.  I know that look.  I know what it's like to feel nervous even when you know you shouldn't.  I've been there, where you want to be out and around people, but  you can't stand to be out and around people, you want your life back.

       I didn't think much of it, until one of the dirtbags from the brake shop, Chepo, bellied up to the bar and tried to start up a "deep conversation" with Angie.  Everyone likes her.  She's beautiful and sweet.  She always has a joke and a smile for anyone.  She brings tamales to the homeless guys behind the club, calls them her "crew", notices when one of them is missing or sick.  Anyway, if she ever had a sancho, it wouldn't be this ass clown, Chepo.
 
     Right on cue, he bumps the kid's drink and it goes over.  He says something lame and douche-y like, "Watch where you're going, Nancy!". The kid turns fast to square off with him.  All at once, a bunch of stuff happens.  Angie says, "This one's on the house.." and starts making another rum and coke for the kid (That's a kids drink for sure..).  I stand up casually at the booth, and say "..and the next one's on me, soldier." He sizes me up, knows that I'm not screwing around when I sit down and gesture to the "gunfighter's" seat, his back against the wall facing the door.  When he sits down with his drink, I jerk my head to the door and say, "You got my back, right?".
         "Yeah, aight. I guess so.  It ain't no big deal"
 " But that d___ at the bar, He's a complete hump and not worth the trouble.  I think you made a stain
  in his pants when you squared up on him....The back, not the front."  That came out wrong, but still the kid kind of smiled and laughed.
      "You in the service?", I asked.
"Just got out of the Army" , he paused, "Were you?"
      "Yeah, me , A long time ago"
"Been home yet?," I ask, already knowing the answer.  He shook his head no, slowly, with deep consideration.
     "It's over rated.  Take your time. It'll still be there when you want to."  This was advice Butch's Dad gave me me long years ago.  At the time, going home was at the very bottom of my list, a real crapfest.

          Sometimes you can tell when someone needs to talk.  I'm a good listener.  Everybody tells me that.  I think it's because listening to other people's problems makes me feel like I'm helping them,like I'm doing something good.It's just a good time for me  Anne tells me I should have a talk show, but I cuss too much.  She makes me laugh, which is about the best thing anyone can do for you.

    "You know how you think you're a good guy and then you find out you're not?" He kind of says it fast, like he's been holding on to it for a while.
         "Yeah" I say, "sometimes"
 Here it comes, I think.  I don't like hearing this kind of stuff, because it makes me feel powerless and sad all over again.
    " I'm a..was a translator.  I went to the DLI school and only shot my weapon during exercises and I was trained to drive a humvee and use the computer and radio systems.."
        "Oh yeah. I carried field radios and learned all about them.." I added.
  "Well, one day, one of the NCO's told me "We need you on the back of the truck, spooky, mission essential" : "whenever we went somewhere, I was in a vehicle not on the back of one"
    " I jump in the back of the deuce and half with my weapon slung, and the guys make a space for me.  Sarge gives me a big, huge bucket full of candy. ", start throwing this $#^&  dawg,  when we tell you to.  Spread it around, yeah bro?
         We pull through this narrow ass village and it's all dusty, tense, we have to slow way down cause the road is messed up.  One of the guys says, "now dawg, throw that $^&;!"  I start tossing the candy and from nowhere all these dirty kids are swarming around the truck.
           the bigger ones come out too, and they try to drag the little ones away.One of them with a puffed up eye flips me the bird and starts yelling "khus "em'mukh khanzir!!" He's talking about a pig and my Mom's....
uh, )&;*%$#"
          I beaned him in the face with a pack of skittles...hard.  The other guys are laughing,
             "That's gangsta!," they say..."cold!"
  The kid staggers back clutching his good eye.  We roll through surrounded by kids.
              "Save some for the trip back, dawg..." the NCO tells me.
  When we get back, he's kinda teasing me, telling me I done good and that I need to go out more often.
        He gets quiet and asks, "for real, you know why we do it, throw candy, I mean?"
              "kids love candy, hearts and minds, right?"
"Nah man, they always gonna hate us. .  The Hajis ain't gonna light us up if they kids be all around us.  That's why lil Popeye was trying to run 'em off, to give 'em a clean shot......%u$& him"

  I used to think I was a nice guy...

        "Yeah" I said slow, "me too".

    "It's your turn..."

Resplendent

roach on a straight pin
stuck through a red paper plate
 gold leaf on its wings


    Education

          know the difference
          between knowledge and feelings
               minds cannot rule hearts

                         Obligation

         What else must I do
   remain blameless in your eyes?
          death waits for us both


                                                  A dirty book 
                                       
                    meant to be alone
             found in the park in wet grass
                   I breathe your secrets

Numbers 1 through 100

Sounds are a soft touch

   you might say that they

   leave the skin unfurrowed 

but the heart bears the

    wrinkles of their 

      passage

the harsh words

   bouncing off the 

            icy air

or the snap of a bullet

   have no power over

     the song of someone

         beautiful calling my

name, love

     better even than 

this blissful gift

      is the tiny little toy

propeller sound of 

    your cloudy 

baby heart,

       changing the 

doctor's office into a wizard's

     tent

            nor the needle of your

 cries 

      the day you opened

 your eyes,

     that red mouth 

                 making a pillar of 

     air that lifted my heart

     my little one carrying every

           egg of my

                  future

the blood of heroes

                   from my own forested veins

            into yours

You 

    as you made words, as you called for me

               raising arms to me,

     saying "up!"

                  I am only so big and strong

as you see me

     a hero only as you have led 

            me to be

  

      

elements

If there was a calculus
    that measures the weightless
elements of feel
  what would we
          see?

Is sadness the weight of
     a mote of dust,
       a lost penny,
        an engine block
          seized up with rust?

Is hope a lithium-weighted
   metal, angelic and
     brittle?
a speck of magic..

And then there is anger.
 Anger is not a noble gas
     some might say it's like sodium
reacting in unpleasant, unflinching ways
         most likely, metallic
     It's probably magnetic
attracting resentment,stubbornness,
         and jealousy
but it's necessary
     as a catalyst

                If hydrogen is the most plentiful
      of physical elements,
         here, anger can't be far behind
   
             using the isotopes of anger
 can fuel fires of change
    when with hope or love combined
that new molecules arrange
       stainless bravery
shiny integrity
         the lead of endurance
heavy and sweet to the taste

  In this idiotic forge
      things get broken
and polished at the
         same time

Like arsenic,
   carry yours with you in
the ironwork of your bones
    giving you shape and
            the armor of
    resistance

some day, some alchemist
     pulling the plug on science
             might
coax it into gold,
   but I doubt it
           would be half
              as valuable


         

Drought

Yes, it is..

  the world is full

   of ugly people and bad ideas

    so thick, you can't help

 breathe them in.

 

    They do stick

to you like

 dogshit on a bouncy house

    (i know)

It's covered in broken furniture,

 stained carpets 

     and overhead lights

that flicker and buzz

    

....that smell? 

 

   Feel it stick to your

           skin,

 that greasy layer

  clogging your pores.

           < *>

 

         far off,  it's 

       raining a good 

       hard pour

       cleaning up the 

      stale stank  from  every 

      crack and gutter

     

      Why not down our

      necks

      cooling off our eyes

      sweetening our throats

     until we can look 

        each other in 

        the face again 

     and kiss like 

          as if

    we'd never kissed

     anyone else?

       

        

a badly done haiku about gun safety

  дети  веселые
          они пулемет нашли
никто не живет

(some happy children

   found a big, old machine gun

     everyone's dead)

   
   

slapping underworld

Let's play pretend
that your life is
    under control ;
Don't get defensive
        about the
drinking and the trick
     you have,
the one where you make
          every one
nod like puppets
  and cut our
       own  strings
while we jiggle our
     chalky heads
 in agreement to
      your latest
indiscretion.

  It's bad luck
      or getting touched
 by an uncle when you
           were nine
or some other outrage
       horrible as it
            is
still not an excuse to be
       such a sorry
               endeavor
leaving imploded egos
        and aborted
  feelings of adequacy
    in your tumbling wake,  
        the scent of too much
                perfume and
   vodka prop wash
             trailing
behind your scanty
        frame
festooned with
     worshipful bruises
   dripping with attention
nobody is that pretty
nobody is that smart
    you're just as
    boring as the rest
      of us,
               but lacking
a sense of
    shame
        

dream yourself awake.

Когда молодой ,
  слепой ,глухой ,
       я в бадарке работал вышибалой
И  Иногда  представлялся мне   ,
        ждая
      что настоящий  метродотель
                 и я  ....

нет ли у вас
   мечтаний своих ,
в жизни своей ?
    живете ли
              вы над крышею
                               кладбища
о в стране под ведением
   подпеца ?

-------

When i was young,
     willfully blind,deaf
I used to be a whorehouse bouncer
 and sometimes, while I
         waited around,
i would imagine that
         i was a fancy head waiter

don't you have your own
        dreams, in your  
     own life?
         Aren't you living on the roof
of a graveyard,
          living in a country
                       led by a
                                           pimp?
       

         

Rodina, skol'ko stoit? (How much, Mother Russia?)

They who have never been cold
     beaten in the snow by strangers
stinking of drink
      unkissed by misfortune,not seen
prices chalked on the soles
       of scuffed shows
crowning thick ankles on
       rusty park benches

They who know not
  the taste of bread covered in ashes
the smell from Autumn mud as
it mates with other stinking clay

Who know not
  that everybody's ass
is up for grabs,
  that it's you today
       and me tomorrow
that the fix is in and
     the inside crowd
       decides what they get to keep
that the name of the boss is not
    the name painted on the office dooor
 They who know not that
      a man on his own is
      one to be distrusted

 Will never understand you, rough
           and beautiful mother
Rodina, elegant and scarred
     victim and victimizer
giving your love to men who
         violate you
 your bleeding
mouth, jagged stumps and all,
  who use you to rip your
own children to shreds
 and drain an entire sea
  to make their base dreams
          come true.
Comfortable men, here, who
  don't speak skaz*
     and never brawled
             will never understand you,
Which is why they will fail
         to save you
          from yourself

sticks and stones

Try explaining that a poem is
        a picture
painted on air,
   that stories are more
            forgiving,
not prone to self-destruct
   from single sagging words.
             Those poems
                  so heavy and hard to craft
standing the test of time,
      the black and white image
    of a dust bowl mother
           looking off into            
  a cloud of dreams,
       or the ones like silver rivers
                against impossible black
                    wilderness,unforgettable
          and then are
   Those poems scribbled on napkins
                                    scraps of paper
                flying away or left laying in coffee grounds
                                  and orange peels,
                      gone like passports from
                                                            countries that
no longer exist.
               everything so delicate and un-catch-able.
                            They are not wise answers, like
                   well worn stories,
                                                      these pieces of  words,
caught like silk on blades of grass,
              or staring back at us stuck in time,
             they seem to ask us,
"isn't truth just another name for beauty?
                      are we
                          not
                                           worthy?"
                                   
         
               
         
             

Pillow Talk NOT for librarians

Whores make me sad
    even when they seem to be having
      a good time.

I am a pearl
     anyone with a heart can see that
but not you

 there's a war on,
 between who you think I am, deargirl,
 and the truth

and here, you're in
  some bright  journey of self-fulfillment.
I'm a sign

for something odd
like "giant gophers" or "alligator king"...
roadside shit

bumming your trip
to a glamorous future landscape
free from the past.