Luau Chester, old “Trouble Ahead” Casey

Jones, dragging his steel braced leg and grinning

beneath the brim of that straw cowboy hat,

limps into the party at the hip-strip theater

from thirty years back (those Crystal days)

when “Story” was living high and wide. Memorials

provide reunions for gray ghosts still breathing

and stumbling through. Reminiscing about

lovers lulled by liquor, electric tickets, and more

than a few sticky wickets between the sheets:

all that needlework “and the damage done.”

What fun! Eight lives spent. This last one

sleeps with Yorkies, pours vodka, juggles pain,

rerunning rides and wrecks on horse and cocaine.

 

—inspired by that old hog-head, Chester Keith, with

nods to Neil Young, the Grateful Dead,

and in memory of Mike Story

I gots me a jug a hard cider

sweet Connie rattles my bones

Rumpelstiltskin

dances in a Medora sombrero

Rumpelstiltskin sleeps on a cot under the stairs

 

Rumpelstiltskin

never eats his veggies

Rumpelstiltskin knows Cinderella

 

Lives on Sesame Street

behind Oscar’s cafe

Eating Garbage

 

Rumpelstiltskin hates it

when his socks loose their elasticity

Rumpelstiltskin is Rapunzel’s dad

 

Who knew his beard was fake

Rumpelstiltskin is tired

of reality TV

 

He yearns for a return

to radio and Fractured Fairy Tales

Rumpelstiltskin used to move furniture

 

Before he sold babies and used cars

I want to be like Rumpelstiltskin

be the name of a candy bar

I woke to muffled voices,

dishes and pans clattering

on the stove in the kitchen, smelled

coffee and bacon cooking, my mother

 

making breakfast and a lunch

at 3 a.m. for my dad called

to brake a west bound freight for

the Milwaukee Road. A pair

 

of eggs basted in bacon grease,

homemade bread toasted black,

sliced an inch thick, slathered

in butter and spread with spun

 

honey my dad also used to

sweeten his coffee boiled

cloudy-thick, strong and bitter

(the darker the better) as

 

dark as that Drexel siding

on a moonless December

night when his lantern battery

died—it was like being stuck

 

inside that long tunnel at Taft—

blind as the dead must be.

A teaspoon of honey smoothed

the acrid edges, helped him

 

swallow and chew like that fifth

of whiskey in the pantry

(now waiting for me) those bottles

stashed in the shed or his grip,

 

just a nip from a flask or a pull

off a pint put a smile on the face

of wasted days and nights logging

miles in the cold/hot oily hours

 

to stay afloat, buy food, shoes,

coats and soap, maybe grab at some

time or a shot of hope—a chance

to lick the nectar from the fire.

I’m a backyard miner

A sidewalk stroller

Ankle deep in leaves

 

In my mind

I’m soaking up the sunshine

Burning hot as freezing steel

Barbed wire between my teeth

 

In my mind

I’m a whimper in the dark

Basement, a whisker

On the blanket, the hair

In your mouth

 

In my mind

I know nothing

About anything that matters

But nothing matters

About anything In my mind

 

In my mind

I’m still wandering

In the desert, thigh deep

In snowdrifts, sinking through

The garage roof

 

In my mind

I’m still eating apples

With my lover lounging naked

As these trees raining

Leaves shimmering

And rattling in an easy breeze

 

In my mind

I’m J.D. Salinger

Gary Cooper and Muhammad Ali

 

In my mind

I’m hanging with Jesus

And Orson Wells

Sports a Hitler mustache

 

In my mind

Tom Waits is serving

Tea and Guinness

In a raw food restaurant

To Mel Gibson and Donald Rumsfeld

 

In my mind

Nobody breathes on Sunday

All the cameras are paused

Until Monday at four

 

In my mind

There’s a cure for cancer

 

In my mind

There’s no medicine for love

 

In my mind

They stopped feeding the dragon

 

And in my mind

You’re the gifter of dreams

 

In my mind

The cowbirds are on vacation

Left the ravens to clean up the mess

Weekdays, swing shift

And graveyard, I guess

Cattle don’t know shit

 

In my mind

There’s calluses on your kneecaps

 

In my mind

I barbecued the TV

 

In my mind

I’m still playing sudden death

Holding the hot tub from Hell

From rolling downhill

Never say die

Till the mourners scream

“HE’S DEAD!”

 

In my mind

I’ve lost track of myself

Double take on the gray-beard

Grinning in the mirror

 

In my mind

I’m a force, a bloody animal

 

In my mind

I’m playing piccolo in the band

 

In my mind

The moon is your full belly

 

In my mind

I want my blue to be sky

All creatures, all stories

All goblins and hopes

Land smoothly on the runways

Of my mind

 

In my mind

I’m waiting for you

Always, always straining

And craning to see

If you’re here

If you’re happy to see me

 

‘Cause in my mind

I can’t leave you

Alone, I’m always going

But you’re never gone

 

You homesteaded my Black-tail

Filed a claim on Grasshopper Creek

 

In my mind 

You rent this apartment

My little studio

Of words and beer

 

In my mind

We drive on and park and

I promise

All I need is the taste

Of your skin

 

All I want

Is your eyes and thighs

On me on a mattress

Bathed in moonlight

In my mind

 

In my mind

I’m the vampire of your dreams

I take what I get

With or without tears

All I need is what I have

In my mind

 View Post

We were

Parkway 2-3304

Lived below the tracks

At the bottom of the hill

Flushed our toilet

Into the river

 

We were white

Bread rising

Behind the wood stove

Coal shoveled

From a pick-up truck bed

Through the shed chute-door

 

We were carrots

Potatoes, beets in sand

Stored in the root cellar

Dug into the bank

Canning jars of fruit and

Pickles lined the shelves

 

We were bamboo rods

And wicker creels

Rubber packs, overshoes

Wool and more wool

 

We were dandelion

Chokecherry and elderberry

Wine kicked up by raisins

Hand paddled ice cream—a thick

Scum on the tongue—comic books

Read on the floor behind the bar

At Chadwick & Boyd’s

Or in the back seat

Of our ’55 Chevy

 

We were empty pop bottles

Traded for penny candy

At Archie’s Texaco

Cleared our throats with ice

Cold nickel-bottles of Coke

Pulled from the water-bath

Reservoir machine

Outside Johnny’s Mobil

 

We were black bears

Spring and fall in the fruit

Trees and garbage cans

The smell of wet dog

Burn barrels and deer tallow

 

We were clothes-pinned

Playing cards sputtering

On bike spokes

Like Evel Knievel jumping

Knapweed, sleeping out

In pup tents up the creek or

On our lawns under the stars

 

We were strip poker and dirty jokes

A six-pack of Olympia beer

Stolen from Lovely’s porch

And stashed in their wood pile

 

We were sledding the big hill

All the way to the river

Bucking bales each summer

Till football began

Crusin’ the drag

And listenin’ to the radio

Elvis, the Beatles, the Beach

Boys and the Stones

The Doors and Dylan

CCR, Motown, What’s Goin’

On? What’s goin’ down

On The Eve of Destruction

 

We were the young awakening 

To men dying unarmed 

In the streets and bleeding 

Overseas deep in the jungle of 

TV, Goddamn!

Steppenwolf set the tone

As we tried to navigate

Not lose ourselves

On that Magic Carpet Ride

Or succumb to The Pusher

Who’d become Our Generation

A Monster Born to be Wild

 

 

We were the children

Of booming promise

Gone shaggy, irreverent

And fucking stoned

How could this happen

Out in the sticks at the drive-in

Easy Rider kept us Groovin’

Marijuana was a weed

And we believed Jefferson

Airplane’s Volunteers and Canned

Heat’s decree that all men

Every boy, girl, woman, and man

Were created equal

Black Panthers NOW

Took AIM at Vietnam Veterans

Against the War

It was insane and

 

We were drafted into it

By funerals and flag draped coffins

Our innocence blown

Like brain matter and blood

On the lap of a pink dress

While German Shepherds and fire

Hoses tore at black men

And women billy-clubbed

On their knees, Altamont gave us

Sympathy for the Devil

 

We were lost

For a decade of post

Traumatic stress

Booze and pills

Window pane and crystal

Powders we called thrills

Kicks were getting harder

To find the older we got

Out in the woods we ran

On mountain tops, we flew

Outside up high

Fishing lakes, walking streams

Searching for something, some reason

To breath, to keep

Stumbling along

 

What saved me

Was fatherhood, my kids

Helped me remember 

What it was like

To see the world up close

For the first time

Sitting with bees or deer

Until they didn’t care we were there

Watching the shadows change

From sunset to dark, listening

To the old dog snore under our feet

Then beat homemade fudge, lick

The spoon, play board games

On the kitchen floor, back then

When we were kids

 

We were convinced

Our parents knew everything

Unaware of their panic

Never privy to their terror

My sons reminded me

To buck-up and be the dad

They needed me to be

It’s what we do when we don’t know

What else to do—pretend

 

We know what’s coming 

Up and what’s going down

That road we’ve never been on

Take the point and walk

Into the dark, it’s the only thing

We can do besides celebrate

Our nakedness rolling in

The grass of a sunny afternoon

And laughing at the foolery

Of our oh-so-certain selves, take stock

In each other, abide our needs

To love and dance

And play, what we’d almost forgotten

Dial up that old area code

For living today

 

—for Birthday Burt and his Montana Gal

 

When I forget that night

at the State Drive-In with you

in the backseat of Christ’s

brother’s ’68 Wildcat,

Elvis ministering to Mary

Tyler Moore’s Change of Habit . . .

nothing will matter anymore.

 

When I forget the smells

of your hair and the Wind

Song on your neck, the Coppertoned

skin of your legs & arms against

that tight-white terrycloth

shorts & top outfit, our blood

throbbing, the trickling sweat . . .

nothing of me will remain.

 

When I can’t recollect

the fullness of your mouth

hungering to devour mine,

the anxious embrace of your arms,

your breasts pressing into

my chest, and our tongues

tangoing the ballroom of yes . . .

nothing will be left of my mind.

 

So, today, when you ask me

if I remember this anniversary,

the 43^rd since our first date,

I laugh at the silly romance of it all,

duck my head as if someone lurking

overheard—afraid to be found out

a dream lover like you . . . that

nothing else has mattered more.

     for Pam

You can’t go home again

You can’t go home again

Your hood is in your mind

And if the porridge was ever good

So was the red fear riding

Your tear streaked cheeks

When the boys left you tied

Like Matthew Shepard

Between two Lodgepole pines

That winter afternoon

And you realized for the first time

Wrists and ankles cut

From your panicked struggle that

No one was going to save you

And you needed to come to

Grips with friend-shits, bears

And wolves, swallow then chase

Them with Jim Beam, know nothing

Is “just right” for very long

Everything moves on, the shudder

Of her pelvis in your hand

Rolling under summer stars

In the end zone or fishing

For Rainier six-packs in Petty Creek

And cruising those blind two-lanes

One hundred plus miles per hour

V-8 muscle, no safety

Belts, no Easy Pieces

Only Easy Riders and un-Fortunate

Sons trading in their balls

And warm-ups for lottery tickets

To southeast Asia, forget

County-fair teddy-bears won

At balloon darts or ring toss

Shoot for nostril rings of white powder

Kilos of Columbian weed and

Paranoia dressed in Grandma’s

Nightgown packing a pistol, too much

Coke is not enough cash, your old man

Hanging in Walker’s Early Times

With the Old Crow, don’t-cha-know

Those were the days, Man, long

Hair and longer nights, no bras

Black Panthers, uppity Graws

Wounded Knees and bloody prancers

Everywhere you looked Cha-Cha-Changes

Piled like dirty dishes and unmade beds

Left by spoiled white-kids like you

While men took bullets in the head

Wrapped in a righteous rhetoric

No one goes home again

No one ever leaves it

We’re born into nightmares

And dreams, chroniclers of the sweet

Bizarre, collectors, directors

Of our stories, our views, always

An ear out and an eye for

The comforts we choose to cozy up to

Be they bowls or beds

Or campfire flames licking the night

Holding back the dead

Its dark breath, teeth and eyes

Still, we’re dying to be

Surprised by jokes, ghosts

The orgasm of sonic booms—

Practice for kissing the wolf

Engine, engine #9

comin’ down the railroad line

I know he got on in Baltimore . . .

 

Roger Miller took me there

about the time the Orioles won

the Series, Dave McNally

Boog Powell, Jim Palmer, Frank

and Brooks, Old Earl Weaver

waddling to the mound

back when Johnny U

still threw bullets to Ray Berry

and the horseshoes were full of luck

enough for another Old Earl

“morale” to get it done

the glory years

before you appeared

 

Back then at the blooming

of your literary passion

black voices erupting in Amiri-ka

throwing off the invisible chains

Ellison and Baldwin told it

on the mountain, Langston

exploded into LeRoi’s dream

of Baraka Cassius Butterfly Ali

refusing to be tools, no

Viet Congs ever called them niggers

Gregory wrote Gwendolyn

Malcomb Martin King’s X

comin’ for to carry you home

 

Where you were born to the beating

wings of Ravens nevermore

knock-knock-knocking like Dylan

on Poe’s door or maybe

trying to score Ishmael’s weed

blow reed, seed, feed the hip

pocket green-felt, bank the four

put a little Irish topspin on it

and kiss Elvis still poppin’ pills

in the dim hallway’s red glow

from the “ME*S ROO*” neon

sign, his prostate dribbling

Bubba Ho-tep’s gown

as he rattles the sheets

racks and rolls nine balls

while Charlie Parker grabs a cue

chalks the tip cool, and bebop

blue Hawaiian ukes twang out

Scott Key’s poem on White

HorseShoe records, Billie Holiday

powderin’ her nose, slurring riffs

scratched and skipping

drained of neighborhood luck

but nobody gives a rat’s ass

nobody can buy diddle-fuck

or take the time to tack it back

up in the slums of Baltimore

or Browning or in the wind-

blown trailer parks of Buffalo

Wyoming where carcasses bloat

hanging twisted in barbed wire

strange fruit rotting, no trees, Hell

 

You can’t afford Magnolia

blossoms let alone pay

the Bills playing through blizzards

off Erie, keep shoveling coal

for your underground soul train

old number nine will be arriving on time

what you need to remember

my middle-aged line-breaking linebacker

friend on those long-cold nights

tramping on to a hauntingly

familiar refrain

when I am neither

and you are nor, given

you are still there and here

sucking air when hopefully I too

can still hear your beat, still

being here on my feet . . .

but you know that’s no never-mind

to this bit, this nugget?

fug-it, this is it—

 

Hold close to your own

particular music

follow the oddball ditties

rattling through your dreams

the tongue prattle recurring

whispered cracks of the whip

on the King-of-the-Road sized

love-knots lodged in your throat

one line, one poem, one person

or song—that voice

that carries you along, practice

does make all the difference

and no matter which road you take

a hundred and ten miles

ain’t much distance

comin’ down the old track

of your main time-line

but it sure do make a difference . . .

you gotta hang with it, man

’cause it’s your tune, be it

the blues or the news or

the goddamn color of your shoes

oh, I don’t think he loves me anymore

 

You can do anything or

nothing, know nothing, never be

but never is it wrong

going or doing or knowing

what you want, what you feel

you need, all roads

surely do make a difference

but all tracks circle back

to the Baltimore in you

leaving us here in Missoula

licking Betty Lou Berry dreams

and chanting for Buffalo

to return to Montana

where Raven first appeared

flying out of the black

pupil of a blue colt’s eye

 

no, I don’t think you love me anymore

 

—for Peter on the occasion of his 35^th birthday, thanks to Roger Miller

 

 

Mark Gibbons, occasional poet

June 27, 2013

I’m sorry

But it’s what we do

 

We bury each other

Every day

 

Somewhere

Mother, daughter, brother

 

Sister, father, son

Lover, another

 

Shocking reminder

We’re growing

 

Colder . . .

How old we are

 

When we stop

Breathing

 

Matters

As much as nothing

 

Matters anymore

When someone dies

 

And it’s someone

You know, someone

 

You love, we live

To die trying

 

To love

Dying to live

 

Today I’m sorry

Someone died

 

You loved, I will

Love living today