The Poetry of Mark Gibbons

They’re a waste of time.

Admit it.

You fucked up,

Naturally.

Trial and error,

It’s what we do.

Hopefully it won’t be

The last Row-Day-Oh

If you’re lucky.

Your last waltz,

That last dance,

The last best

Goddamn chance

At anything

Is here, now, so take it.

No fucking regrets.

over the transom

under the porch

he lost his balls

she lit her torch

the rats scattered

the seeds are sown

another privileged

asshole is born

most likely white

american too

a prodigal ticket

to the land of the few

security devices

six figures of shame

censor the media

welfare’s to blame

over the scaffold

under the skin

dark children ache

in the shadows of men

Like a Rolling Stone

she strode to the podium,

her ponytail swishing,

black eyes snapping,

she reared and nipped, flashed

teeth, her tongue-tip licked

her lips before she spit

out the poem that ignited

the dry grass in the dead field,

turned the corral fence

to charcoal poles

and sent the stallions stampeding

for the timber, lathered

and ecstatic, penises

batting against their thighs.

She nickered and stomped,

would not be denied.

Her nostrils flared.

She felt the wind in her hair,

and the audience wept, shattered,

found their feet and hands—

wild horses couldn’t drag her away.

She could not be bridled,

and the only saddle she’d wear

she carried in her bones every day.

—for Sheryl Noethe

I don’t know about you, Joe, but I
try to be clever in most conversations:
swapping stories with the warehouse-boys
at work, or talking rock-n’-roll trivia
to my teenage sons; bullshitting friends
I don’t see as often as I’d like,

and (always) when I sit down to write.
I read other poets and admire
their cleverness, surprising details,
a whistling ability to keep me laughing
while they walk me through the dark.

I’m not impressed or entertained by poems
that hinge upon a studied knowledge of the classics.
That kind of cleverness usually bores me (or pisses me off)
like an inside joke I have to learn to get –
a goddamn research project –
when all I want is an honest song, bloody & lusty.

No one farts or fucks in those literary cantos,
though the allusions may be there
if you’d care to explicate & analyze:
“Apollo’s swift sword cuts the wind.”
And here I am being witty again

at the expense of my academic brethern.
I sit in the cheap seats & take pot shots
at those fair-haired, hard-backed-first-edition
canon-ites who’ve made poetry what it is today:
un-common, incorrigible, & aloof. Balls I say!
Poetry needs more beans, more bananas & more beer.

Gimme a Whitman, a Bukowski, or a Jim Harrison
poem, something earthy or dirty with guts –
like a foxy Jimi Hendrix tune. Let it swing & scream,
let it prance & wink, make every syllable count.
I want it to bury me like my father’s death.

That’s the poem I want. Clever or not,
just make it real; touch me; make me sweat.
I want to remember what you can’t forget.
I want to feel it, I want to breathe it,
I want to bleed it & believe . . .
that somehow I am this poem.

– for JimBo & Joe Mama

working again

trading your life

for money

delivery

driving and stopping

picking up and dropping

plotting your route

watching the clock

traffic lights

braking for the oblivious

idiot behind the wheel

on his cell and listening to

Dylan watching the river

flow, now, you sit eight deep

in the left turn lane

on Broadway waiting for

the green arrow

when you spy an older woman

shuffling along the sidewalk

in front of the aging brick

motel across the street, circa

1950, her right arm extended

to feel for wall, door, or

window air conditioner, whatever’s

solid, her makeshift handrail

every other slow-mo step

her fingers or palm touches then

pushes off, her left arm tightly

cradles something in a paper bag

to her breast, as she reaches

her room door cracked open

she disappears in the dark

when an ’86 Chevy Blazer

pulls into the lot

then backs into the first

diagonal parking spot

off the street, quick and slick

like he’s done it a time or two

a couple with handicapped plates

the driver gets out, shuts

his door less than six zippity-feet

from the motel room

he enters without much trouble

doesn’t look back

his biggest handicap

appears to be obesity

when the passenger

door opens and a woman

slowly slides out

he’s already inside

she closes the door to feel

her way along the Blazer

coming around the nose

you note the glazed belly

of her zip-up hoodie, lime-green

and her blue pajama bottoms

with white silhouettes of

bunnies and carrots

but her feet steal the style-show

those zebra-striped zipper-

slippers make you smile, say

oh, baby, you know what I like

when the light changes

you drive away

assume she followed him inside

to continue their day like you

just trying to get to some

kind of social security

as soon as you can

if you’re lucky enough

to make it that far, maybe

there’ll be a Sleepy Inn

with cable and a bottomless pot

of Boyd’s in the office

some retro accommodation

your age where the women

outnumber the men

two to one, and all the ice

you can scoop is free

where they’ll run you a tab

for liquor, put it on your weekly

bill, and deliver till midnight

any day of the year

I guess it’s okay

to “shit myself” a little bit,

go ahead & let my cynical guard down,

slip into a sentimental sweater

& listen to Nat & Bing croon

about sleigh bells or snow, play

into the whole “peace” & “good will” trip,

the golden rule, believe in

Christ & the power of love

(at least for one night) stay away

from whiskey & bird dogging

the mistletoe, maybe even pray

or say “thank you” or something like that.

I don’t know . . . ,

but I think it’s possible

that this ludicrous circus

we all perform in,

Ladies & Gentlemen!

could be the greatest fucking show on Earth

(next to the Rolling Stones, of course)

the greatest goddamn story ever told,

See the Amazing Marco Jesus

nosedive into the retail season! Amen.

There’s no denying my nostalgia –

Santa’s got me by the jingle balls,

& I could care less about debt,

extravagance or VISA Hell.

Just hum Frosty, Rudolf, the Little Drummer

Boy. I want to wallow in myth-shit,

magic, soak up the joys of those Yuletide

stories when I was a kid,

rum-pum-pum pum,

when everybody loved everything I did,

those roiling Christmas memories,

both sweet & sour . . .  my tongue licking

at sticky fingers & salty tears.

I’ll open one more Guinness

tonight, get in touch

with my old man’s ghost,

won’t go to a bottle of 86

or wrestle with Nine Mile Bill,

push an asshole-friend through glass.

No. No celebrations

for my mother, 89,

who just got the news

of cancer in her spine

& everywhere else.

So I turn to my dad

who got it from his,

the alcoholic response

to all of life’s curves,

high & inside or right

down the pike. Curses

& joys were always toasted

with a touch, a taste of the spirits

(meaning: don’t waste a drop,

drink it all till it’s gone—

& you’re pissed to the gills).

This is what I’ll carry

closest to my heart on my way

to the grave: the memories of

my mother & me talking

at the kitchen table

about my dad dead-

drunk in the bed

& the hateful shit he said

to her & me. She made sure

I knew that wasn’t my father,

the man we loved in there—

it was the boozy devil

inside all sad men.

She showed me it’s women

(not Atlas) who hold up the world

through innate loyalty

& terrible tenderness—

that fight-to-the-death

instinct of a she-wolf.

Tonight I salute my mom

with the bitter weakness

of my dad, tell her I love her

& thank her again

for teaching me how

to handle the trouble of living—

& how to talk with women.

—for my mother, Fern

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