not so lonely blues

Stills-bride-of-frankenstein-19762014-1872-1442

ain’t got the blues

this mornin sun has

slanted through the blinds

 

ain’t got your blues

for lack-a money honey

so you kicks my behinds

 

ain’t got the blues

been snorin till my pussy

licked my nose

 

ain’t got the blues

I had for breakfast

when I refused to buy you rose

 

ain’t got no blues

a growin moldy fur

on my last orange peel

 

ain’t got no blues

little darlin hammerin

regret for a shit deal

 

ain’t got no blues

this afternoon that final

notice in my slot

 

no I ain’t got no blues

motherfucker a taste

of you is what I got

 

ain’t got the blues

this evenin naggin me

to comb my hair

 

ain’t got your blues

cuz my fuckin life

ain’t goin nowhere

 

ain’t got the blues

stuck in my throat from

gobblin bony trout

 

never got no blues

from any woman

who decided to eat out

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THE LOUNGE

photo by David J. Spear

photo by David J. Spear

Lawyers study here

Poets sleep

For inspiration

Dream lawyers

Surfing Santa Cruz

Or net neutrality

Poets savor

Coffee & bacon

Mornings

Hair on end

Pillow mussed

Ratty bed-clothes

Blue lawyers spin

Poets dreaming

Keats penning

Un-urned odes

Melancholy notes

Feathering musky

Fever soaked sheets

Lawyers lie

Naked and tied to

King-sized beds

Buy black leather

Wood-grained testimony

So help them God

Donated furniture

Oak & brass

To support

Sleepy poets

Dreaming justice

For all & peace

Given the chance

What Lennon asked

In Ghandi’s name

A twist of Irish

Knowing money

Can’t buy love

For broken benches

Let alone

Sandy beaches

Ginsberg to Darrow

Gaza to Graceland

American nightmares

Silent as the snow

At Wounded Knee

What we need

Why we fear

Dying

To laugh & breathe

So live it up

& let live

Since we’re here

Air conditioned

White on black

Leather chairs

In the lounge

Not hanging

On the streets

Of South Chicago

Or in Walnut

Trees wafting

In the winds

Of change . . .

Love is free

Or it isn’t

Love

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CAGED OLD BIRDS

 

great_blue_heron_15

The irascible old radical

cussing on the toilet

in the rest home

wasn’t John Muir, Bob Marshall,

or Robinson Jeffers,

but he lived in the wilderness

of his mind, a Buddhist

warrior who called Ginsberg

a cock-sucking Commie-Kike.

 

He knew he was losing

it and there was nothing

he could do. Anger

was his constant companion,

and he hated it, certain

the fucking game was rigged.

After sitting on the shitter

and mumbling for 10 minutes or so,

we asked if he needed anything.

 

He suggested we read poems,

so we obliged, stood outside

the opened bathroom door

and read him our verses

while he sat and shat,

praised and panned them

before drifting off again.

 

When finally we announced

we had to go, he stuck out

a hand we each took

and shook before leaving

him there hunched over,

eyes closed, the same posture

we’d found him in

nodding in his wheel chair

when we’d arrived an hour ago.

 

As I closed the door,

I wondered where he’d gone.

Perhaps back up into mountain air

to search for wolverine and lynx

there, or maybe he was living

a haiku in his head,

just floating out to sea.

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what it is

bar

the intimacy

of drinking at a bar

sitting on a stool

next to someone talking

and listening to you

it could be a friend

or someone you just met

but it’s like you

really believe in it

as some sacred honor

to the bullshit

honesty of spirit

hunched so close

in the afternoon

you need only whisper

as the bartender preps

for the night shift

when you’ll shoulder

closer yet to yell over

the stereo-cranked

hooking-up pool-table crowd

of course alcohol helps

intensify this fragmented

tryst clamoring to

create companionship

still it’s surprising

the philosophers

and scholars you meet

statisticians, politicians

fallen angels

and the streetwise

theologians smoking

weed cigarettes and hawking

blue pills to old men

chasing hot-rod dreams

it doesn’t matter to you

what tomorrow will bring

when your elbows are on the bar

and you’ve time and money

to spend in conversation

laughing and drinking

in the voice, the eyes

of a new old friend

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Letter To The Poet, Loriette

sheryl

for Sheryl Noethe

 

A quick note, Doll,

to lift you up,

to let you know

you are The Shit.

You really represent

it, poetry, the generosity,

the exploding heart

and the pure human disease

of fear swimming deep

in the marrow of our bones.

 

A poet’s job is to speak

the truth

as they know it

at any given moment

in the pulse of sunrise

or in the shrill glare

of their own blindness.

 

The poet’s task

is to capture the glib

grail and the drunken tool.

The biggest challenge

for a decorated

representative of poetry

is in negotiating

the minefield of proper behaviors

and that stormy sea of cold

steely eyes peering down

long noses to insist you dance

blandly to their off-key

chamber-choir-minuet—

then bow falsely

to collect your ball and chain.

 

You know my advice, Lori,

for a poet pressured

to politely pose under wreath,

cloaked in perfumed

political robes, and told to smile

and wave with lips closed—

Dearest, just tell them

to go fuck themselves.

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HIPPIES

hippies

often made fun of

labeled immature

spoiled children

immoral freeloaders

drug addled

out of control

taxing resources

and wasting time

hippies defied the rules

in a very short while

they changed the world

psychedelics allowed them to see

everything is connected

man woman blood stone

flowing dimensionally

light soul love home

red yellow black and white

everything is one

pulsing wave slim pickens

waving buck naked

astride big bang

out of chute number two

a raging hard-on

clutched in his gripper

hippies knew

but didn’t care

they were a joke

to the power structure

they danced and smiled

kept getting fucked

up on fun tickets

so something had to be done

and they were really easy

to kick the shit out of

but the bully always begs

a hero a movement

a call for justice

a fucking war

social revolution

turning on

tuning in

and dropping out

sparked many fires

that scorched the asses

of the white-males

who owned the world

hippies opened the door

authority tried to slam shut

but alice had taken

us down the rabbit hole

and through the looking grass

to what was behind the hanging

clothes in the back closet

our fear of the unknown

was just that

rush of adrenaline

before the new journey begins

because it’s all a trip

one and the same

it’s all discovering

our atomic relativity

love is energy

man and woman brother

black cop or white

mothers let’s begin

a new foreign policy

exchanging acid for guns

the hippies made love

not war their minds were blown

they could see

and there was no way

they could continue

playing by the old rules

keep doing the bidding

or pulling the triggers

for frightened aggressive

dogmatically entrenched

old men determined

to hold out against change

ignoring the seasons

and denying cemeteries

those goddamned hippies

found the key that fit

pandora’s secret box

the one she hid under her bed

full of giggling and fucking

and funny little phrases

like do your own thing

and love the one you’re with

come on people now

smile on your brother

all you need is love

so just love one another

love is all there is

call it god the universe

endless love is free

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oldpoet.gone

The_Persistence_of_Memory

He squints at receding snow

up Hellgate canyon. Blue sky,

the raven has returned, insists he go

outside, offer up his skeletal

remains. The poet watches

warily from his dark cave,

ponders the ethics of suicide,

that emergency exit left to us

when the house is burning down.

It’s a comfort to know that

door’s not locked. He’s a telegram

stopped in an on-line world.

The poet’s grown tired of cigarettes

and pain, swallowing words that have lost

their bite. An old bear starves

when his teeth are gone.

Night will come, the clouds, the rain.

Rilke, the pills are on the TV tray

quiet under unpaid bills.

He watches the door. There’s no question

it will open some day. Maybe tomorrow

his daughter will come, fill the white space

beyond the dash. The poet lives, but sleep’s

all he desires. His cane rests,

propped against the bed or chair,

should the moon stir his blood to throb,

call him to stand, turn the knob and choose.

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CONDOLENCES

 

 

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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

 

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DICK BOWLER

 

brautigan

the spray stain of blood

and brains on the window pane

reminded him of home

 

penis popcorn

family apples

poisoned

or not

haunt the empty

bowls collecting dust

in cold or hot

cluttered rooms

inside your head

where you reside

unable to find

the exit

the stairwell

to take you down

to your heart

your gut

the bowels clenched

against your cock

swelling

out of control

locked out

of the basement

elevator stuck

on the top floor

till the power goes out

nobody knows

where it goes

when olive oil

pokes her head out

of the medicine cabinet

maybe you blow

into the roots

to sweeten the apples

or a black rose

certainly fertilize

the family tree

more branches to prune

dirt to sift

you dig

fill the bowls

the bowels

your cluttered mind

juggling game

times and deadlines

heedless as bluto

or brautigan still dead

and headless

on the floor

of shelly duval’s

apartment

his willow stick

fishing pole

charcoal tipped

from roasting wieners

like the glistening

one she watches you

pull by hand

like popeye opening

a can of spinach

before it’s too late

before the dreams

and the day-shift

writhe to coagulate

clot and dry into

one two three

strikes you’re out

no balls no skin

no legacy only this

pile of parchment

and maggots etching

a hemingway end

identical parties

for the bald twins

bawling out

wimpy for stealing

freaking the fucking

trout out

about discovering

love cannot be

caught nor won

written into a yes

because love just is

until it’s not

and how your throbbing

cock got involved

is the old wolf

in sheepskin

but wolves need to eat

kids to take care of

their nibbling and nipping

pups pawing and yipping

prowling the woods

like dick howling for willard

to pull in another

bowling trophy

to pull off another strike

pick up the spare

in that final frame

pull the trigger

kill the light

and end the poem

the bat-boy’s feast

this all-you-can-eat

maggot ball

step up to the plate

and swing away

one two three

strikes your out brawling

balling and crawling again

in that old ball game

batter-up load-‘em-up

number forty-four

let her roll nothing

doing no score

what is that stench

you have no stomach

for you hurry to the shutters

let some light in and watch

your step it seems

like somebody spilled

a bowl of tapioca

pudding on the floor

but it sounds more like

egg shells as you cross

the room panicked

for air an open window

you can only imagine

the smell of silence

ringing in your ears

drowned out by

the roar of hundreds

thousands

of blue-black flies

buzzing still

nobody’s home

 

for Gatz and Richard Brautigan

 

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DAY OF THE DEAD DREAM

 

dead wire

I visited Uncle Paul last night

At his house in Dillon, a dream so real

I was shaken upon waking

In the early morning dark

To find him gone as my mom,

Again. The soft-muffled, warm

 

Tone of his voice was reassuring as

The smile that framed it. And this

Was after Aunt Sukie had died, when

He lived alone. Even then he was

The perfect host, as if the effort to please

His guests could help distract for awhile

The absence in his chest, his day,

His bed—an aching hole

The whole dream of her couldn’t fill.

 

She was still with him (but not with him)

All of the time . . . at breakfast, at night

When he woke alone and called out,

Crawled out of bed, turned on the lights

And searched every room, hoping

To find her ghost waiting there—

In the basement, the pantry, the hall closet,

On the stairs, wherever she was at—

He wanted to bring her back

Or follow her away, leave

His charred landscape, return to verdant days.

 

He knew it was silly, maybe even a little strange

To some that her housecoat still hung

Behind the bathroom door. Like her hair

In the brush lying on their dresser, he clung

To her sweaters in the closet and her blouses

And coats—the aroma of her clothes—her breath

And skin held in his nose. When his legs failed,

 

They moved him to assisted living

Where he resided till his body finally quit.

How does a broken heart keep beating

For ten years? I bet if we drove

Down to Dillon on the Day of the Dead,

Uncle Paul would be kneading

Bread on the kitchen table

And waltzing in the dining room

In a cloud of flour dust

With that wiry haired girl of his dreams.

 

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