The Billiard Bones Blues

old school photographer, pool player, bar tender, not to be fucked with or caught on digital camera.

Lee Nye played the sticks last night,

Brought his musical pool cues he’d designed himself

To demonstrate on my basement table. His bones,

As he called them, were works of art, and as you might guess,

The son-of-a-bitch could play. Like a jazz musician,

He’d roll them on the felt, wobble thumping the table,

His ID bracelet jangling on a skinny, tanned wrist,

Leathery foosball fingers coaxing notes

From his kit, delicately lifting each stick.

One was simply warped, the tip curved in a long arc,

But the other was handcrafted, a voodoo wand,

an artful snooker/tambourine/Maraca bass,

Its butt skewed at an angle of fifteen

Degrees to get that Whump when he’d roll

His totem pole on the slate. Halfway up the shaft

It was bracketed with rollers and beads

Pinned to swiveling rings. A latticed cylinder

Of caged marbles, six drilled and tethered dice

Adorned the tip to dance beneath two tiny cymbals.

He maneuvered his bones mostly with one hand,

Not that he had to—it was just his style.

So he played, those gloriously warm pool hall tones:

Balls clicking, knocking, slamming and dropping

Into pockets, smacked and thudding bank shots,

Occasional cue balls launched and bouncing the floor,

Clattering sticks, clinking glass, all woven under a cloud

Of cigarette smoke, the ganked scratch and curse,

The squeak of shooters re-chalking their cues

Then tapping tips against rails, tables and stools—

Butts thumping the floor before calling a run—

Nye conjured up all this fun in a sweet percussive song,

His bushy brow relaxing was the coda-de-creme,

And I applauded, hailed him the inventor of an art form.

He laughed, bowed. You could tell he was proud

And loved the praise, loved playing for me, but tough-

Brusquely insecure, he waved it off, reminding me

Of Clark Gable, arms crossed, leaning against the table,

A cocky grin, his cap tipped back like a leading man,

A guy who could’ve been in The Hustler,

Could’ve rattled Fast Eddie or racked up Fats.

Believe me, you would’ve loved Lee Nye’s table act—

Dreamy beat-jazz genius of the cue stick melody.


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The Old Poet Sees the White Man

                       for Vic Charlo

Two stools down, two white guys

rebuild – sheet rock and tape – the house

they’d worked on all day, tossing

back pints of Miller beer. Beyond them

an elderly couple sit chewing

on burgers, still collared up warm

in their polyester coats – two cigarettes

burning in the ash tray between them.

Not a regular, but not a stranger,

the old poet orders a burger and glass

of Guinness, props his cane between his knees,

cracks open a peanut and nibbles

on the fruit, lets the shells fall

among the husks piling on the floor.


The door opens and an Indian woman enters.

All heads turn, pause, and return.

She walks past them, the length of the bar,

her gait smooth and sure as a cat’s,

disappears in the direction of the rest rooms

or the alley exit. One bartender washing

glasses nods knowingly at the other guy

flipping burgers. On TV, Dallas, America’s

Team, battles the Redskins for bragging

rights – top dog of the NFL cellar.


The old poet recalls a sweat he took years ago

up Spring Creek, catches himself humming

a song – Charlo’s Walking Bear.

The polyester smoker points out to his woman

an all-Irish Butte baseball team in the gallery

on the back wall, laughs, coughs and rasps,

“Down in Finn Town we hammered those Micks.”

The dishwashing bartender grins, pours

the Finn couple free beers on the house.

One of the carpenters kills his pint, raps

the empty hard on the counter, and stands up

to stretch his legs, “No shit,” he says,

“every fuckin’ board – twisted as a cork screw!”

The bartender laughs, grabs a fresh glass,

tilts it under the tap, and draws another brew.


The Indian woman comes back, appears

headed out the door, but pulls up

next to the poet – who gives her a smile

she doesn’t return. She digs in her pockets,

drops coins on the bar, and unwads two

crumpled bills. The bartender keeps rinsing glasses.

His ears, then his eyes acknowledge the money.


He wipes his hands, asks flatly, “Whatta ya need?”

The old poet sees smoke, bleached bones,

black wings cross her face, framed

in the back bar mirror. “Ya got cigarettes?”

she asks quietly, “Marlboro menthols?”

He pulls a box of regular filters from the case.

“Menthols,” she says. Slowly, he grabs another

brand, shows her, says, “Four and a quarter.”

Her hands close on the mound of cash.

“Four and a fucking quarter?” she asks.

Holding the pack up, halfway over the bar,

he warns, “Hey! Watch your mouth.”

Grabbing her change and mumbling, “Goddamn

robbers,” she turns and lunges out the door.


The bartender returns the pack of smokes

to the case, blank faced – his one eye twitches.

Nobody’s talking. Then the Cowboys score.

Happy Hour begins, and the bartender

pours. The poet’s burger is up. The old couple

moves over to the keno machines. America’s

Team pulls out an overtime squeaker.

As the carpenters get back to nailing it down,

the old poet chews slowly, nurses his beer,

and glances at the white man

eating crow in the mirror.

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Oscar Wilde, 1882. LEHTIKUVA / EVERETT COLLECTION / Jerry Tavin

i do appreciate you

my friend

and your poems too


your directness

is the key

that honesty


will get your ass

in trouble


dancing in the bullshit

bubble of decorum


but you’re a poet

just doing your job

making the world


a little more


with its comfortable



and tidy conformities


it’s up to us

to write it down


not let it go

it’s up to us

to speak


out against or for

it’s about freedom

and love my friend

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The Rolling Stones

In concert

Was no excuse

But since I couldn’t

Get stoned

For the show

Risk pot in my piss

I decided I could

Drink whiskey instead

I don’t know why

I thought I could

But I did

And I did


What hurts the most

Isn’t the broken glass

In my head

The sickness

Or the lumps and bruises

It’s knowing

I ruined your night

Front row seats

To the biggest shebang

We’ll ever see

And you were stuck

With a drunk

Asshole like me

Who mauled you

And worse

Embarrassed you


How can you

Forgive me again

The wild turkey

I promised to kill

Nothing frightens me more

Than knowing

I’ve disappointed you

I am lost in those woods

A worthless

Piece of shit

Again the fool

The sad fool . . . again

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rose hill blues

    chorus 52

funny you should mention

them ol clickity-clack blues

i been rollin round with dr. sax

searchin for my walkin shoes


so its funny you should mention

you got that hobo moan a-goin

cause ol master jack he cracked

them railroad blues stoned


and he spun it for the ding-dang-dung

punny fun of it, spent his dues

pulled his daisy with bowery bums

who dug his high-ballin blues


it’s funny how it rattles the panes

and slam-bams you to sleep, switchin

trains, bells and whistles in your black-rain

dream, empty bottle in hand, fingers twitchin


i’ll be damned if it ain’t funny how

that beat-hip trip rolls round again

and the bluesmen join up singin

in boxcars robert johnson hymns


brother we’re all takin for a ride

we’re all born to sing a kind of blues

that’s why we love trains in the night

that’s why we refuse to choose


just lay down, listen and snooze, lose

ourselves like kids tucked-in on rose hill

listenin, schemin to hitch and sing

bobby mcgee or maybe woody guthrie will


set us free as reds in the land of white

kerouacian mimics tippin back a pint bottle  

like blue-black runners powderin the night

and casey jones speedin dead at full throttle

                for Jack

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A Jug of Cranberry Juice

today’s a day to celebrate

don’t give a fuck

open up those pearly gates

do something really stupid

poke the bear

push your fucking luck

buy a bottle of irish whiskey

and a quarter ounce of cocaine

pretend you know shit from shinola

lebanese from moroccan hash

be alf that big-mouthed

alien cowboy on the town

hog-head machine operator

raised by outlaw wolves

a zappa-joe gigolo

giddy-up-gimp on rubber toes

a dead ringer for

ray charles in shades

asshole extraordinaire

the king of pain

navigated the vodka train

after too many whiskey derailments

so i raise my voice a glass

to one of a kind

a bitter pill and true friend

finally on the move again

traveling at the speed of light

for Keith

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Is a gay black man

Who loves women and Muslims and Jews.

My Jesus got off

That slivered cross some

Two thousand years ago, rolled away

His stone and went back to smoking

Behind the Salvation Army thrift store.

Sometimes my Jesus is a Dick

Like Richard Nixon,

“Don’t do as I do. Do as I say.”

Grab your boot straps and get along

Little Commies. My Jesus

Thinks Christmas is an obscene

Consumer orgy. If he believed in Hell,

That’s where the richest

Assholes would be.

My Jesus swears

That churches are heartless as nails

Or stone, pinched claws

Determined to line out wild souls.

My Jesus believes

In freedom, balloons, and hypocrisy

Some of the time. He walks

The talk and like my sister

Falls down a lot, but

My Jesus gets up again

Because he’s a man,

And getting up is what men love to do.

My Jesus has balls

Enough to call bullshit

On all that whack he’s credited for—

Like walking on water

And rising from the dead.

My Jesus knows the power of story,

He’s seen it deployed with guns

And grins again and again.

My Jesus dreams we’ll grow

Tired of killing each other,

Grow tired of feeling afraid

And learn to live gently

Until we retire, until

We return to our subatomic selves.

My Jesus knows

The kingdom of Heaven

Is inside my head

Next door to the serfdom of Hell.

And sometimes some days

He rides my melancholy tsunami

Over steeples and freeways,

Funerals and white sales,

Hurtling bruised and broken

Onto stinking mudflats, bankrupt

As the American Dream,

Tears blurring the blue moons

Of his eyes, the stars in my night

Sky—bright rimmed puddles, dark

Rings of light. My Jesus

Celebrates the mornings I wake

Up. We both imagine he dies

With me. My Jesus doesn’t pretend

To know what will happen.

He’s just happy to be. My Jesus

Is the king of vulnerability—

He’s all about love and service,

Responsibility, for him

There’s no judgment day.

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In Butte

Clouds hang low

As Wobbly agitators

Suspended like saucers,

Whole plates of mashed potatoes,

Or maybe platters, paint palettes

Your mother might have dreamed up

To mix the dark oil she splayed

Across nightmarish canvas . . .


Like the cigar smoking mule

That suffocated you while

He rhymed in the caved-in

Stopes of your mind,

The repeated promise of

Eternal harps and gowns, blind

Hopes spun by heavenly clowns

Who claimed they saved Evel

From burning. Joe Hill


Still waits at the pearly gates,

St. Peter is a company man . . .

Frank Little’s playing poker

With Clarence Darrow out front,

Sees you trying to sneak by

With your prayer shawl on.

Recognizing your long ears

And Bowler hat, Joe Hill coughs up

The blood of Christ, refuses to go


To Hell. No cigar, Frankie smokes

Like a presto-log, pulls two jokers

From his sleeve, so Darrow raises

Hell—tells Pete to kiss his ass.

He knows who holds the kings

Of copper hostage, but the fools will trade

Their teeth for rosaries, booze,

Or dentures that don’t fit. The lowest level

Keeps changing like clouds—now bowls


Of oatmeal topped with Sweet and Low.

Today everything smacks of you,

Ed, in this blue sky above me. Like Daedalus

Or Marianne Moore, toads croaking

In their imaginary gardens, this blue

“Bird” is winging it, singing it

Because he can, because he’s flying high

Once again over the labyrinth he sees below.

Unfortunately . . . he cannot land.


            In memory of Ed Lahey

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podunk no horse

you know this place

peeled paint picked flakes

and rusted hay rakes

anchored in duff and shrouded

in weeds the moist smell

of earth in your nostrils

kissing the dirt and smoking

snake grass talking to the notorious

absent you keep coming back to

know you never leave the rutted alleys

at least highway 10 is paved

over and under the railroad tracks

that define your longing east of west

your existence north of south

where kids climb the mountain

and mimic the world wars

construction fire sex that landscape

development parents can’t see

where you explore the spooky forest

massively overgrown and glacially

boulder strewn a creepy quiet

dark mystery of black birds and

bears south down to the river

where you swim in your shit

suckers lying on fishy mud banks

masturbating in the sun

you live for fun whatever

that is on the wrong side

of the tracks by the bum jungle

where hobos camp in scrap

shanties built into the steam train

roundhouse foundations in

the campfire dark of the water tower

where it’s always fall or early

spring matted dead grass

sweatshirt or jacket-cool weather

nose-dripping melancholy

forever this is home to you

the lonelier the better

a comfort zone of observation

muted tones rewound some

instinctive knowing nothing is clear

cycles of history life love death

fear helps but can’t explain

the rosary laced between your dead

grandfather’s fingers dad’s rage

your mother’s voice in your ear

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He lies supine

on top of the covers,

hands on his belly,

beard trimmed,

eyes closed,

the rise of his chest

suggesting sleep,

so I watch him

breathe for awhile.

Usually when I touch

his knee, slowly

he opens his eyes

and says, “Hey, Buddy,

it’s good to see ya.”

But today at my touch

he almost jumps

off the bed,

and I laugh,

both of us scared

half-to-death. I say,

“Sorry, Ed.

I didn’t mean to

give you a heart attack.”

“That’s okay,” he says,

his eyes clouded

milky-blue. When

I take his hand,

he gives me a firm grip.

We shake and squeeze

and shake some more.

He holds on, won’t let go . . .

which is unusual

for him. Often he gives

the fish-fingers, limp,

barely a response,

but today his hand

seems to beg me to stay.

I ask if he can see me,

and he says he can,

but his eyes look

blank to me, far away.

We talk about friends

and poems. I ask

who else he’s seen

or heard from lately.

“Not a soul,”

his standard response,

so I tell him I’m going

to Washington D.C.

for a poetry gig

with Gimp O”Leary.

“That should be fun,”

he says—deadpan.

His eyes close

as I ramble on

about poetry and me.

He comes and goes,

riding the tide of

my pauses and

inflections. Finally

I tell him I’d better leave

and let him get back

to that dream

I plucked him from.

He smiles and agrees,

takes my hand again,

a slight squeeze.

When I turn back

at the door to catch

another glimpse of him

before I go, I note

how good he looks:

resting, clean and groomed

like a corpse waiting

for a coffin. I can’t help

but smile at the irony

of the lunch tray

on the table next to him.

After all those tough

years—breakfast in bed—

Ed finally had room

service, and all the time

he needed to dream.

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