9585. HAMMER KLAVIER

HAMMER KLAVIER

Here's the yellow fellow again, who says he

won't go there : a textbook ordinary example

of 'fool.' The kind you learn about in school.

He's sitting here by me at this roundtable bar

insisting on going over every snippet of this

cord he's running with. 'It. it's 50 years old,

you know, now, 50 years man they came out

with Sgt. Pepper.' I just nod (Jeez I fuckin'

hate that record I remember, and I can't even

remember if he's right : is it Pepper , as he

says, or was it Pepper's. I realize I'm really

too tired to care). 'Yeah, I say. My third wife

was born that very day. When I ran off with

her her mother said 'Daddy, our baby's gone.'

And old Pops just shrugged (he was my age,

you see) and said, 'She's leaving home, bye, bye.'

-

Yeah, so then the guy gets up from the the table

and walks away; comes back with this stupid

book that has like every Beatle song, anything 

at all that has to do with the 50-year old album. 

What this meant, who was wearing what and 

sitting where, how this or that idea came to 

be, in what ways the music was tweaked and 

recorded over itself, all that. Let's call it

'minutiae.' As in mutiny? Trifling mattes 

of the craft. Tiredness. Mundane.

-

'About this 'Blackburn, Lancashire,' my fine 

fellow, exactly how many holes were there?'

9584. I BEEN HAD

I BEEN HAD

My Manager duped me when he said I 

was great, I was nothing and he really 

knew it. I figured not to dwell on it, and

I just moved on. They're a dime a dozen

anyway. When I checked him out, I was

actually surprised. His father been a

purloined colonel in 'this man's army,'

as they used to put in the 1950's. You'd

get to hear that a lot  -  I figured some

sort of code-phrase for gay. But they

didn't really have that then. Whatever.

I never even knew what a 'purloined'

anything was, let alone a colonel. It

kind of just means stolen, really. So,

what's to be made of that? And then, 

one time, I actually met his mother,

who was like 92 at the time. She was

somewhat bent over and spoke with a

slur  -  decidedly accented, but a slur

none the less. I had trouble with that 

one too. I thought a slur was when you,

say, talk someone down, or speak badly

of them. More code words. But she wasn't

slurring me,  -  didn't really even have a

clue nor know why I was there. It was, he

said, that she just 'slurred' her speech. After

a stroke or something. Dementia abrococcix.

I think that's what he said. She kept saying

she was Joan of Arc who was really the

mother of Mother Theresa. And boy, that

got confusing too. There was a point I

just wanted to go. I had no clue what 

she was doing.

-

So. I started out saying about my Manager.

What kind of manager can it be though, who

brings you to visit his demented mother in a

cat-camp filled with demented others?

9583. LEARNING TO ROLL

LEARNING TO ROLL

This time in hell has the jump on

the Drunken Boat. Weaving together

an alacrity of time, a bestiary of

momentary facts, and a clear madness

of changing weather. Maybe I'll

end in France myself.

-

With a swimboard beneath each 

arm, and a madeleine or a baudelaire

or whatever that stuff is called, in my

face. Walking a bridge of tempestuous

delight. I wonder, do they sell now 

macaroons? Or was that just Macron?

-

Oh well, even saliva can be deadly if 

you've got a disease. Walk with me,

lady, we can talk all this over,

all the way home.

9582. ONLY ONCE I WORE WHITE

ONLY ONCE I WORE WHITE

:And it wasn't at your wedding:

We tumbled through the flower beds and

the guy who ran the banquet hall got all 

pissed off about that one  -  frogs in 

the wine vat, or something, blaming us. 

I said - 'Hey, Bud, twenty minutes ago 

that was water. You're lucky I came 

along.' Then the ringmaster came in

blasting acorns with a spoon. 'I never

saw that before. What's if for?' He said

'Don't know yet, it's a trick I only just

learned on the way here.' 

-

He took me aside for a smoke, and

asked, 'What do you do for a living?'

I said, 'I write absurdist poetry. How

about you?' He smiled and said,

'Yeah, me too!'

9581. IF I HESITATE

IF I HESITATE

If I hesitate a moment it's

just to catch my breath and

then move on. I hear there's

a wartime coming. One more

cup of coffee 'fore I go? Walk

me out in the morning dew, my

honey. All that stuff. I can't

shake nothing anymore.

9580. THE LIST WILL FAIL BUT THE SEQUENCE WILL HOLD

THE LIST WILL FAIL BUT THE

SEQUENCE WILL HOLD

And it's always like that  -  things retain

form long after the function is gone. The

old locomotive in the weeds can tell you

stories. We have found lost dances of

the 30's in our dreaming.

9579. HEY!

HEY!

It's not that you're right or wrong; it's just

that you're in the wrong place and time .

You can't find the lost perspective if you're

head's in the current zone.  Just as I can't

understand your words, you can't read my

writing. Cuneiform and ad-speak do not

mix. I eat Akkadian for breakfast.

-

There are snaps and kernels and seeds

that blossom what you've never seen : the

past always lives on, of only to negate the

pale present. New and different colors

grow on limbs from my tree of life.

9578. AND NOW THAT I'VE GOT A BUNDLE

AND NOW THAT I'VE 

GOT A BUNDLE

I'm as rich as I ever thought I'd be. 

More, actually. Sitting around this

campfire gulch just thinking of where 

I've been : A dumb, poor kid from

nowhere, having to grow up, adolescent,

among the rich and the powerful. Those

with all the connections and manners. The

dining in Spring Lake and Rhode Island.

The cars, with their fine sisters inside, as

beautiful as a boxer's fist forever clenched.

I wasn't faking, because I couldn't fake

it, just had to learn real fast. Monogrammed

cloth napkins while sitting down to dine

at a long refectory table. Discipline.

Monkey-games. Money. I've got

one million put aside, but that's

just it. For the rest of my days.

And not just me, mind you.

-

People think I'm full of shit. Maybe they're

right, and I wouldn't know. All I can do is attest 

to myself. Really though, you can't assent to 

a fabrication. Because you just wind up

forgetting which parts you made up.

'The truth will out,' as the saying goes,

so that's all I ever tell. 

9577. KEEP YOUR POWDER IN RESERVE

KEEP YOU POWDER 

IN RESERVE

So silence is the word we want : I've studied

psychological intentions and realize only now

what the man wanted was not what he got.

It's in how we grow  -  a personal make-up.

Being. Glory. Laid low.

-

Here, once back a few years, I'll make

recollection of 15 degrees, early morning

dead as cold, cold as dead. The girl, Ophelia,

maybe, (I forget all those stylish names) she 

let me in the locked backdoor of the coffee

shop, just not to see me freeze. I suppose

there were other places I could have gone.

-

But it was way too early. I even had my own key

to the bookshop, but I never wished to get there

so early as to become suspicious. All that unknown

space, and all that suspicious race. Instead, so,

I stayed there happy. Hate the sin, love the sinner.

(Or however ways that goes).

9576. MISS GOLDBERG SEES THE SATYR

MISS GOLDBERG 
SEES THE SATYR

It's so funny, scenes like this don't happen

everyday. Pan and his flute. All those beings

with their cloven hooves. Ha. Hoof! Titillation

needing proof. Poof! There it is. This little

fellow has a five-day erection.

Need I say more?

9575. KUNDALINI

KUNDALINI
(this dog does not like fireworks)

Who ate the snake, and where

did it go? I've tried staying centered.

I've tried watching on stars, focused

with my unfocused mind, and then 

leveled the world around me into a

flat planar space. All those labels you

speak of, they came tumbling down.

9574. WINTON FARMS TREE-RIPENED MILK

WINTON FARMS 

TREE-RIPENED MILK

'Yep, and that's the only kind I drink,'

he said, eating his free-range pizza. 'Ya'

never know any more what goes into yer' 

food, exactly, and can't be too careful.' I

wanted to agree, just because I was so tired

of always disagreeing with everything people

said. 'Yes, I understand. Have you ever tried

the recycled toilet paper they sell here? Not

to put it too roughly, but it goes on easy.'

9573. DECIDING TO STAY

DECIDING TO STAY

It may have been time. Maybe.

1975. I decided to stay : drunk for

three days, foul for four more. I

slithered the street like a madman

disguised as nothing. Sleeping on

the steps at St. Thomas Church,

with the three other madmen nearby.

The noisiest things in my life that week

were the bottles tumbling down from

the old stone steps. The kid from Indiana,

on the other hand, died in his sleep,

and we all had to disperse.

9572. HOW COME A BIRD...

HOW COME A BIRD...

Life is a mish-mash, a shudder of concept,

a bouquet, merely of things we accept,

and assume as correct. Why isn't a bird 

considered disabled because it has no 

arms? Why aren't we considered disabled

because we have no wings?

9571. WISE COTTON IN THE ASPIRIN BOTTLE

WISE COTTON IN 

THE ASPIRIN BOTTLE

I realize I don't really know much of anything

about myself : how I got this old, I do not know.

I remain uncomfortable with this life, nervous and

shy and squeamish. There are things I've never

gotten over. Childhood stuff, I guess. I do not

know what it means to be this way. If anyone,

say, ever saw my poop, I'd die. I've never

gotten over something about shitting : don't

know what it is. Embarrassment. Too shy again.

A certain weakness to not acknowledge facts.

-

Never got over things. Horrid stuff.  The odors

and the chimes of all this life. They pile up and 

sicken me. I want to run away. I certainly wish

for nothing of talking these matters out. Let's

be frank  -  that's why I write. A way to atone. 
I can dwell in my land, without bother, alone.

9570. EVERYTHING YOU MUST DO

EVERYTHING YOU MUST DO

Defend the lie and its bright construction,

re-enter the morass after you just have left.

Consider the angles of what you've missed : 

who could have said what, and why. I

strolled the land today for clues, but found

nothing. A bright infernal light, like fire

and storm. The little people, clambering

all over their boats. The guy with the

Grady White, and his gun-metal shorts.

I think there should be a limit to people

wearing bandannas. Over at the ice 

machine, two black guys were shredding

bait, endlessly talking to each other, both

enraptured in what the other said : that

certain sort of black-talk I could never

recreate. The heads of March, that old

boll-weevil talk of plantations and cotton

fields. These two guys, no matter how 

old, I think it was still in their blood. 

That genetic quality was high. 

-

Two separate sets of strolling lovers

walked by me. The first, a set of youth,

book-ended by desire, and holding each

other, while the second couple, in their

sixties and worn, held hands and walked

by in a still-natural bliss, for their age.

The only thing betraying them was their

clothing : too telling, too cheap, too much

out-of-date color. I said nothing. A smile.

9569. A TRUNKLOAD OF GLORY

A TRUNKLOAD OF GLORY

Miserable sands of time. The

time before this. I am deciduous,

like a tree. I loose compulsion

as a tree loses leaves.

9568.PIERS PLOWMAN

PIERS PLOWMAN

So simple and low I am part of this earth,

these handfuls of dirt beneath me. Feet

walk on, hands parse soil, everything

separate and kept apart. Oh sky, do you

ever long for land? Oh land, would you

ever wish for sky? I measure my daily

misdeeds by how far I have dragged

this plow.

9567. GENUFLECTION

GENUFLECTION

Hey. I read the biology book from

back to front and now I'm a monkey

again? That's the sort of thing I

cannot understand. Like a deKooning

wash on a threadbare piece of cloth,

what matters is one thing  -  first blue

eyes  -  and then the other. The crowd

still files in and pays to applaud. But.

No. Matter. I remember some of those

guy, with cigarettes and their booze,

standing around the Cedar, smoking

with their brawn. What's the sense of

being a painter, if all you can end up

doing are things like that. And, of

course, all those famous Hampton

scenes ending in death. Pollock, oh,

Jackson. Pissing into someone's

fireplace again? I ended up dancing

with David Hare. Well, well. Edith

Metzger. Springs-Fireplace Road.

How's it go? It doesn't. No.

-

Genuflect then on this, you little

wanton heathen girl. I was your

conscience and your shadow, but

it's all over now. I could have been

a superstar  -  painter, clown, and

more  -  but now I'm so dead tired

of this whole entire scene. Why 

do we claw so harshly to climb

when the bottom's all we've got?

I can't even visit. I forget where

they laid your sacred body.

9566. HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?

HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?

So, Jeez, I didn't have track of the time,

and this hillside just kept me sliding,

and the grass was slick, wet, with 

cars down below. I had to secure

myself from sliding.

-

I hate discipline; people in straight

lines and everything by the book. I

guess I was born a wild man, a tax 

cheat, an hombre, a crook.

-

If I see a fence, my first impulse is

to jump it  -  the other side has another

side too. And I grow tired of this

heavy, antlered, head.

9565. BUNSALAHAMA MUJAHADEEN

BUNSALAHAMA MUJAHADEEN

When too much of this world becomes just a

chore what is a person to do? Where to go,

how to hold, catch bright sunlight in a happy

hand? I go to visit West Point. Yes, rows of

antique canons and field guns on wheels. The

tradition is, and has been, every place 'taken'

somehow loses a field gun to this grassy display.

Yes, I've heard of trophies, but why not just

take heads here and put them on stakes? Far

easier to carry, I'd figure; less costly too, the

transport. So, instead, on this touristy field

we gift wrap the dead, or their guns anyway.

A few faltering beauties here too  -  girls, I

mean. Visitors, tours, families and friends of

cadets. All that stuff. Impatient dads, measuring

themselves, I'd bet, against guns. There's an

entire philosophical school of that jam all

around. When I got here, they inspected my

car  -  went through the trunk and under the

seats. I may look like a 'terror' to them  -  they

who go home at night to watch their buttoned

TV's and their open-flap wives, but they've got

better guns and ammo here than I'd ever get

from any Bunsalahama Mujahadeen you'd find.

El Hatar Boumedi too. When too much of this

world becomes just a chore, what is a person

to do?

9564. THE SWAMIS ARE ROAMING

THE SWAMIS 

ARE ROAMING

Om mane padme hum. I learned

that when I was twelve. Namu

Amida Butsu. That too. The

swamis are out there roaming.

Eclectic me, for sure.

9563. STUPID NEEDS

STUPID NEEDS

What can you lend me, tired friend?

How about a dirigible without any air?

Or helium? Whatever goes in there. Or

a fork with no tines, or a songbook that

rhymes? What can you give me right now?

-

So many hundreds of things I always 

wanted to know, and now the damn 

schoolbooks are empty. What is the 

music of the spheres? Where is the Gobi 

Desert, and who goes there? How many 

rhomboids can fit in a circled square?

-

So, see what I mean? Useless information?

Supposed to 'fire my imagination?' I can't

see the forest for the trees. I don't get these

wantings for all these stupid needs.

9562. ME USED TO BE

ME USED TO BE

Me used to be lost guy. Me.

Like the frieze of a sedge all

coming down, I got out of there

for free. Finding out later, of

course, that free doesn't really

cut it unless you're willing to 

give up a lot. Which I was so it

didn't much matter. No more 

dining at Fresno's or coffees

at Mars. Forget the booze and

the cars. Thus it was, life has

to become a gentle compromise.

-

Someone sent me, once, pictures 

of Annalee topless. That was OK,

and she didn't mind. Exhibitionists of

that nature look for such opportunities.

Aghast at nothing, they thrive. She

ended up somewhere, far off. I lost

touch, but at least I've got these

photos. Gentle compromise, again.

-

Me used to be a marksman  -  at the

rifle range I could shoot the whisker

off a running cat. Then, slowly, I began 

to lose my sharp vision. The eyes age

as the life runs on. My only hope now

is that the bullet will go right through 

its ears, and the cat will live on. That 

leaves out a lot, for I don't think 

they have empty heads.

9561. MY DOG WAS ON A CONGA LINE

MY DOG WAS ON 

A CONGA LINE

And that's where I found her. East St. Louis,

to be exact. Dancing up a storm. They said

I could adopt her if I wanted. She stopped

what she was doing and turned and said :

'Just don't call me a rescue. I have a

certain dignity due me, ok.' So I gave

the guy ten dollars. He said, 'Do you

want a bag?' I said, 'No, I'll take her

home the way she is.'

9560. LANDSLIDER

LANDSLIDER

Some, um, want the whole picture :

Here, um, is what I can give. Born

on a mountain top in Tennessee.

Killed a bear when I was just three.

-

Sheriff Oblongata came by to ask.

'Yes, Yes, he went that way...' No

further questions, BUT I did see 

him send another horse away.

Or. So. It. Looked. To. Me.

-

If I had your headstrong direction,

I'd probably be King by now. I

think if my father came back from

the dead  -  the long dead  -  he'd be

shocked to see what I've become.

-

Depending, of course, on where's he

been and what he's seen since last.

All opinions are changeable.

9559. EVIL FOIL

EVIL FOIL

And yes I guess I detest

the evil foil : the gendarmes

with hallucinatory guns, the

boll-weevil enticers with their

cotton-ball noses and ancillary

spiked feet. I look at them only

to imagine how they would look

in their coffins. So that's pretty sad.

-

Mozart is immediately accessible 

to the naive. I understood that

statement as soon as I heard it  -

yes, yes, the precision, yes.

9558. JUST UP THE ATTC AND DIED

JUST UP THE 

ATTIC AND DIED

Everything changes. The circus is dead.

There are lesbians on every corner. New

cars can drive themselves. I want a car

to drive girls to the circus where clowns

still await them to drive them in little

red cars. Balloons on the steering wheels

instead of air in the tires. Good stuff like

that. Tents with automatic flaps like

a Shop-Rite has. Metal carts, all filled

with yams and peaches.

9557. HAMMER OF THE GODS

HAMMER OF THE GODS

Screw that. It was

a rubber mallet.

9556. SLINGSHOT CABBY

SLINGSHOT CABBY

Trying to write a three-piece song but wearing a

three-piece suit. Where do I go with this one?

Mystery novels can't be made into songs, or

least-ways none that I can see. Everybody 

knows already what's behind the door, and, 

since the butler did it, they know what he 

used and what he did it for. And it's all so

apparently useless. Nobody reads anymore.

-

Around that Newark canyon there's a 

graveyard three-hundred years old. I can 

still read the names on most of the tombs : 

those that aren't scratched off are still

talking about themselves. The most simple

of dates, the birth and the death, and then

this Champean MacPherson guy who saved

a stage from falling off a cliff. Well that's

what it says: 'A good man who went 

out of his way for others.'

-

Today, I suppose, that just means mowing

your neighbor's lawn. Maybe. For nothing.

I have this slingshot I always carry around

on my belt. Useful here, for picking off birds

from the tombstones they've sullied. Nature

always bothers me - even among the dead.

9555. KEN PEN

KEN PEN

Here once more is that

damned address that gets

everything wrong. I awake 

again too early to get moving,

and the lamp is on in the alcove

nearby  -  that same lady who

leaves it on always I'm sure. These

are the people one gets to live with,

and there's just not much choice.

-

Brain matter like old bread : I watch

her as she waddles. Down three steps 

of concrete, and then over one. She 

stoops to pick up her paper, and starts

talking to cats. Good God not again.

-

There's a truck garage two yards over.

A few men stand around, always making

noise; cigarettes, jokes, and contortions.

Thy tire me out. They make me ill. The

long metal gates slams while they banter.

-

I want to go home, but then realize I've 

already done that and made that selection.

Where's replay? Let me make a correction.

9554. LITTLE

LITTLE

The sword to the hilt; deepness is the

lance of depth, internalized forever.

I want to write this, short. 

My dagger. My scabbard.

9553. ANY PORT IN THE STORM

ANY PORT IN THE STORM

It's taken me this far and long to come

to grips with what I am : not to tarry,

but I won't remain. I am from another

place and they are taking me back. My

standard definitions are fluid, and

my life force, a roiling semen on a

cosmos of dreaming, must go when

called. Such is the agreement.

-

I've sat in a breakfast lane in old

St. Augustine. That was enough

for me. Trees, some greenery,

and the strangest feelings ever.

9552. PEDIGREE

PEDIGREE

This morning will have value, but

alone it will make its way : 10,000

chapters with 10,000 different words.

Do not falter here. Putting down that

carpet of green is Spring's only real task

and  -  now wet or now dry  -  the job's

getting done. Embellish me in color.

-

It was just back in November when I 

had to face the future. It was the 5th,

and I was in Ohio : hard as it was to

think of the Winter, that scabbard of

edgy violence still to arrive. I carved

the Alleghenies as I drove at full-hilt

speed. For me. A confidence level.

-

My shorthand here debases what I'm 

saying. Let me tend to re-phrase my 

words. In the deep black of morning,

and right before the dawn, I saw the

velvety sky descending. Stars and a

crystal chandelier. Things twirling.

Angels calling me back; everywhere.

9551. WHY IS GRETCHEN LIKE THAT?

WHY IS GRETCHEN 

LIKE THAT?

And the answer is, 'I don't know.' The 

wallpaper has now covered the garage 

and the moonbeams have captured my

heart. The pasture is left for the wide-open

cows, and all things have the room that

they need. It was a mere ten years back,

or so, when the bankers were jumping

from windows  -  all those 'too big to

fail' types had run out of luck. It was

2007 back then too, yes, in my head. 

I was sitting at the train platform, 

like every sad morning after morning 

I'd been living then. I had to listen to

all this stuff, and no one, really, wanted

me around. The banker, ever day, on his

way to Philadelphia, and that girl who

worked for the monument commission

there. Her too. A queen from Trenton's

recycling bin. Attempts at a-propos, all 

just made me glum. I had the temperment

of a ground hog. Oh just leave me be.

-

What to do when your hands are soggy

and your mind is dry?The rough and ready

crowd, nowhere to be seen. This was slow

torture, if you know what I mean.