AFTER
THE
FIRST
SHOT
ROBERT
BENEFIEL
Published By Poetastard Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2011© By Robert Benefiel
Cover Design By Robert Benefiel
All rights reserved.
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For Stacey:
Without Your Love
Laughter Would
Sound Like Crying
Table Of Contents
1. ½
2. A Little Praise For The Tellie
3. A Sea Chantey For The Nairobi
4. Don’t Die In My Poem
5. From Many Fucked Up Evenings You’re
Bound To Gather It Yourself
6. Golden Delicious
7. Make New Space
8. Old Windows Across The Street
9. Reunion
10. Someone Said This Would Make A Good Song
11. Surreal
12. The Loud Mouth From Topeka
13. The Noise Off The Surface
14. We’re Semi-Destined
15. Whoever You Were
16. Why Were You Late?
17. Word Poisoning
18. 250 Frozen Pussies Next To The Ice Cream
19. A Building Where People Live At Some Point
20. Again We Go Mad
21. Do Without The View
22. Dumakoff
23. Installation Is Free
24. Jewels
25. The Bee
26. The Mallentine Modeling Agency
27. Took My Vows At 50 Words A Minute
28. Where I Fit Into This I Couldn’t Tell You
29. 2 For 2
30. Another Hoax Pulled On You By The Catholics
31. Cloistered
32. Don't Let The Slogan Fool You
33. Explaining Every Strange Woman I Have Ever Met
34. Final Notice Number 12
35. Finally They Are Worth Something
36. I Want A Scotch And They Want Mars
37. If The Hope Ain’t Killing Us
38. Looking For My Brand
39. Making That Face
40. Save You The Time
41. She’ll Make Even A Great Man Cry Some Day
42. Spare
43. The Doc Said You Got A Pair Of Lungs Like Two Vacuum Bags Full Of B.S.
44. The Guest
45. The Island Shrinks As Time Grows
46. The Old Times Don't Last
47. Therapy
48. Through The Photographic Plate
49. Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood
50. You Should Use These Resources
51. 50 Symbols
52. A Raise
53. Another Crisis Comes And Goes
54. Bad Day To Be A Priest
55. Copyright Papers
56. If In My Brain
57. Picky, Picky, Picky
58. The Symphony Writers
1/2
1/2 a beer and the place is on fire.
1/2 a beer and the fire is supposedly
coming up the stairwell,
devouring the steps
like chocolate.
1/2 a beer and already
the fate of mankind is pointless.
1/2 a beer and the men
are already shoving
the women and children
out of the way.
1/2 a beer and i sit here,
don't move anything
except the beer.
i count the nail holes
in the wall, and i count 14.
1/2 a beer and a woman runs into my place
and says," WE CAN'T GET OUT!
WE'RE GONNA DIE
FROM THE SECOND FLOOR UP!
WE SHOULD JUMP OR SOMETHING!"
i try to sit her down, make her calm,
offer her wine,
but she runs to the window and screams.
i ask her to leave and she does,
still screaming,
but with the wine.
2 minutes later a small,
stocky, mexican fella
comes in and says, "false alarm-
just a couple of smoke bombs."
he has no pants on.
i say, "thank god. i thought you were
going to ask me to hold you."
1/2 a beer and i am still alive
and i've seen enough.
1/2 a beer and the alarm rings
even though the radiator doesn't work.
1/2 a beer and already a poem, a woman,
and death, and life, all
with scarred up legs.
i do not understand why
i was the only one
who stayed calm.
i suppose i have
accepted too much.
1/2 a beer left
and i drink the rest,
waiting for the rest,
which will come
when it comes
no matter what,
though maybe
next time
not as smoke bombs.
maybe next time
it'll just be
a guy without pants.
A Little Praise For The Tellie
tiberius, the roman emperor,
used to fuck everything-
animals,
family,
little boys..
if a little boy
tried to avoid
being sodomized,
tried to run,
he broke their legs
and then fucked them.
tiberius
was the leader of rome
for years,
and they not only
feared him,
but they followed him as well.
makes you glad
there's something on tv,
that there is such a thing as tv,
considering what
we used to do
when the rich
got bored,
and the only thing
turned on
was a maniac
surrounded by
broken legged
boys.
A Sea Chantey For The Nairobi
janitor singing
into his mop
as the lonely doctor
wanders around
in the mountains
between the razor
green branches,
led by a scout
who is lost
on purpose,
because if
he finds the secret
then the secret
is no longer any good,
because all people die,
and if all is sick
then is all cured?
the last sane man
would like to know
if he can come out now.
his brain is
like a turnip
in boiling oil.
his heart is
a silver sliver
in the chest.
love is a gentle pain,
but pain i do not love.
i know
even the end
is endless.
it is impossible
to graduate from here.
it's like begging
from a mirror-
i look
into your
deep,
deep,
eyes
marie,
and sometimes
i'm not sure
who's more
full of shit.
Don’t Die In My Poem
don't die in my poem,
ray charles-
the ladies won't like it.
and send me up
some of that
old fashioned heaven
from your kitchen
lydia.
send me
your clouds
and harps
and halos.
mix it all up
into an orange brown
smoggy soup,
and let me taste it.
let me have a sniff
of those old days,
when
ray charles was still alive,
and so was i,
and nobody was
embarrassed to be
that way.
From Many Fucked Up Evenings You’re Bound To
Gather It Yourself
sometimes all one has
is what they haven't-
a pork barrel
rolling down
a stone ramp
into the water.
a wall that will
not miss you.
an unfinished sentence
bit open.
a subpoena shoved into your ribs.
a life that doesn't
recognize your handwriting.
a long crawl upwards
to a withered flower stem.
a picture that won't hang.
a painting that no longer knows you.
a kind of answer
you can't swallow..
this is
one of those
times
i wish
i were wrong,
but the floor doesn't give.
it holds water
and everything else.
the comedian
has turned on you,
and you stand there
and have what
little there
is to have,
and what isn't
there
is never
there.
Golden Delicious
cutting apples
is just as
easy as
cutting
hearts.
you know that.
you know that because
love poems are bullshit.
love poems are what's
wrong with this country,
because there's all this romance
but nobody's in love
with the right person for
the right reasons,
just the wrong one,
and i've always been
the wrong one
for somebody.
and it's a heart one minute
and an apple the next,
and it no longer matters
because the lights are on their third notice
and i'm hungry like no one else,
and sure i could be in love with you
but how long does that poem ever last,
or that apple,
or that heart?
i push a small knife
through something
round and red.
could be a heart.
could be an apple.
i am, you see,
after it's all over,
still the wrong one
for somebody.
Make New Space
spent the
afternoon
unscrewing
rusty chairs
in the sun.
there was no talk
of great men,
of great works of art.
i cut my hand,
swore a little,
washed it,
and went back
to unscrewing chairs.
i could hear billie holiday
through a wall.
the century was over.
the work was not.
Old Windows Across The Street
old windows
across the street
like 42 eye holes.
old windows
across the street
where hands went up skirts,
sneezes were sneezed,
faces were slapped,
and doors were slammed.
old windows
across the street,
suicide is not only about death.
things give up and still go on.
things burned still burn.
the stillborn are re-born
and rubbed against the chest like
a salve of mothers’ dreams.
old windows
across the street,
flames of a woman
pressed up against the wall,
cigars put out in the soul,
victory graded with a d-,
bottles clanging in
the milk of the eye,
one real knife
for an imaginary
loaf of bread,
a broken super
hero basted in dust.
old windows
across the street,
leaning against a broken heater
with a blanket over the head,
the painting of a mountain
resembling a god-sized crap,
the swollen door
to the bathroom,
stuff the length of miseries,
phone cord chewed
by starving cats,
broken teeth of a knocked up comb,
bed missing a head board,
a body missing a ring,
a hole to nowhere.
old windows across the street
there is gambling everywhere,
at all hours,
in all ways,
like the population in a song-
sometimes no one,
sometimes everyone,
and sometimes just you
counting windows
on the building
across the street,
because
a number
of some
other sort
has been
disconnected.
Reunion
a red car
turned the
corner
very slowly
at 6 in the morning,
and while turning
the door flew open
on the driver’s side
and a woman fell out,
plus a beer can
and a sweater,
and almost getting
run over
by her own car
she screamed,
but it drove on
missing her
by inches,
and she got up
off the ground,
not even checking for cuts,
and ran after the car
with a little limp,
caught up to it,
opened the door,
and as she did
a coffee cup
and a sandwich fell out,
then she jumped back in,
turning the wheel
just before it hit
a parked car,
and drove off,
swerving
a little bit,
but
straightening
it out
as she
went on.
it was
weird
seeing
her
again.
Someone Said This Would Make A Good Song
barbecued movie stars
for everyone
says the devil,
and the forks
attack each other
in the drawer
as if they all
were spoons,
and the yelling
in the nut house
has stopped,
which means nothing,
for it's like a water fall
spilling just the same-
doesn't matter
if it's a drip
instead of a gusher-
these things bring
themselves out
even if we don't,
and inside
bonnie and clyde's
shot-up car
is where everyone
must sit someday,
but for now
it's just a great thing
to get through the newspaper
or flip through the channels
without seeing yourself,
to get through the day
without hearing back
from the dry cleaners
about the baby you left
in your pocket,
while the captain
refuses a life coat,
a lifeboat,
any life thing at all,
while dear grandma
has a tear
in her eyes
and says, "bless him."
and your grandpa,
while putting
some chew
in his cheek
says, "he's just
another damn
skirt wearer!
screw him!
if he was that
goddamn great
we wouldn't
be floating
around the
ocean!"
Surreal
salvador,
twisting his
mustache
like his mind,
as if the parts
inside him
were victrola-like,
selling
melting
watches
and mutant
horses
in the
doorway
of an
abandoned
warehouse,
as his
lady
poses
for no
one
else
but
everybody-
The Loud Mouth From Topeka
"we should get rid
of those people
who aren't americans
and send 'em back
to where they
come from,"
he said.
"there'd be
no americans left," i said.
"besides, you want to pay
for my ticket
back to africa?"
"but you’re not black," he said.
"well i'm not
goddamn choosy
about it like you are."
"what are you," he said,
"one of those dreamers that thinks
everybody can get along?"
"no, i'm more like
one of those people
who think the dumb have been given
too much say,
and the rich have fooled themselves."
"man, you’re the one
who needs to watch
what you say."
"and your daddy
should have paid
the 50 cents
to buy a goddamn
condom in the bar bathroom,
the night he fucked
your momma
to make your ass,
so we're even."
at this point it is fair to state
he was no more american
than the guy who sells
gadgets over the phone,
or fights because he has fists
and not much else.
i was not much
of a movement myself
that night either,
and i admit though
it wasn't his parents’ fault that
they gave birth
to an idiot,
it's too bad for me
he had a better left
than an argument
or an america.
The Noise Off The Surface
a cat meows backwards
and walks forwards
in the early part of december,
and my house is freezing
like a mausoleum,
but there is not so much art
as there is just
a man walking around
and looking at
where art should hang,
cursing the broken pilot light
as the dogs jump and
leap for what the apes
left in the jungle,
as tiny trees sprout from
the rudest places.
i literally could have
been anything
if i had paid attention.
but for now i am a man
with an empty seltzer bottle.
and a cat meows backwards
and walks forwards,
as i sit patiently waiting
for some warm day
to come that
literally will
make me feel
less dead,
something that
will get me back to
a more needed place,
like a place of less need,
as the workmen
repair the lines
but break the women,
and the rain still worries
too many people-
didn't we used to enjoy
the things that
messed up our hair
and made us look
indestructible?
now it's all image,
rotting like a
pretty little picture in a safe,
a seagull begging for bread
from a statue of mccarthy,
as the cat calls out
for Mao! Mao! Mao!
until
all i can
say
to that stupid cat is-
SHUT UP!
revolution don't live
here no more!
and even though
this isn't china,
and even though
you may not
speak my language,
i'm sure you'll still
understand my shoe
between your eyes.
We’re Semi-Destined
whether we go to jail
or go to a hunk
of rock in space,
we’ll go.
whether we go back
in time or go
insane sitting in a chair,
we'll go.
whether we return or
not,
whether we learn or
not,
whether we want to or
not,
we'll go.
because we've got nothing
better to do,
whether we like it or
not.
going to war or going to the market-
there's no difference,
because we're going to go
whether we're prepared or
not,
whether we care or
not,
whether we get there or
not.
our whole reason
for being here
is to leave here,
because our whole
world goes away
sometimes even
before we go away.
because eventually
everything has to go away,
because that's all
we can do,
because that's the best
we can do,
because that's
all our time
and world
and love
can do.
Whoever You Were
learning more
and more
you don't have
to go anywhere
to leave,
that it leaves you
more than you
leave it,
and
the old door
won't shut,
so i have
put a broken
skate board
in front of it
so that i can
have some
sort of
feeling that
i'm not so
open or dumb,
and i need to stay
here like this
for as long
as it
takes
so that i
don't leave
myself,
so that you
can leave me
and it can
finally
be romantic,
at least in my
selfish head
that learns
more and more
which of
our hands
is crueler,
and which
picture of me
is actually me,
in the days
when you
were
supposedly you,
and that
makes me
very depressed
to gather
that you
weren't you
until you
left me.
Why Were You Late?
i told him
that my being
a few minutes
late to work
wouldn't stop
the nation.
and i wish my boss would have
considered this, but instead he asked,
"what if everyone thought like you?"
"i'd think something different," i said.
then i walked around half asleep,
still a little drunk from last night,
straightening, fixing, cleaning.
of all the years
and all the jobs,
there is always
an easier way than lying,
but the boss tends
to like the made-up stuff,
and a nation of sober
and on time
people
thinking the same thing
won't change that.
so next time you’re late
say it was because
there was an accident
that held up traffic,
or there was a bank robbery
and the gunman took you as a hostage,
or you ate a magic bean that made you shrink
and you didn't get big until an hour ago,
whatever you want to make up,
but never tell him
you just couldn't make it
because you were tired
or you didn't want to work.
it's like telling him
that fucking christ
doesn't exist,
or that christ
is fucking his wife,
or that you're christ,
and that's
the truth.
Word Poisoning
i shot jack kerouac up
with kennedy and
not the other way around.
i burned down elvis with
hendrix and mr. king jr.
i drank bukowski and got diarrhea.
i ate burroughs and got word poisoning.
i smoked van gogh laced with crumb.
i backed over ginsberg three times.
i locked jesus out until he sobered up.
i never gave hitler a job
and never told reagan he could sing.
i walked yeats out of town
with a water pistol,
and let hemingway borrow my shotgun.
i pressed the record button for miles.
i slept with dickinson
and then sybil and then monroe,
and if i could build an indestructible monster,
it'd be out of those three elements.
i gave sitting bull my lucky coin
and i gave custer my unlucky one.
i gave ponce de leon
the wrong directions.
i marched with no one
in the 60's in any century.
i never talked to twain
even though he had a phone.
i pushed whitman and he cried.
i've done a lot of things
to a lot of people,
but i never did those things
you said i did,
i never changed the world,
because it would take
more than one of me
to make the world
a better place,
or even a horrible place,
which means you'll
never pin that rap on me,
not while i got my brains
baking on the sidewalk
as i wait for a car wreck