Escaping Shangrila
by
Joseph D. Reich
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Punkin House, LLC
www.punkinhouse.com
Escaping Shangrila
Copyright © 2010 Joseph D. Reich
DIGITAL Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to PunkinHouse.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Escaping Shangrila
Selected Poems
Joseph D. Reich
Escaping Shangrila
“Sane, sane, they’re all insane”
-Tom Waits
–For Freddy who really and truly did believe in me
And able to understand such brutal absurd things...
Acknowledgments
American Drivel Review, Graffiti Rag, Problem Child, Kerouac’s Dog, Juked, Pocket Smut, Detroit: Dispatch, Beggars & Cheeseburgers, Dark Lane Quarterly, Angelic Dynamo, Nibble, Gold Dust, Breadcrumb Scabs, Audience, Oak Bend Review, Paradigm, Paradigm Shift, Sein Und Werden, And Then, Carcinogenic Poetry, (A Brilliant) Record Magazine, Side Of Grits, 42 Magazine, Why Vandalism?, Literary Mary, A Stray Branch Literary Magazine, Verse Wisconsin, Poet Works Press, Viola Beadleton’s Compendium, Exercise Bowler, Black Words On White Paper, Vanilla Press, Vagabondage Press, Mirrors Magazine, Front Range Review, Inclement, Oranges & Sardines, Poets & Artists, Thunderclap Press, The Lowestoft Chronicle Review, Disingenuous Twaddle, Inscribed, Falling Star, The Mayo Review, A Pocket Full Of Stones, Cherry Bleeds, Burning River, The Shady Side Review, Ersatz Press, Burner Magazine, Punkin House Digest, The Vein
Table Of Contents
Part 1 (Igneous)
Crawling Through Time...
A Brief (he ate it) Life Story...
The Secrets Of Catwoman (of all and every girl)...
A Rather Literal Fairytale Of Cops & Robbers...
The Muddy Adventures Of Boys...
The Geometry Of Consciousness...
The Geraniums And The Seductress Women...
Still Life...
The Robbery Fable: on learning the principle of gratitude...
The Light Which Streams Through Bullet Holes In The Side Of A Field Of Corn...
The Chatter Of Crows...
The Strange Affects Of Weather...
Remembering Names: the horse farm...
Portrait Of Lady Creeping Into Bed...
Bushwick, Brooklyn...
The Act (the art) Of Flying Through Windows...
Somewhere Around Thanksgiving Around The Braga Bridge In Fall River...
Ways In Which To Measure Life...
Social Worker...
An,After, Dinner,Right,Around,Evening,Aperatif...
It’s Not Me, It’s You...
For Basquiat & The Velvet Underground...
Buzzed...
Born...
Land Of Truth & Liberty...
A Subdivision Called America...
Windex...
Whore Bath...
Photosynthesis...
Wife Told Me Tonight I Hope You Die As I Replied
Can You Bring Me Up A Nice Cold Glass Of Milk...
Christ On A Cracker...
What You Can Never Put A Price On...
The Apple Pie Man...
A Boy Named Bones...
A Pick-Up Football Game In A Backyard Right
Around The Five Towns Area Of Long Island...
It Can Even Happen To Them Evens Out In The End...
Cowards Make The Biggest Fatigue Out Of Us: based on a not so true story...
The Origins Of Fable...
Erica...
The Case Of The Stubborn Scaredy-Cat Moon (pitch for a children’s story)...
Why Called Fear Of Intimacy?...
The Shortest Short Story Ever Telled...
Why They Do What They Do: just a little more than the blues...
Dorothy Gale From Cans/is...
The Cattle Which Blew Past Dorothy’s Window...
Dorothy And The Vagabonds...
Creeping Thyme...
On The Nature Of Landscaping Or They Should Treat Their Girls Better...
Motel Reflections (the makings of a misanthrope)...
Sunday Of Rumbles: an iguana’s paradise...
The Elements Of Spirit...
A Whole Other Different Sort Of Mantra...
The Girl’s Field Hockey Team At The Gas Station In Fall River...
(Techniques On) How To Avoid Drowning...
Creep...
Before We Got Hitched...
Where You Lay Your Hat...
Your Fear Of Intimacy And Intimacy Guide...
Poor/trait...
The Derivation Of Children’s Games: home movies...
Stealing In America: scenes from memorial day weekend...
Super Stop & Shop...
The Dominatrix: a clinical case study...
The Light Which Creeps Through Curtains...
Why Windows Must Always Be Kept Open In The Rain...
The Supersaturation Level...
Days We Used To Go To The Movies...
A Very Bizarre Geological Hx Of America...
3 In The Morning (With Absolutely Nowhere To Go)...
On Throwing Tampons Off The 12th Story Terrace Of The Jerusalem Plaza...
. The Upper East Side (in summer)...
A Pretty Rich Girl From The State Of Michigan...
Installing Window Air-Conditioners In Upper-Manhattan...
Third Trickster Removed...
Gotta Love The Bronx Or Somewhere Around Those Parts...
Couple Recent Nagging Questions...
Sentimental Observations: at the change of seasons...
Life Divided (subtracted & multiplied)...
A/dult/lessons..
Tomboys & Studs...
Life & Times Of The Suburbs: on the subject of topography & gardening/found poem...
Your Weather On The 8's...
Wildlife: stanzas from the dead end...
A Curiously Quixotic Ode To New England: the contemporary fast-food version...
Raushenberg (in 15 versions)...
Sepia Tone...
Getting Towed...
Insomnia..
The Black & Whites Of Summer Camp In The Seventies...
Like A Girl You Once Loved Whose Fleeting Moment Lasted A Lifetime...
An Exhibition I Can Really Believe In..
A Disoriented Poem In The Summer Of America...
Part 2 (Sedimentary)
Scenes From The Garage...
Perhaps Maybe But Not Really For Bukowski
As Just A Little The Way I Been Feeling Recently...
All In Moderation & Moderation & Moderation...
The Babysitter Who Was The Catholic School Teacher For The Monsters Next Door,
For Shorty & Psycho...
Reel To Real Days Of Rambling And Wandering And Having Absolutely Nobody...
A Sort Of Children’s Story –For Kong...
Weird New England Weather...
Recent Indiscretions Of Self...
Drinking And Driving To The Interview: coming to closure with old girlfriends...
Nitrous Oxide: the cycle of seasons...
The Source Of Depression...
A Different Sort Of: survival of (the slickest)...
Certain Quixotic Stanzas On The State Of America...
The Motel Business...
Mummification Vs. The N.Y. Transit System (found poem)...
All I Really Learned About Man Was Taking The Train
Home Drunk And Alone From Grand Central Terminal...
A Flat Right Off The Hudson In Sleepy Hollow...
The Difference Between The Sexes...
Not Quite Paris...
A Letter To An Acquaintance To The Age-Old Question–
What Old Girlfriends Do You Still Fantasize About (fleshed-out)...
Dear Freddy (1956-1993)...
When Sun Goes Down Like A Rag Mop At Dusk...
The (Secret) Art Of Conversation...
Wind...
Taking Your Kid To The Summer School Bus...
Autumn Days...
Prayer...
On The Subject Of Weather...
A Contemporary Hx Of Ancient Culture In America...
Bally’s Health Club...
For Connie (a portrait & everything lost)...
In The Heart Of Ghosts...
Something In A Day...
A Mandolin In The Pharmacy Window...
Grand Central...
The Harlem-Valley Psychiatric Center...
Pillow Talk...
Part 3 (Metamorphic)
Somewhere Between Thanksgiving And New Year’s Eve...
Afternoon Conversation...
Stud (a different sort of manifest destiny)...
The Two-Dollar Movie Theater...
What It Would Be Like To Fuck Sarah Palin...
What In The World Is This World Coming To?...
An American Poem: declaration of co-dependence...
A Letter To An Acquaintance...
The Solace Of Seasons: growing up/down-in-the-dumps in america...
American Know How...
Gibberish (or a restless fidgety jewish kid reaching out reactive
and acting-out in the face of a clinical narcissist)...
Days Of Air Travel: a time gone by...
The Long-Lost Art Of Sportsmanship...
The Derivation Of Domestic Living...
Polaroid: on the present day unnatural state of the nature of america...
A Report From Wife On What She Did With Kid:
on the state of miniature golf...
Sunday In America...
On The Nature Of Neighbors Right Around Dusk...
On The Function Of Dysfunction...
Man...
To Be Or Not To Be, To Not To Be, Tune Out To Be...
Das Kokain (secrets behind psychiatry)...
When Wife Takes Kid To Visit Parents Out In The Berkshires For The Weekend...
On Being Thrown To The Ground In A Quaint Little Small Town In Rhode Island...
The Scenic Route...
Views From The Northeast...
Scenes From The Birdhouse...
Scenes From The Ferry...
School Report...
Why You Love Your 5 Year Old (everything else sucks and lacks soul)...
Holy Ghost Road...
On The State Of Shangrila...
Portrait...
The Greatest Story Ever Not Told: turned to suburban scribble sci-fi fable...
Year Found/ead...
The Nature Of The Core Of The Folklore Of The Riddle...
Call It What You Will...
Does God Ever Hear My Primal Scream? (a prayer beyond belief)...
A View From The Scaffold...
Acorn Stew: lamentations & blues...
Just To Thank Her...
Suicide Ideations: a sentimental poem on new year’s eve...
It’s The Count That Thought...
Art/facts: things scene at the excavation...
The Challah Days...
The Nude...
When’s Around Today?...
Getting Through The Days...
Time-Life...
The Rainbow And The Praying Mantis...
Must-See TV...
On How Not To Contemplate On A Bowl Of Fruit...
Wake-Up Call: Civ. 101...
I Scream You Scream...
Human Remains...
Hallelujah Blues...
The Rockwells They Never Spoke Of...
The Answer To Zero...
How Kafka Must Have (Not) Felt...
The Importance Of Weather At The End Of The Day...
Escaping Shangrila...
Part 1
(Igneous)
Igneous rocks are formed from the molten liquid minerals that lie below the earth’s crust... They’re formed from magma that cools beneath the earth’s surface or from lava that cools upon the earth’s surface. These two methods of igneous rock formation are known as intrusive and extrusive, respectively. Intrusive igneous formations can be forced to the surface of the earth where they can exist as masses of rock known as plutons. The largest types of exposed plutons are called batholiths. The Sierra Nevada mountains are a large batholith of igneous granite rock.
Crawling Through Time,
This morning i caught a brooding owl just sitting perched up on top our tree house, bulging, muted, contemplative, looking down into the high grass of the deep shallows of the swamp
as though communicating with all the universe. i too still remain a stranger trying to figure
and picture and conceptualize and realize it all through the screen door of my porch. there is
the feint murmur and gurgle of our coffee maker and news over my radio tells me that donald
duck got busted for trying to grope some tourist down in disney world. it seems like so many
of my friends i grew up with in new york just picked up and left and moved either down to
texas or out to pennsylvania for some vague peculiar reason and not exactly sure why but
they all seem to really like it and wish them all the best of luck and do hope too the feeling
is mutual as i know in my heart of hearts, a fond and sentimental shared experience
can never ever be changed or altered no matter what happens, goes down
and what they try to take and throw at you in this godforsaken world
i’m still looking over my shoulder...
A Brief (he ate it) Life Story,
I was born
in a snake egg
right by the lake
right by the library
and cracked
open by a pretty
hippy mother
in a pink hat
with paprika
sprinkled on
top served with
pork chops and eaten
up by the delinquents
sneaking off to rainy day matinees
in the dim opaque autumn
and getting into brawls
in the back of the
movie theater.
what happens
when they’re all
self-destructive
and tulips
come up
early in
the late
winter
all reflected
in some brilliant
dusk apocalyptic puddle
overlooking the foghorn river?
heroine addicts trying to hold up a bank
in the world trade center and getting caught
and busted like a bunch of old time classic idiotic
slapstick comedians on the five o’clock eyewitness news
–hey isn’t?
The Secrets of Catwoman (of all and every girl),
She brought chocolate & hard-boiled eggs to my door & tea & murder
& sausage & love & her lips were backwards & eyes were jumping
& ears were blue & hair was on fire & cracked one-liners & smelled
like dandelion. in confusion, she dragged a chandelier to my steps
& rolled cigarettes & had a pocket full of rain, then would
turn it inside-out, exposing thunder & hurricanes
in her other pocket was a broken locket, a heart in which she wanted
to hock it, yet sometimes, the room would fill with her laughter
like a busted balloon releasing pressure, then return to her
dreaming & troubled brooding. when i said goodbye
i’d kiss her on the lips & she smiled & my heart leapt
& just twisted off her head & started talking to herself
mad & manic, matter of fact, a full-fledged conversation
then would turn hysterical from a joke she had made
& disappeared around the corner like one of those
dismembered umbrellas you see tattered & tumbling
out of control to some unknown destination in the rain.
A Rather Literal Fairytale Of Cops & Robbers,
The old bearded man on the side of the highway
searches for spirits and lost shadows from back
in the day, while this image to me is just as sane
as anything that might possibly be offered by the
haunting, neverending, draining, grueling, mind-
boggling, 9-5 slavery of everyday living; always
loved hearing as a kid when a convict had just
escaped prison and was on the run; a fugitive
on the run (a literal son of a gun) bobbing my
head in and out of misty, dewy, wild evening
windows, gazing through my mother’s sunflower
garden and looking out for silhouettes and shapes
and crazy faces and sneaky secretive stick figures
draped in moonlight and perspiration and wished
them all the best of luck in their mad dash for
freedom (matter of fact if i could of would
have left them a doggy bag like cookies
for santa claus) in their panicky determined
rush just to spend at least one final second
one solitary moment alone in the gut heart
and soul in order to reunite with a loved one.
The Muddy Adventures Of Boys,
This morning i found myself on the toilet in the morning before the whole house woke up singing bowie’s and later on kurt cobaine’s version of the man who sold the world knowing i was getting all the words wrong but knowing none of that mattered cause it was one of those songs
so damned surreal and brilliant and moving and emotional–
“i spoke into his eyes
i thought you died alone
a long long time ago
who knows not me
i never lost control
you’re face to face
with the man who
sold the world...”
then heard the
warm muggy
stirring winds
in the distance
and all the drizzle
and rain in the universe
start to fall taking me back
to the transcendent soul and
boyhood best friend neighbors
who were like mad blood brother
delinquent statesmen and
what they can never steal
from you and stays in my
sentimental palpitating
consciousness forever
mad misadventures trying to find the source to the holy flowing bronx river following murmuring gurgling babbling brooks weaving in and out through the pachysandra and bridges and backyards of the suburbs, ducking like a bunch of masked marvelous madmen, escaped prisoner fugitives, wide-eyed, wild, crawling cautiously, mischievously, in our flannel and long underwear and corduroys and canvas sneakers keeping an eye out through the frosty bay windows of whack-
job neighbors both suddenly falling crash! kerplunk! splash! waz that? at the exact same time simultaneously like some fine bowery boy abbot & costello comedy right through the thin ice into the freezing suddenly shifting stream so cold literally feeling tears streaming down our cheeks trying to figure out a way of getting back home before our toes fell off and thawed them out in my mother’s clawfoot tub with mugs and mugs of hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows
the speakers to our elementary school
announcing (pronouncing) if you’re being
picked up for lunch you don’t have to come
back during the very dramatic and dangerous
winter storm blizzard and we’re off! taking
off once again down long steep snowy roads
which already in a couple hours had picked
up heaps of snow sliding our asses down
backwards, half-crazed, howling hysterical
drawing up maps the night before on manic action & adventure sleep overs trying to figure out
the best route and way and strategy of getting to carpenter’s pond on blustery bicycles with our fishing poles rattling in rat traps and squeaky echoes penetrating the glistening dawn, packed brown paper bag lunches of bologna on wonder bread with scooter pies, peddling adrenaline pumping bikes through dewy grass, sleepy shutters, and pitch fences and short cuts winding through dense woods to stand all day over the waterfall to reel in rainbow fish we never caught
but making very clear-cut plans and promises for our future and swear saw a barking two-headed
dog! planting a coke bottle stuffed
with a whole long list on looseleaf
paper of everything we were gonna
do and everything we were gonna
be for our future literally signed in
blood buried deep in the eternal
grasshopper marigold muddy
earth and soil romantic reflective
something they could never ever
steal from you even if they wanted.
The Geometry Of Consciousness,
What does the man in the lighthouse
the man in the windmill dream of?
who do the twins
fantasize about?
the widows of the
factories & cathedrals
when they draw
back the wilderness
and turn
to nightfall?
The Geraniums And The Seductress Women,
In the morning you lift up blinds
with tired closed eyes in the nude.
half-crazed crows on horizon.
you wonder if you tell your wife
the good
dreams too?
Still Life,
Doing the dishes...
won’t even let me have my fantasies
what happened to those loose girls
of the summer lakes and mountains?
when gigantic bosoms came spilling out
of brassieres like miracles at the fountain
the newly-spawned divorcees
of liquor stores and little homes in the suburbs?
what is it gonna take to make me feel again?
and turn on jim morrison...
The Robbery Fable: on learning the principle of gratitude,
{Go, Thief!}
Why do they always only seem to stick up the banks and liquor stores?
i mean if it was me the first place i’d go would be one of those organic
health food shops or roadside fruit stands where all those wealthy
and obnoxious privileged and entitled caucasians always make
their stand acting all aloof and arrogant trying to make you feel
bad these little make believe men who pretend you are not there
and treat you like the eternal stranger (the internal criminal) or
critically stare at you like how dare you even be in my territory
(the historic and classic act and hx of alienating in contemporary
american culture and society) absurdly and obsessively and religiously
acting complacent taking everyone and everything for granted and function
by the bizarre and perfunctory neurotic need and compulsion routine and ritual
(huuuh? me thinks they make too much an effort) that you are below and beneath
them then just happen to make my way in there while they are nobly niggardly
snobbily smugly continuing their ridicule/less/ly roly-poly role-play ironically
sloppily and greedily gobbling up their fruit (even do this aloof in which they
have in no way shape or form symbolically or biblically or literally earned)
after having tortured and treated the ‘natives’ like slaves (when they’re the ones in
every way shape and form the sleazy and see-thru ‘tourists’ without soul) and naturally
go on in to go stick ‘em up and go–“stick ‘em up! stick ‘em up you clones!” think that
would probably finally for the first time in their lives make them halt or give them
pause or offer any sort of respect or grab their attention the first time ever they ever
had to provide an explanation provide any type of recognition (not giving the shallow
superficial impression the world revolves around them) and treat everyone like second-
class citizens there just to serve them or act like it was some sort of honor to be in their
presence the first time ever acting modest and humble and after taking their dough (in
exchange for all the doubt and conflict and predicament they inflicted on my psyche
and consciousness) all their soulless and exclusive gadgets and contraptions perhaps
maybe even grab one of their daughters who’ll probably be pleasantly relieved to be taken hostage just to get away from them for a little while for a bit of rest and relaxation then ditch them satisfied and contented feeling like a good and hard day’s work put in leaving with a very suave and subtle smile and see them in my rearview just as i always expected just as i always
pictured and imagined looking as lost and dumb and stupid and helpless and classless as ever
{The American Dream Falling Asleep To Static On T.V. }
Everyone always talks about where they were...
do you remember where you were
the day you were assassinated?
Not sure if stabbed
in a room in reno
{The Hx Of American Cinema}
Love that final scene at the end of all
those godfather episodes don’t know
was it number one or number two?
After all those
years gone all
that time gone by
When pacino or was it deniro
finally comes back to the old
country out in the countryside
Of sicily to exact revenge
on that old man who murdered
his mother shouting something in sicilian
Then stabs and plunges
the switchblade right into his shirt
and cuts and rips out his fucken heart
Don’t know for me
shows mad heart
damn cathartic
{Saying Grace With A Magic Wand}
I told my wife tonight i love
her so much if she was
a dope addict i’d simply
sit there by her side the
whole time with needle
in mouth while she
nodded out and me
like a conquistador
anesthesiologist
with a rose
in jaw
she proceeded
to tell me i really don’t
know how to respond
to something like that
and that i have issues
doesn’t know the half
{Tis The Season...}
On special k diet
shoveling handfuls
and handfuls of cereal
down my throat tumbling
crumbling down my coat
with heat on in the car
in the frozen parking lot
of the methadone clinic
which looks right across
to the moby dick marina
dazed and distant listening
through static to sports radio
{On The Nature Of...}
I am going to start a new tradition
when the snow comes down here
off the coast of massachusetts
when blizzards are predicted
By the channel 6
eyewitness news team
the first to bring
exclusively...
when all the slave neighbors come out
at the exact same time exact same hour
with their regimented organized shovels and contraptions
i’m gonna simply shuffle to the end of my driveway
pull down my pants and take a nice dump
(perhaps if it’s a long one might even
bring a paper to catch up
on local weather and sports)
pull my pants up then casually nonchalantly
open up mailbox to get my junk mail
and aloofly flip through it like these androgynes appear
to like to do out here and amble right into my front door
leaving all the real aggressive go-getters in awe
my father always told me in whatever i do
to always make sure to make an impression
to be a leader and never follow nor leave a job half-done
and when all the snow is over
instead of having been a slave for hours and hours
having left a nice little reminder
for all the world to admire
{My Other Soulmate}
How come people
never say shit like
this is for my fish
this is for my fridge
whose light always stood
by me when other’s didn’t
for all those superstitions
and obsessive-compulsive
rituals not sure if holding me
back or somehow reminding
me to move on and persist
for all those kids
i grew up with
as always wished
like in one of those
old rock’em sock’em
film noire shoot’em up
cops & robbers movies
whenever they arrested
me i had one of those
attorneys whenever and
at whatever hour of the
night would fly right
out of bed with mad
heart & passion
& yell at the pigs
you can’t do this!
this is unconstitutional!
a violation of his rights!
he’s an american!
he pays his taxes!
he pays your salary!
i tell you he’s innocent!
and then don’t worry
kid it’ll be alright
i’ll be right
down there!
along with scoop
(maybe even
betty boop &
zero mostel &
a jack lemmon
& walter mattheau)
all the quick-
witted sexy
secretaries
& mistresses
& waitresses
the guy who
runs the all-night
24 hour diner
& delinquent
kids from the
neighborhood
people will
leave you
and you’ll
move right
past them
{Utopia}
In this life my only real regret that i never had a shootout with a cop that i never ever shot him
in the head and took him out as he simply started it and i simply ended it then ripping off his
nice little name tag leaving it right there ripping off his wallet and going to a fine roadside diner to order a juicy cheeseburger with raw onions and side of fries and nice big thick chocolate shake and like that great zen buddhist poem where the hermit’s hanging off the cliff holding on for dear life grasps at a wild strawberry and says that last bite was the best one he ever had and the same will hold true for my big juicy cheeseburger with raw onions and side of fries and chocolate
shake my only regret in this life not taking off to a roadside motel with free h.b.o. and porno
and sitting back instead completely cool and casual watching the weather channel my only
regret in this life not reading signs on the side of the road bleary-eyed but alert and alive
which read something like “entering fall river, sale mustang must go, welcome to new
orleans, mexico, nice, cannes, guatemala, bogota, antigua, cayman islands, lake lugana”
only regret in this life not walking out in morning fog with the best sleep i ever got
somewhere between the dawn and day and see that great big bulge of moon still
suspended in the turquoise sky with some still and silent silhouetted mountain
perched powdered and feathered by first snowfall and for the first time ever
in your life not feeling like some sort of thief or criminal yet grounded and
centered and that i did a world of good my only regret not heading down
the great big empty highway home swathed in phosphorescent plumes
of early morning ethereal syrupy smoke spilling from tongue-tied towns
of hiccupping ancient angel factories the greatest dream of all when i step into
the door my kid’s magnets simply jumbled and scattered on the refrigerator strangely
enough but not really that strange at all turns out out of nowhere like a miracle reads “utopia.”
The Light Which Streams Through Bullet Holes In The Side Of A Field Of Corn,
With the door
to my frigidaire
open chomping
on a cheese hotdog
i hear myself saying
to my girl i could
move to texas
in a second
love how
that sounds
moving to
texas in
a second
moving to
texas in
a second
and know
one day
i’ll do it
and make
that great
grande
entrance
don’t care
how i get
there like
a prince
or dope
addict
with that big
dumb bozo
the clown
smile or
bobbing
back
and forth
high on
methadone
with eyes
closed
nodding out
in tear away
second hand
collapsible
cappuccino
suit on the back
of a greyhound
at the end
of midnight
cowboy
ratzo rizzo
from port
authority
passing
away
all the
way to
where
the sun
keeps
shining
the bones
of joe buck
my wife in
her witches
hat looking
in the mirror
saying i look
like a young
32 and
she does
and look
out my dark
window like
pacino in
dog day
afternoon
with his 32
as i savor the
last of my
rum and
coke by
the muted
sky blue
timex
sports
radio
and
lit
tree
house
blowing
kitchen
window
knowing
all it is
all it ever
was was
keeping
and
retaining
your buzz
knowing
when you
were drunk
at keg parties
in high school
how you could
just simply lay
on the charm
and feel all
that spirit
reel and
run through
you on a cool
brisk evening
in autumn
the hum/or
and women
and one-liners
and kerouac
lingering
in the back
of your mind
those were
days when
nothing
when
every-
thing
seemed
to matter
the baby
sitters
as always
show up
a little later
dressed up
like mini mouse
in their black
low-cut blouses
like ballerinas
looking like
very driven
perfect
virgin
hookers.
The Chatter Of Crows,
1.
This morning i saw sam champion
reporting extensive urban flooding
and river overflowing in magnolia,
arkansas
2.
Funny always seems the most
dust build up somewhere be-
tween autumn and winter
suppose best time for ghost visitation
dog makes himself comfortable
in cushions of furniture
3.
On one of those very mental
health days i take off work
my wife tells me you should
look at me drop him off at the bus
i tell her yeah i want to see those
pretty young bus drivers you
were telling me of
she says no they only
come when they drop him off
i tell her i’ll look at them
through the window
in the afternoon
4.
She tells me to get back at me
that they ran out of pumpkin
coffee at dunkin donuts
5.
The leaves have turned
all russet the color
of lost treasure
6.
All the little kids
returning home
dreaming
on buses
and have to be
woken up picked up
by all the pretty mothers.
The Strange Affects Of Weather,
As always
out of nowhere
like some miracle
autumn comes tumbling
through your window
while all you hear
is the murmur
of some madman
over your television
for spot remover
and angels
weeping
jimmy stewart still strolling
with his imaginary rabbit
harvey making small talk
and offering his color commentary
embracing the seasons and not giving
a rip van-winkle about rumors from bull-
shit phony
& gossipy
neighbors
for in truth in reality
always saw right through them
and never cared much for them anyway
as that sweet and saintly girl
from just around the way
from ‘a wonderful life’
still holds a pretty
deep major crush
on him despite his ways
and falls fast asleep with a big dumb
stupid smile on his face next door
to the rapturous roar of foghorns.
the drunken girls all
return home from karaoke bars
while it is no wonder he feels neither
conflict nor contrition
about his supposed bizarre
arrested stage of development
as in a couple months time
he will see his repeats over
and over again on television.
Remembering Names: the horse farm,
You hope the pumpkin girl will
dream of you tonight; you know
her very well from years ago and
still stands there with her long blonde hair
and sad smile blowing beneath her blue
snow hat by the sea in the chill of october
when the wilderness begins to change color
just below the mountains and they bring
the whale bones back from the ocean
when they begin to light candles behind
the pillars and lamplight always lays low
and silently sputters; when the old judge
returns home through the hush of dusk and
the tongue of opaque rivers begin to rise up
when the song and dance crows hung over
from harvest sigh and get high on corn silk
over stapled silhouetted roofs of the horizon
when the grape vines are ready to be plucked.
you hope tonight the pumpkin girl will dream
of you and you too will remember her well.
Portrait Of Lady Creeping Into Bed,
With a pained
expression
angrily
in the morning is dirty ribbons blue frog escaping
red lawn mower sparkling ships
ol’ san francisco
bumpa’da’bumpa
on bustling bridges bleak cemetery cider papers from philadelphia every true quintessential
queen in the meat market
when bagel shops open in
angel cobblestone of dawn mathematic equation
on a black board that will forever go
blissfully unsolved paper routes
placid movement
of murky lagoons masks from venicia crow with disco moves swooping down to purple pungent lawnblood orange sun rising falling awaking wondering does it ever rain in london? in coney island? a far cry from far rockaway.
Bushwick, Brooklyn
I spent some of my days
i spent some of my best days
i spent all my best days in paris
and swear to god if i don’t get back
back then they called you an expatriate
now they refer to you as anti-american
(imagine that me being anti-american
well i’ll be a monkey’s uncle
long tail cat at a rocking
chair convention)
and a risk i’m just willing to take
me and clouseau and gleason as
the muted and misunderstood poor
soul gigot both being collectively
and comically called imbecile
(even though contemplative
without a mean bone...)
by the chasing crowing masses
literally being shadowed all through
the black and white staticy streets
and winding cobblestone hills of monmartre
past cafes and fish and fruit stands and patisseries
and puppet shows and suave gigolos and screaming
hysterical widows and all the technicolor flamboyant
bohemians before they got famous leslie caron and
bridget bardot running into maurice chevalier
what’s his name still casually karate kicking
in the rain humpty dumpty played by the
incorrigible curly a stooge and jean-paul
sartre and jean genet and artie rimbaud
just freshly let out of the penitentiary
hanging on corner sympathetically
and sentimentally cheering me
on like some long distance
fugitive psychotic marathon
for stray abandoned dogs
holding on for dear life
to my pawnshop victrola
radio looking long longing look looking
over my shoulder panting and pacing
myself as if stealing still in brooklyn
past sacre-coeur where as the story
supposedly seems to go they buried
a quarter of jesus broken heart
first they want to crucify you
then they want to mourn you
and finish off your
mad manic madcap
action and adventure
satisfied and contented
with ashen sooty face and thick
five o’clock shadow and a blissful
drinking problem and crisp baguette
and ripe brie and bottle of cheap wine
la lune streaming through the cage of
my futon on the floor basement
stray cat hole in the wall
me as gigot gigot
as clouseau coiled
in shadow getting
the most out of
life really living
(the life) not
just all that
he said she
said bullshit
unholy petty
role playing
which never
ever really
amounts
to a thing.
The Act (the art) Of Flying Through Windows,
How you used to
love to lunge across
the long floors of your
childhood center chimney colonial with great eagerness and adrenaline afterschool after keg parties in the dim dusk of winter autumn when the winds rains would come snarling slapping sidling up against your great big window
overlooking a babbling
brook winding through pachysandra all excited
knowing it would soon fill
up with raging rainwater
jumping and leaping out of control towards some
unknown destination in
the comforts of your home(this was a time for ghosts
cause you knew this would
always stay with you forever
radiating in the warmth of
the cradle of crackling
flickering rooms
within the womb
of wild wicked
weather)and read
all about
the care actors
from
the communist
potty back in good old god fearing chzarist russia
that ol rascal
raskolnikov
the charismatic
brothers karimazov
(as strangely enough this was always able to pep you up before
supper like the hollow
thump of putting a bullet
in your skull dropping to
the ground) written by
the late great mad
man mr. fyodor.
Somewhere Around Thanksgiving Around The Braga Bridge In Fall River,
I keep on seeing these days
all these pretty gorgeous
downtrodden girls
stranded and abandoned
wilted on the side of the road
with wasted down in the dump
boyfriends and heads hung low
like mad muted crows as these
long lost and longing creatures
throw a subtle fleeting glance
in my direction and return it
with the same fierce sincere
and earnest conviction and think
want to literally rescue them and think
i could do a pretty good job of it for
like a week month maybe even a year
or so but think just like everything else
and the ways of the world they’d
wind up in the exact same role if that
makes any sense at all and decide
instead to just savor their fleeting
glances and interlude and moment
just experienced as you wonder
how does one apply to be a
swinger? it’s the weather
routines and rituals
that’ll kill you...
Ways In Which To Measure Life,
Got enough medication
on bathroom counter
in the relationship
in the marriage
to do some damage
and just end it all
making it all
that much
worth fighting for
to try and get by
and survive if
that makes
any sense
at all...
Social Worker,
I thanked my wife
profusely for going out
of her way to pick me up
some fruit punch over at trucchi's
on whacky wednesday in taunton, m-a
one of those classic crumbling mining
towns which used to be better known
back in the day rich and famous in its
silver and now like everything else
which doesn’t quite deliver which
seems long gone transformed melted
down to the brittle bones of some
beat down obscure eccentric
depressed new england town
where the freaks and pimps
and hookers and hustlers
come out when
sun goes down
the boarded up
victorians and
courtrooms and
state hospitals
the projects
and mansions
and judges
with drinking
problems
the rich boys
whose fathers
are lawyers
constantly
getting them
off on gun
charges
creepy sleazy
teachers with
certain prefer
not to mention
sexual identity
disorders the
out of order
daughters
now in the
possession
of the court
the result
of abuse of
power cops
foster parents
and preachers
and told her
i had felt very
depleted and
didn’t have anything
like juice with those
what’ya call 8,10 essential
vitamins in the refrigerator
for so damn long then when
she was gone and took off
to catch some z’s secretly and
slowly siphoned my pint of bacardi
with a splash of lime right in there
and sunk back into my easy chair
to realize there’s such a fine line
between hope and fear, doubt
and despair, in this fragile
and queer life just trying
to find a way to get
by and survive.
An,After,Dinner,Right,Around,Evening,Aperatif,
Drink! drink! drink!
as baudelaire said
or something to
that effect.
recently
i’ve been thinking
i want to be a junkie
just to get away from it all
sinking into my easy chair
like once a month as it’s
true it’s so much better
to be seen and not heard
in front of the weather channel
or one of those nice refined
english dramas set back
way in the olden times
on masterpiece theater
with a fresh clean needle
and dope just out the oven
and instead of milk and cookies
or cornflakes and bananas
just shoot the fuck up
(just shut the fuck up)
like some brilliant
distorted solitary
book of the month club
where no one shows up
as do definitely agree
with the old adage
it’s most necessary
to put aside a little
money for a rainy day.
It’s Not Me It’s You,
I don’t know maybe
i’m just one of those
real lost souls who
constantly feels
done wrong
cheated
& betrayed
but a white boy
who literally grew up
& thrived & truly felt
empowered & alive by
all those fine hardcore
rappers from the late
eighties & early nineties
who now are making their living
off g-rated movies? maybelline?
swear albums like ice cube's
america's most wanted
queen latifah’s
black rain got
me through so
many a rough
& tough day
as a restless
& angry
runaway
so i don’t know
maybe i’m just one
of those real lost souls
who constantly
feels done wrong
cheated & betrayed
even gets pissed off
whenever
i hear them
speaking of
all the great
rappers from back
in the day & so often
seem to conveniently
leave out people
like chuck d.
from public enemy
i mean are you kidding?
fear of a black planet?
apocalypse 91:
the enemy
strikes
black?
as whenever you
got through his
brilliant &
profound
lyrics & beats
felt like you had
been through
something
& could
do anything
as he restored
your sense of
self-respect
& dignity
or forever
hold your peace
it’s like this country
has this convenient
disconnect amnesia
where it’s like
the “in”
thing
these days
is to compare
kobe to michael
but how in the
heck are you
forgetting
magic, bird, akeem
the dream, even for
that matter pistol pete
& being a new york
kid why not even
bernard king
with that
sweet quick release
which seemed
so street
we all tried
to theatrically
imitate & copy
going back
to back
50 against
the bad boys
from detroit
in the
1984
eastern
conference
playoff series
which kept
me & my
buddies all
on the edge
of our seats
matter of fact
so much so
wouldn’t
even
budge
heck
might
even for
argument
sake put
isiah in the mix
so i don’t know
maybe i’m just
one of those
real lost souls
who constantly
feels done wrong
cheated & betrayed.
For Basquiat & The Velvet Underground,
Whenever they bring up
the 10 commandments
they always just seem
to mention the exact
same ones like i
always wondered
what the other 7 were
like i’d like to see
them all mixed up
all mixed in with
a 12 step program
& the declaration
of independence
& martin luther
king’s letter from
birmingham prison
& lincoln’s
emancipation
proclamation
& list for
mummification
& things to be
picked up at
the food
emporium
& couple
jim morrison
poems & eminem
& archie & veronica
& mock apple pie
right off the side
of a box of
ritz crackers
& directions
for the hiemlich
maneuver & kama
sutra & gertrude stein’s
hypnotic mantras
rants & chants from
stanzas in meditation
a couple proofs spoofs
from that good ol jew
spinoza la rouchefoucald
maxims & nietzche’s
copycat aphorisms
rosetta stone
& the dead
sea scrolls
tibetian
egyptian
book of
the dead
whatever
it is that
makes
me feel
again
yet think
too that
is way
overrated
like i think
therefore
i am
and so like
andy warhol’s
friend lou
reed once
said –“i guess
that i just
don’t know.”
Buzzed,
I grew up
eternally
bouncing
swaying
racing
off on my
radioflyer
race horse
in a faded
photo in the
late-sixties
in the deep
blue sea
shaggy dog
rug long & low
golden-mustard
suede sofa &
shadows of a
flesh-colored
tasseled lamp
on a triangular
pumpkin-orange
end table with an
avocado pastel poster
in great big geometric
psychedelic letters
hanging above
which just read “love”
with the spirit & soul
of one of those bright
eyed teen idols
that poster child
one of those rock
& rollers with a
great big glossy
smile yet some
how got stuck
like a savage
in the crack
of the cradle
of one of those
silly putty eggs
& once i found
my way out
was sure
as hell
to make
a name
was sure
to strip off
all the shame
& make my
claim to fame
don’t wanna
leave my hotel
bed in las vegas
winnamucka
rollerskating
red river & reno
more happened
in the sixties
than anything
preceding
or proceeding it
trust me sailors & jesus
& the whole sequined
freak show cast to
bob & carol & ted
& alice starring
natalie wood
& elliot gould
& dianne cannon
& what was
that other cat’s name
benjamin braddock
played by the brooding
& manic dustin hoffman
in the graduate
finding yourself
in the exact same
predicament
still on the run
like the young
restless madman
jack nicholson
pounding piano
on the back of
some moving
moving truck
after getting
stuck in
bumpa da
bumpa then
unbeknownst
taking off
to some
unknown
destination
in five easy
pieces
what the
world needs
now is love
sweet love
still without
a doubt
would
put up
against
almost
any other
one of
the most
touching
titillating
tragic &
transcendent
love songs ever.
Born,
Everything’s so dumb and diluted...obscure(d) and ob(li)vious and objectified these days...
it all just simply appears based on what we see on/off t.v. and american online screen...and
just instantly bring ourselves ...not even...to bang our chest...brainwashed...pre-programmed...
pre-manufactured...to absurdly and universally believe (in actuality...the opposite of selfsame cognitive behavioral emotions and feelings having nothing to do with beliefs) such things like
One Person Shot In Providence Barber Shop
Bid Laden Hunter's Family Speaks Out: Gary Brooks Faulkner, who's dying of kidney failure,
was pursuing "his last Hurrah” in the Middle East, his siblings say...
Hot Search: get a free Fuddrucker Burger today
so this is what has become our new...old...brand-new...wishy-washy...collective unconscious seeping into our consciousness...so besides your everyday people like people in the insurance business...your businessmen...your publishing and advertising...even people like professors
and psychiatrists who will actually gather around and happen to mention the next day how
they stayed up late...and flesh-out about some bachelor or bachelorette who betrayed
or got betrayed on some late-night...last episode...last-ditch resort desert island...
which is set up all romantic with the tiki torches and palms and luaus going...on somewhere
out on some polynesian island...wherever that may be...maybe in your utopian...shangrila...
technicolor...imagination...as your only reference used to be the true-blue essence of elvis in
blue hawaii or the classic south pacific...or sweeping pictures and murals of misty mountains
and long peaceful and placid zen bamboo canoes...with faded stenciled prints of fishermen
and hermits...on great sprawling walls of childhood chinese buffets and restaurants...called such things like hong kong garden or szchezuan flower...those warm steamy towels you’d throw over your face...wobbling dragging yourself stuffed and contented...like some demented oompa-loompa past the great big gold fish bowls...stealing those mints out the bowls...stuffing your face...pockets...heading home
so now in america what would the perfect day be? what would nirvana be? if you just happened to be serendipitiously sitting in the back of some bus...on some rainy day...in the parking lot of some mall...and just simply chowed down...out of some fast-food silver crinkly wrapper...into that perfect free fuddrucker’s burger...knowing they caught...or heard they caught bin laden...and they’re gonna set up a reality show now starring bin laden and bin laden’s captor...hunter gary brooks faulkner...and will run for like 10 episodes...and we get all of their most revealing and heartfelt most sentimental and intimate thoughts of bid laden and garth gary brooks faukner
where sometimes they get along...sometimes they don’t...sometimes they go at each other... sometimes they hug...sometimes they do that pre-packaged choreographed emotive cathartic cry...either coming in the collective relatable form of mutely cupping their palms over their nose...or delicately demonstratively in a very calm and reflective respectful manner...
one fell swoop swiping their tears away with pointer finger...or having a minor breakdown
(tizzy fit or temper tantrum) paroxysm or tearful explosion to earn t.v. ratings and capture
their audience...or just simply feeling betrayed and airing it all out on prime-time t.v...
“the most watched channel and network” after getting drunk in a hot tub the night before
then break out in song for all of america to sway and swoon and clap and sing along...like
some long lost impossible flamboyant “singular sensation” amateur hour herd of ridiculous
absurd cartoonish melodramatic actors on broadway...exposing all their fears and dreams and vulnerabilities...as they were supposed to magically change and manipulate and make you feel
all happy and gay...(all over)...yet ironically as a child whenever they took you out to become more cultured just ended up feeling so much more self-conscious embarrassed and awkward (as opposed to liberated) not only for me but also the actors and just wanted to get right back home and creep and crawl and forget about it all and get back into the car and zoom right off through the dark shadowy trees of the highway...and really imagine ...falling dead asleep in the suburbs.
Land Of Truth And Liberty,
And so in this holy
and sacred land
in the land of
truth and liberty
we so reverently
refer to as holy bond
holy moly matrimony
of marriage we bicker
about some of the most
petty things you can ever
imagine where everything
goes exactly as planned
when the sun starts to fall
on a fucked-up fairyland
on the bloated red-faced
hostile three-head-dead
used-car salesman
on a thinly-sliced
girl with out of
control eating disorder
the odd gigolo father
riddler on the roof
always curiously
with shirt off showing
off his health club
pecs and pecking
like some half-
crazed casanova crow
karaoking on the cross
the o.c.d. schmuck
across the border
who ostrich/sizes
neighbors and plays
the role of perfect provider
and puts everything in wonderful
working order, how lost and helpless
he feels (if he ever allows himself
to feel cause it’s all about sales)
when he discover the delusions
of his denial, angry wiggers from
the suburbs cranking their rap down
the stripmall with a pot of gold at
the end of the rainbow which reads
dunkin donuts, sears, smoky bones
when you get home there will be
some form of competition
or sports which will
be running all day
long on your television
from sunrise to sunfall
and then like this natural
cycle and motion
and revelation
the repetition
of scores
instant replays
and sports analysis.
to break it all up
and placate and
sedate the viewer
there will be
stereotypical
archetypal
commercials
of the white man
and white woman
where for the sake
of exposure for the sake
of publicity and promotion
for a sense of humor as that
has proven to be the most effective
medium statistically proven to attract
(to abstract and extract...) a far greater
and more universal demographic and
targeted audience as research tells us
they feel more calm and comfortable
will set up perfect pristine idealistic
safe and secure suburban scenarios
where the former (innocent harmless
male caucasian) will act silly or stupid
and pretend like he does not know
what he is doing and the latter
(graceful gregarious female
white girl) will be all-knowing
multi-tasking and taking care
of everyone and everything
in this free holy and sacred
land of truth and liberty.
A Subdivision Called America,
*
Today out of nowhere i got engulfed swallowed
whole by a very large faceless middle-aged clone
in the frozen food section of the super stop & shop
then returned herself back to the chill of the freezer
*
When i got home i poured myself
out of a wildflower seed packet
onto the subdivision in thunder
*
To try and once more
believe and feel again
*
No one seemed to notice
as they were all indoors
on their computers
playing videos
and never make their way
onto fertilizing lawns
*
They have bird feeders
they have jungle gyms
they have speedboats that
speed fast along the ocean
they have all the same
trees on their frontage
the wasted widow
motorcycle gigolo
*
Always felt most at home
with the gardeners
always got to know
them so much better
*
They keep on pumping out
children and you don’t know
who is who which one’s witch
all got freckles and faceless
and just seem a bit dazed
developmentally delayed
*
All the cute girls from high school
who have made the grade and are
graduating and ready to go to the
university are looking to get laid
so they can at least say
to themselves and to
their girlfriends and
get in their final say
they will go out with their perfect beach tans
and perfectly faded blue jeans and tank tops to
show off their ripe and fresh-squeezed bosoms
they will go out with best friends
to drink beer in bars somewhere in
around towns like braintree and boston
“the american way”
they all look the same
make the same moves
and fuck the same way
they will whisper and play mind games
and try to seduce older men in their mid-twenties
keeping them at a distance and turning them into victims
(how will they remember this most holy and sacred experience?)
*
When your much younger wife and you do it
you claim–“you’re too rough and tough for me!”
she instantly retorts–“we’re gonna have
to get you on the viagra...from the internet”
and then she’s gone
and all you hear
are dogs
barking in the yard
deep burgundy plum trees
bending back in the breeze
*
You begin to breathe in barbecues
sizzle of bugzappers and alcoholic neighbor
once more making the moves under the influence of wine coolers
you turn away
to the ferocious firmament of forests
to the revelation of rain and begin to germinate.
Windex,
All it is out here are ‘madmen’ who have these horrible
marriages going through the motions faceless mechanical
delivering and dropping their kids off at karate and gymnastics
and the u.p.s. man coming into the dead end at the exact same
hour same bat time same bat channel when the sun goes down
like some sort of sabbath to drop off more goods and possessions
in the hopes to feed fuel to the illusion to the denial to the museum
and mirage like the dusty wind-up dolls of cobwebs come back to life
you turn on the met game on your windy
kitchen sill and start to windex the world...
Whore Bath,
Every dusk i simply wash myself off in the kitchen sink
looking out in a stoned daze barely able to speak
through the window to the backyard where the exact
same rabbit is conducting the same ceremony grooming
with his ears stuck up like one of those old time antennas
stuck to the top of a television, and looks in on me like
what the hell are you doing? and sometimes even find
myself questioning myself, then continues munching on
grass like everything good and natural from childhood
think i could have lived off mcdonald’s cheeseburgers.
Photosynthesis,
Been recently trying to recreate my childhood
throwing myself backwards down the stairs
(like some clutz compulsively and awkwardly
stumbling somersaulting off the high dive)
the sound of lawnmowers trailing off
through early evening windows...
Wife Told Me Tonight I Hope You Die As I Replied
Can You Bring Me Up A Nice Cold Glass Of Milk,
I’m gonna find a way of getting me a pool even if i gotta kill someone.
rejoin my friends from the neighborhood in organized crime. return to
the black market. perhaps drive that truck long haul. once more sell
drugs. as all’s i really care, all’s i need is to bury bare body. head.
shoulders. back. belly. toes and all (what happened to the nestea
plunge? when you used to just simply leap off the cliff without
a care in the world?) like the young dustin hoffman escaping
everything and everyone deep down below in the graduate
or even that obscure weird spooky-looking kid who was
like in every twilight zone episode. that one where he swam
through the filters of his pool and got transformed and ended
up in a whole other world. regenerated. reborn. like a miracle.
like shangrila. like some glossy postcard. pristine and pure.
and sure enough had no desire to return home. gonna
find a way to get a pool even if i gotta kill someone.
Christ On A Cracker,
So damn blasted hot...
rabbit outside my window
simply hunched over like a wino
like a rabbi wilted at the wailing wall.
every summer out here in fall river it becomes tradition
for the exact same guy to try and rip off the exact same boat and gets arrested
then somehow when he gets out tries to do the exact same thing again on the exact
same person. got to admire his moxie or perseverance or whatever the hell you’d call that?
To Do List:
1. Turn on sports radio from new york.
2. Turn off water in back of home to fill up kid’s pool.
3. Throw out water from dehumidifier out back door.
4. Watch the woman across the road who’s a teacher
and comes out every summer in pink tericloth dress
bathrobe and bends over doing whatever she does.
5. Have revelations while blowing up kid’s floatees
hearing women walking the dead end sounding
more like crows and the crows more like women.
6. Plan vacations you know you clearly cannot afford.
7. Think of ways to purchase a pool whether legal or illegal.
8. Think up weird shit like putting central air-conditioning in my
casket when they lower me under good and gone forever and ever.
9. Think of ways of explaining to wife how i cheated on her (actually
never did or ‘just ain’t my schtick’) replacing that absurd and awful
word ‘cheating’ with ‘natural’ and ‘necessity’ and don’t you agree
just gets me out the house more often making me a happier person?
10. Keep a close eye on the babysitter next door
who does all those moves to keep you young.
11. Put the hose on the weeping willows.
12. Later on go to dump and ocean and mall.
13. Wash down the dog.
What You Can Never Put A Price On,
Drifting through
rolling fields of corn
with 5 year old singing
old rolling stones songs
when they were still young
and doing blues and covers–
“baby back dressed in black
silver buttons up and down
her back...can i get a witness
witness! witness!”
and him stopping
me every time i
get to that part
in cute adorable
sing-songy voice
unruly mop of
dirty blonde hair
and big dimples
smiling from
ear to ear
declaring–
“everybody
knows...
especially
you girls”
finally
the heat
lets up
and you
head home
and wonder
how the conch
sleeps in his
conch shell
The Apple Pie Man,
There was this heavy-set kid who used
to routinely sneak into the bathroom
of james k. polk elementary school
who developed the bizarre reputation of engaging
in certain rituals which at the time were considered
to be curiously taboo; no not smoking, jerking off
having sexual relations, but delicately
peeling off wrappers in secret behind the stalls
and then meticulously nibbling away at apple pies.
it was kind of ironic because
he had this ripe and red roly
poly face and whenever he
got caught or felt ashamed
looked exactly like that
flaky slice of apple pie
acquiring the name
the apple pie man.
recently i’ve
been wondering
what ever happened
to the apple pie man?
as of recent i’ve been
obsessed to the where-
abouts of the apple pie man
did he become a husband?
hustler? salesman? serial killer?
or simply some older version only
little more stuffy and puffy and crustier.
he was a pretty good kid from what i
remember and that’s the fascinating
thing about memories; how you may reflect back
arbitrarily at the most irrelevant people, places and things