BILLIARDS AND DARTS

 

A teacher asks Little James

What balls are those that don’t have hairs

And Little James answered quickly:

-None, teacher, because all the balls

And more those of Villar

Have hairs.

There was laughter by spoonfuls

Like garlic soups

In Roa de Duero, Burgos

Before corralling bulls.

Little students from Aranda de Duero

Know this joke very well

And always talk of it

When they go to the wine cellar

And, into the deep of it

They touch the balls among them

To see which of them

Have more grown hair.

To who that has the longest hair

They sent him to Burgos

With free expenses

 As a prize for competing

In a competition of Billiards and Darts

To a place called “At Plane”, in Gamonal

Telling him at the Bus Station

Before car beging to move:

– Take care, Villar, you’re going to Burgos

To compete at Plane

Ones with darts, others with sticks”.

-Daniel de Culla

 

 

PLANET TRUMP

 

Trump, gypsylike to, illustrates

The scintilla of  life:

Making a Trump taking many lives

Wishing and hunting

Ancient skills of skinning.

His powerful majic odor

Dilates our nostrils

And quickens our hearts.

He will be written  with berry juice

Since his brain is as a tortilla

made with turtle’s eggs

coming to Act, coming to Eat

With Putin and his Ego

Within the necessities

Of all the livings.

-Daniel de Culla

 

 

FROM BEGINNING TO END

 

From beginning to end

is explained absolutely everything worth knowing

about absolutely nothing.

Why not’?

We felt that the Beginning is a true leaf

of the inmortal literature

as a side of bacon changing the pig

discovering the best way to keep its legend alive

encouraging mytology

and the controversy about it:

Sun wil have its tide spreading over our maps

Moon remembering us we were gone

and we still sing everything waiting

for birth, death

inside this den of us.

Spring, Summer, Autum, Winter

coming with feelings of love, radiance

quiet and delight

As ever.

-Daniel de Culla

 

 

WE ARE ALL A LIKE

 

Crossing the Street

I’m just celebrating

The feline sense of “Like”.

How do You like Me?

I like more bananas than slices of water-melon.

And I really feel like

And yet I induced  it like

That is like.

What is he like?

The like as Me.

With my own words to receive

To touch, to perceive:

Baby is like to live; Old is like to die.

You have eyes like stars

And the face like an Ass.

I’m going to divorce You

For that¡

Like father, like son.

 – Daniel de Culla

 

 

A SENSE OF WONDER

Original artwork by Daniel de Culla

 

TENGO EL MONO

Original photography by Daniel de Culla

 

Five Finger Fillet.

 

The games had started innocently

enough,

with the radiators on maximum –

as the Christmas snow

twisted and turned outside.

 

I wasn’t even that competitive but

the explosive reaction

that I’d get from

my brother was always worth it.

 

I was button bashed 

at Rocket League,

thrashed at Ping Pong, 

but I smashed him at 

Shut The Box 

and after my brother 

then lost at Ker Plunk –

he vowed to beat me 

after he’d rolled 

another 

blunt.

 

Once, the twenty minute ceasefire

drew to an end my brother ran off

to the kitchen –

returning red eyed and grinning with

a chopping board, kitchen knife

and stopwatch.

 

“Five finger fillet!” he said.

“Really?” I replied.

“We’d play it all the time when I was

working out at sea –

those rough waves were

good teachers! Now, put your

hand on the chopping board!”

he demanded.

“Aren’t you supposed to use

your own hand?”

“That’s no fun!”

“The whole thing looks far from fun.”

“Fine, start with me.” my brother said

and put his hand on the chopping

board.

 

My brother then set the stopwatch

for a minute stretched out his pinkie

and thumb, as he then counted

each

stab

on

the

chopping

board

whilst I built up momentum before

the stopwatch sounded.

 

“48 stabs!” my brother shouted.

“It was more than that!” I argued.

“I was counting them.”

“Fine, now it’s my turn to count.”

I replied.

 

I got the stopwatch ready and

put my hand on the chopping board,

like some slab of meat

in front of a butcher.

 

“Go!” I said.

 

With a deep concentration I counted

the knife once –

before I felt a searing pain

as the blade pierced my finger

and saw blood on the chopping board.

 

“You got my fucking hand!

You did that on purpose!” I said.

“What?” he replied.

 

He put the knife back down,

before I pushed him onto the floor

as he performed some strange

wrestling manoeuvre and I flew back

onto the shelving unit,

taking him with me –

as a vase toppled off and landed

on his shoulder

shattering into a million pieces.

 

Then there was silence.

 

I had no idea if he’d just

lost five finger fillet –

or he’d secretly won by stabbing me,

but he looked over and grinned,

holding his shoulder

as I held my hand

knowing that the games were over

and that life wasn’t something won

it was something that you played,

or at least it played you.

 

CATCH

The river maiden calls
to me. The voice of an
angel, the trickery of a
sorceress, she guides me
to the depths of the river.
Sleepwalking under water
I become a fish and a
catch for someone’s menu.
I provide nourishment
when for years I had feelings
of lack of self-worth. To be
needed for once, I let it all
happen without knowing
I had fallen into a spell.

 

 

breaking all the hearts

 

staring off in the distance

and it’s always the wrong

song that comes on

 

an old lover leaving,

breaking all the hearts

 

and soon your demons

are in the corner

laughing

 

you can’t fool them

 

they know you aren’t cut

out for life in this world

 

and no matter how much

you try being positive

it will never work for

you

 

those hands will always

be around your neck

 

you will always be

pinned to the bathroom

floor at your grandmother’s

house

 

therapy never worked

 

the drugs never helped

 

and even alcohol has

turned a cold shoulder

 

thankfully, you know

a guy and you still can

find a vein

 

EVA’S LOCKET

 

Against her breast, she wears her dead grandfather.

Even now, she can’t help thinking of how he died,

shuffled into the steaming oven,

suffocated as stiff as her black shoes.

 

In mid-summer, she drinks hot black coffee

in an old suburban Chicago house.

How tight her collar buttons at the throat.

How sad the farewell that slips between her blouse and bra.

 

The chain is as long as a train with many windows.

The one face twists when she turns her head.

It’s a typical portrait of the time.

The eyes can stare at her but no way

 

that they can see what’s coming.

The locket is small, no longer shiny.

It’s been with her year after year,

a brush with darkness and with light.

 

It’s from a time when Europe looked elsewhere.

Or when blindness outflanked vision.

So many names her tongue could sanctify.

When it’s just the one, her silence is a beautiful thing.

 

 

SHE BLEEDS FOR BROOKLYN
Judge Burdon

She lives with low rent day dreams, on no name backstreets.
Dirty sidewalks made from quicksand concrete,
There’s no yellow brick road.

In this city like desert without an oasis.
Hope a disease that breeds in places,
Where God wouldn’t go.

In the air there’s a stench the smell of desperation.
And lives are stamped with a date of expiration.
The Devil’s grip on their souls.

Night crashes down with the sound of a train wreck.
She’s on the prowl for love and everyone’s suspect,
But they just leave her cold.

She cries with a sound that no one hears.
Her eyes lost their voice
Now she can’t speak with tears
She wonders ’bout life on the other side of the mirror.
Kneels down for one more unanswered prayer.
But there’s no one listening out there!

And she bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn
She’s hemorrhaging lies and alibis.
She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn.
Break free Persephone
Brooklyn left the front porch light on.

 

MY SIBLINGS’ FATHER
Judge Burdon

other children feared monsters
under their bed
i feared the one living under our roof.
his hair was nimbus black
with a storm’s thunder in his voice.
his fists were freight train brown
ball bearing knuckles
frostbite blue was his touch
with empty icebox eyes
his smile untrusted growling words
spoken like tangled spaghetti
he was my mother’s husband
my siblings’ father
a childhood of baseballs never thrown
bruises and shattered bones
medicated with lies
happiness diluted with tears
in a house with screams undetected
when asked what i wanted to be
i testified “far from here”
now, fiber optic home front news
faceless words
cancer eating away at your life
with the fury of a piranha
your disease now my champion
fighting with the courage
i was unable to muster
your epitaph written in my adolescence
while plotting your midnight homicide
again you leave unaccountable for your actions
i’m left to wrestle with the demons
not the strength to forgive
my memory too scarred to forget
i’ll keep the battle lines drawn as your monument
let the puzzle piece fall where it may
good bye old man you’ll be missed
like a pit viper’s bite
your pain can no longer touch me
from the grave.

 

I Do Not Know What You Are Thinking

By

Grant Guy

She said

I don’t know what you are thinking

You do not talk to me

I said

I do not know what I am thinking

I do know what I am feeling

I cannot put feelings into words

She said

That is no way to talk to your lover

I said

I do not know what love is

“Bad Hair Day”

By Lloyd Bailey

 

 

The corridors seem distant, seem darker.

There are no bright countenances.

The morning hues are haunted and hostile.

Where have all my friends wandered?

Anger and aggression have replaced harmony.

It invades my R.E.M.

turning my morning wood

into pallid putty;

this is no way to meet the day…

I splash cold water on my face,

but the mirror doesn’t change.

It’s in the eyes

that never wash away.

The fresh air inhales stale,

ominous clouds dim the sun.

I squint my eyes still.

I’ve gone searching for my friends.

I’m looking for what I lost.

 

 

 

“Working for the Man Sucks!”

By Lloyd Bailey

 

 

Like a bullhorn he bellows,

“Before ye boys breach my domain,

with your bad manners and boisterous ways,

I require an inspection from coiffure to boot tips

beginning with crop, parted firmly down leftern crown,

countenances scrubbed squeaky,

eyes forward and determined,

and chin bare of whiskers.”

 

Now he marches up and down the line,

making adjustments,

“You sir, cannot enter my kitchen

until you starch that collar.

You, tighten up that shirt bottom.

You look bloated about your belly.

You, boy, unbuckle that belt. You’ve missed a loop in the back.

Good Christ man, you consider those pants creased?

They’re flat as a flapjack. Invest in an iron immediately.

Pull up that pant leg, sir. I suspect a sockless wonder.

What’s this? Ankle socks? You, sir, are not your sister.

Calf high gentlemen and colored black.

Now fetch your eyes fellows

and follow this man’s shoe shine”

He bends over and picks some biscuit in the reflection,

 

And continues,

“You, separate six dozen eggs.

You, take the whites, turn them into mayonnaise.

Make it tight.

You, make the yolks into hollendaise.

Snap to it boys. I haven’t got all day.”

As he marches through his office door,

counting,

“1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4.”

 

 

 

“Bellow the Bowery off the Commons”

By Lloyd Bailey

 

Front porch a veritable ashtray,

wooden steps a smoker’s playground

of used butts and char black burns,

ash flakes reign everything.

 

Men speckle stoop sipping coffee,

thousand yard stares,

scattered “yeps” and “uh-huhs,”

foot shufflings and watch checkings.

Ruby sun in western purple sky

intimates time.

 

Tobacco rich air permeates the room –

that pungent after smoke stench –

wares heavy on the place

with a thick black coffee aftertaste.

Pensive is the mood

as eye contacts are made,

and head nods are had.

(Donuts sit stale in a box.)

After serenity is granted

everyone settles in

for the long haul.

 

Experience, strength, and hope

is the message.

New comers are most important,

but none are present.

This is no place for amateurs;

this meeting is not en vogue.

Gravely voices prevail.

Five o’clock shadows

are warranted.

You get two minutes.

Then shut up.

Sip, don’t slurp,

lest you relish the stink eye.

 

Holding hands is forbidden,

same goes for shoulder wraps.

When it’s time

stand up, bow your head, and clasp your fingers.

Now recite the “Lord’s Prayer.”

 

Outside it’s cool, freshing, and dark

save for firefly glows of cigarette tips.

The evening is cathartic.

Men wait to be delivered.

Someone suggest more

coffee and donuts

at a diner

down the street.

Most everyone migrates.

No one wants to be alone,

not at time like this.

 

 

His Soul Was Operated On

By
Grant Guy

His soul was operated on in 1998
He no longer needed it & had it extracted
He had not loved since 1971

He gave up on man & the world in 1972
When God’s roof caved in on him
He gave up on God in 1963

He could have ended it all

Jumping on the Disraeli Bridge
in the Fall of 1949

 

None of that was good enough

Better to be a thorn in the side of the world

Yes he decided

 

Except he did in a cholera outbreak

In the summer of 1903

 

 

so this is love

by

Grant Guy

 

the twilight zone of love

i don’t want it

you can keep

put it in your pipe

& smoke it

dump the ashes in the ashtray of blues

 

what good is love in the twilight zone of love

 

compost

 

shopping

I went shopping at Price Chopper
and walked around pushing my cart
up and down the aisles
and trying to remember what it was
that I needed to buy
and finally
I came to check-out
and pulled in behind a baby
in a bassinet
and I said “hi baby,” and
pulled on the baby’s toes
and he moved his feet a little
but not much
(had a pacifier in his mouth)
the mother, a blonde
had a harried-look to her pinched-face
and three other kids jumping around her
and the cart;
the teenage girl cashier pleasantly curt
the bagger something of a dim-bulb;
I left with my bags
under my arms
and without having connected to
anyone
in that place.

 
Larry

my friend Larry’s obituary was not in any
major newspaper;
he was a little man
anonymous
a home-town creation,
part owner of
a granite shed
who
one night
pulled another man out of
his, Larry’s, ex-wife’s bed
and when a cop
arrived
Larry picked up a shot gun
and pointed it at the cop
who pointed his pistol
in response
and in the stand-off
Larry said, “if you shoot me, I will shoot you,”
and Larry’s relatives
who gathered
shouted at the cop
“shoot him! shoot him!”
but the cop, a rookie
was shaking too much to shoot
straight
and nobody died that
night
and Larry got off with probation
plus
six months to serve instead
of the years he could have got
and maybe deserved
for aiming a gun
at a cop.

 
Blarney

I went to J C Penny’s to buy
a swim suit but
they had nothing remotely resembling
a swim suit, and
I bought a towel instead
and t-shirt with a pocket
(got to have the pocket)
and went home and
took a shower
and was excited to use the
new towel
which was soft and
felt good on my skin,
then I put my new t-shirt on
and walked downtown,
feeling good,
almost like a new man,
and I went to the meeting
but
it was not much,
same old members
same old blarney
stone shit
I thought
man
I have got to get me
some kind of
new life.