“I’ve submitted short poems to be turned loose onto your wild prairie of indomitable verse.”
JOHN WAYNE MOVIES
My Grandfather only ever liked two things
Fishing and John Wayne movies
He would always say that fishing relaxed him
But there was never the promise
That you would catch anything
Life is so full of uncertainties
He’d tell me as a child
More and more there are no guarantees
At least in John Wayne movies
He’d say
You know who’s gonna fucking win.
Woke up this mornin’
Feeling like Pete Seeger when he looked like Lizzie Borden
Folklore sold me a soul like Bonnie Parker and a grin like Clyde Barrow
And they drove me home with bullet holes whispering, nibbling van Gogh’s earlobe
The sun and moon distracted her from the epilogue
Dusk and dawn were our rise and fall
The engine is writing letters and the rain is reading them aloud
Shouting, “The undertaker will be the last person to let you down!!”
And “We was then and this be now!”
Do we really want or need to see another soapbox episode?
All the little droplets dread the epilogue
As they sing the gospel of a rise and fall
Judas, in his lifelessness, lives out his loneliness
Hanging paintings in a cemetery museum
And on his tombstone when he buries his legacy alive
Is an epitaph that’ll make you laugh and cry and laugh and cry and laugh and cry
They hired me to write his obituary and the epilogue
His life and death played out like a rise and fall
Saw her smoking dirt from a tin foil hat
She screamed bloody murder and she let me have it
Let her little light shine, raised her blade, said “Goodbye, Charley Patton”
And left my throat a gorgeous disaster
Now it’s getting dark and I can’t seem to read the epilogue
Crimson smudges taste like a rise and fall
II. Memphis Died with Elvis
Sheriff’s department shine runners
Running gypsy kind up into their treehouses
With their necktie nooses tied around branches
Pulling at threads and pulling with pliers
Razor-sharp teeth from the mouths of sheep
Poison ivy crowns resting on the heads of liars
Absconded by wolves in pelts of fleece
This is where the soul of a man comes to die
III. This Machine Kills Free Thought
Forever picked a beautiful hill to die on
Buzzards circle the sunlight in anticipation
Waiting, salivating over someone else’s prey
Remember tomorrow like it happened yesterday
And never present the gift of present tense
Innocence, in a sense
Bloody fingerprints on the piano keys
I pieced myself back together with pieces of you
But I took nothing you’ll miss and I promise to
Return it all when I come back from the point of no return
You’re sentimentally insane about watching me burn
You’re the one who tied me to the stake
But I was able to walk away so
Don’t give it another thought and
Forget yourself in something eternal so you’ll never be forgotten
Open the box and put on the pawn shop diamond ring
Hope my neck doesn’t break so you can watch me swing
IV. Needle in a Needlestack
Liver decaying, salvation fading, they drag me to the guillotine
Selling souvenir transcripts of the trial from the printing press death machine
And in my passing, the man says, “Good luck, but…
Dead stars are only ever so pretty in the dark.
Who do you think you are?”
“I am nobody. How do you intend to kill a man with no body?”
“You’ll pay with your head for what you did.
And we’ll all breathe easy when your breathing ends.”
His laugh is mad and he’s made
As I moaned like a sinner on Revival Day
He cremated me and he’s compensated
With $6 in quarters taken from the coin-operated stockade in town square
Grey clouds gather and rain on the solar-powered electric chair
I. Living in a Van Down by the River
Faust found himself down and with a story to tell
Prostituting his truth to have a story to sell
And without a word sat beneath the tree
To write in pain his train track tragedy
Faust found himself down in Clarksdale
With Legba’s hounds on his trail
A bargain on the run, bought for a broken song and sold
The highways tortured Faust’s poor paid-for soul
Faust finally found his way up to Memphis
With a bottle and a book, coming back from New Orleans
Papa’s rabid dogs ran him down
Into the dirt of the road
Faust found himself buried a few miles out of town
The sky was open any which way he looked around
His eyes rolled back and he knew the blues
When the old man with the crutch came to collect his due
II. Sultana
2 a.m., April 27, eighteen-hundred-sixty-five
Eighteen-hundred dead by sunrise
Riverboat hauling prisoners of war
And news of the death of the commander-in-chief
Battle lines were drawn in the waves
Seven miles north of Memphis, Tennessee
When sweet Sultana went down to the riverbed, up in flames
Leaving men to freeze in the Mississippi or burn with the boat
The weakened soldiers clung to life and clung to one another
And clung to branches on the trees the river had risen over
Water filled their lungs to the point of bursting
And sent visceral shrapnel into their ribcages, heartbreaking
III. Tributaries
If it keeps on raining, the levee’s gonna break
The townspeople all pray to be saved
And the runoff drains into open graves
Levees kicked down by a foot of rain a day
The bars and brothels on Beale Street form a new bluff
Some run up north, some keep with whores and get drunk
Drowning in whiskey and watching the water rise
Looking their lovers in the eyes across the river, 60 miles wide
Holding onto grandma’s wedding rings and a few old family photos
As the whole town drops to a watershed stroke
Bullets and beans are traded for hooch, opium, and coke
Men carve felled trees into boats, bloated corpses float
Conducting an orchestra of deafening thunder and struggling cries
Setting electric sculptures against a soul-swallowing sky
Sitting on the roof of a farmhouse, watching fish and furniture pass by
Dipping toes in the water and singing hymns of the endtimes
IV. Wife Gone on the Funeral Train Blues
I’m going crazy without you here
Bringing gods to their knees and stones to tears
Divert your attention, avert your eyes
I’d swim 2,000 miles of filthy water to meet you on the other side
An apparition presented, the mirror resented
The bride in the hearse, the logical poet demented
I’d do anything for you but I refuse to die
I’m gonna go where you are and bring you back alive
Two parts courage and three parts trust
Don’t look back, something might be gaining on us
I walked with you until the very end
And turned around just in time to watch you disappear again
I sang the blues until my throat bled
My fingertips blistered and the wine went to my head
When asked if I had any last words, I just wanted it noted that I never wrote about blue violets and red roses, that it was always about love, loss, struggle, exploded riverboats, and a particularly destructive flood.
******
In all seriousness and in the interest of full disclosure, I regret ending my love affair with the moon. I miss watching the cadence of the sun and its dance with my lunar mistress, making love to the silver sliver, menacing in her lunacy.
I’m a raving fucking lunatic.
I miss the times when my insanity was in its infancy. I wish all this didn’t used to keep me up at night, that I wasn’t used to losing sleep, but then again I kinda wish I still did. If I had three wishes, the other two would be to see her again…
Gautama Buddha would be so ashamed…
******
Depression is the spirit of prayer and moves me to spend days in bed but never rest. Dear dignified Death, I must trust that you have a plan for me, as you’ve cost me all my loves and passions.
Sometimes it seems the only good these pills could do me would be to put me to sleep more permanently. The validation will sustain me. Give me a legacy. I’ll be more than happy to pay for it.
But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it and burn it when I cross it — honestly, most likely while I’m still on it.
******
Thriving through the self-loathing mouth of arrogance meant to disguise the abhorrence I feel every time I interview that ignorant echo.
Putting these words on paper to cope and saying them into microphones to find some sort of affection that might feel like home.
But fading out and burning away and all those old rock star cliches don’t exactly apply to broken poets, do they?
Here’s hoping…
******
Through my breakdown, my downfall, my falling apart, I broke hearts and I broke bones (mostly my own) and walked over them all to ascend to my throne.
Dear Death, spare me this Time to which you’ve sentenced me. Throw my poems into the crematorium with me. Let them burn with their bastard father and end as ashes in the river, sent to his deity and saved from his enemy. Give me your promise of peace.
“The poet is dead. Long live the poems.”
Constant Commotion
At Jazz Station club
Singing to Mitchell singing
No, you can’t take that away from me,
the way you wear your hat,
the way you hold your tea.
Tapping feet to Kenny’s drum solo.
Watching Audie singing
Why not take all of me.
You took my heart.
Snacking on cheesy SunChips.
Studying Robert studying Nick on piano.
Watching Amy singing
I miss New Orleans?
I miss the one I cared for
more than I miss New Orleans.
Watching young Jesse bellowing on sax.
Sipping on local pinot noirs at a table with friends.
Listing a few Kenisms with Erin and Amy.
Put your hands together, you lazy Americans.
Ain’t no shame in my game.
That’s the way we roll, baby!
Rich, the happy drummer fills in Kenny on The Road Song.
Watching Anya singing
Summertime and the living is easy.
The fish jumping.
The cotton is high.
Your daddy’s rich.
Your mama’s good looking.
God bless the child
who’s got his own.
Go Eve.
Go Jesse.
Watching young Jesse bellowing on sax.
Sipping on local pinot noirs at a table with friends.
Put your hands together, you lazy Americans, announces Kenny.
Marty’s on guitar, filling in for Neal of Kenny’s Stone Cold Jazz band.
Some days we have a resident artist paint, friendly tap dancer,
a birthday potluck or with a problem guest on stage.
New trumpet player Tom follows and keeps in time.
Dancing to Kenny’s usual finale Knockout
Girl you are a knockout.
You got me in constant commotion.
Listening to introductions
Nick from Des Moines.
Pimpin’ Jack from Eugene.
Watching Eve in constant commotion.
I’ll be back for the rest, she says while carrying her flute
and equipment.
From January 2014
Evening Colors
Hot Mama’s Open Mic Night
Six guitar cases and one banjo case rest in the corner,
near the restrooms, beer specials and near the bar.
Katie plays originals on her blue guitar sweet folk songs and ballads
between squeaks from the speakers that hippie and Old Sal, our co host is
adjusting.
Old Rollin Joe plays his Horner Comet, his fat old harmonica and he plays
banjo from
songs, Forever Young and September Rose, from his CD’s, The Legend At
Last.
Gabe plays Rose’s blue guitar with friends, one violin and two banjos. The
blue butterfly.
Her young hands fly through this navy, midnight blue guitar.
The tall guy in center sings I’m Going Down under the Burlap Blues. I’m
Going Down in
the Burlap Blues.
Old Jimmy plays his Takamine, his shiny beige guitar with “Jack” on his
strap. He plays sad twangy old songs, So Old and Love Me Like You Did
Yesterday.
Young Lex wears black hair and hat and plays a black guitar and sings
If I Die Young and
Don’t Let the Music Die.
Marilyn, Holly Hobbie, in her bright pink hair plays her “experimental noise”
from adjusting knobs on sound equipment, last week with her pink guitar.
Sal really enjoys this but others walk out, at least for a smoke.
Joe and Autumn play and leave, Going on Down to Alaska and I’m Going
to Jackson.
Well, I’m going down to Jackson and I ain’t never coming back.
Sometimes he reads Beatnik poetry or his powerful political original poetry.
Two young waitresses keep busy, cleaning cup and counter before closing,
and trying not
to break more glasses while delivering more libations.
Two colorful creatures, one from Where The Wild Things Are, watch behind
the bar and I
watch the customers visit, laugh, sometimes too loud and not listening to
those behind
the tall mic.
November 11, 2011
Hot Folk Tunes at Hot Mama’s
No Heavy Metal Allowed
Lex sang a bluesy Devil’s Ridge’s
If I die young. But she’s one of the youngest
here in this wings restaurant, bar. Then she
tells us a humorous lesbian joke.
She ends with Hallelujah every night.
Two barmaids clean the tables
under the television
in the corner by the front door,
the Padres and Giants
still plays early on Tuesday night
Open-mic at Hot Mama’s Wings.
Two diners sit across me
and under the Animal House prints and
the Oregon Ducks
prints. With banjo
in hands Sir Richard
sang sad song of ex-wives.
Aged hippie Nick sang classics,
Beatles and Clapton songs.
His friend and Sal sang
Daddy’s Little Pumpkin.
Before leaving I heard Ben from
Ohio sing his original song,
Humanity on his extended length,
illustrated leaf guitar.
Local Colors
The jazz band of six plays Thelonius Monk’s Blue Monk as cheerful Dona
greets many and requests donations for the new Jazz Station Club. Then a
young swearing drunk enters, asks for a sample of the red wine – an
Australian merlot or a South African syrah from the local Trader Joe’s.
These wines are offered only with a cash donation. The two people debate,
struggle and he grabs her collar while they walk out toward John Henry’s
and other clubs the state university students visit, or maybe even the city’s
many homeless. Dona’s friends Rich and Stephen follow after her. She
returns with a scarlet red angered face. Later she still appears very nervous
but sings Kissing the Bottle and Autumn Leaves with friends. I watch the
amber and umber leaves, the ochre and cadmium leaves fall and drift in
late autumn with heavy wind and rain, with a magenta setting sun.
Stephen’s paintings decorate he walls with teals and violets, with
Southwest symbols, faces and images. Cactus and classic pickups. Sue
plays piano keys to Between the Bars. A grinning Rich plays drums in back.
A young adult Kevin plays sax as his predecessor, African American Ben
Webster, watches in spirit and bathroom photograph. Today all faces here
are ivory or Caucasian, ruddy or white.
The secret lives of ghosts
in the
years since
the war
I have
learned
a lot
about the
secret lives
of ghosts
I can
distinguish
their voices
from rain
or the
tires squeals
that cover
their words
and I
can tell
who they
are by
where I
find them
in my
house
the children
are in
my daughter’s
room and
the detainees
and local
nationals are
always in
the kitchen
the ghost
soldiers
and Marines
are everywhere
and will
go anywhere
as long
I don’t ask
them to
leave
I have
learned to
see past
their dead
eyes their
wounds and
stumps their
pain and fear
medication
can’t make
them leave
they only
get thin
and quiet
enough to
make me
question if
they are
real and
this scares
me more
than they do
my therapist
says I
can make
them leave
any time
I want
since I
made them
only I
didn’t make them
the war
made them
the sand
made them
the fighting
bullet holes
and bombs
made them
the helicopters
and stretchers
bloody equipment
sleepless nights
body bags
and missed
calls home
made them
the constant
fear you
can’t do
enough to
save any
of them
made them
the same
way it
made me
whole nights sleep
After 3 nights
of my anxiety
growing
a sharp
bare tree
inside my
stomach
I finally slept
one whole
night without
remembered
dreams
but when I
woke up today
my voice was hoarse
my throat dry
as dust
or sand and
my arm was bruised
from elbow
to wrist
after another night
back in the war.
Getting your hands dirty
a young nurse
took a long
long time
picking out
a towel to
wrap the
child’s corpse
and when we
got to the
isolation room
I could see
she didn’t want
to touch it
so I wrapped
the body and
gave it to
the parents
I changed
the sheet and
disinfected the
mattress all
the while I
was thinking
about a fall
day when I
found a cat
dead against
my fence
it had been
there a long
time and I
had to peel it
away from the
metal before
I could stuff
it into a
trash bag .
After Her, The Deluge
she was a beacon in starless night
black as death, the sky weeping,
tearing its flesh.
I was a cyclone.
rampaging vortex,
marauding across landscapes
of the fragile world.
the choice was hers alone,
to take me by the hand,
why she did,
I may never know.
long afternoon summer
found us tangled in sheets,
lips scavenging sweat for secret
yesses.
nights spent dancing
among electric cowboys,
while I fell like rain
over her charm.
she could not rope the wind
nor tame my wicked heart.
the sound of the shutting door
a thunderclap in my soul.
the levee groans against itself,
the reaping hour come round.
I sit in cigarette smoke nights,
stale poison rotting the glass,
muttering, “Play it again, Sam.”
to no one in particular.
Superman is Crying
when I see a leaf blow
in the wind,
I think of you
my friend.
tearing across eternal hunting grounds,
wild eyed and shuddering,
face bent forward
to what lay before you.
once we stood colossal
in plaything world,
walking through our myth
like two bit supermen
now you sleep
beneath the snakes,
sunday best suit,
cloaking your bones.
worms have had their fill.
as trees shed burdens
in windblown world
I watch this leaf
rush to meet you
at the banks of the river Styx.
tears won’t quit me now.
End of Night
Here I sit,
holy morning voyeur
in windblown West Texas world.
Barren,
mesquite choked pasture
harbor iron monstrosities,
rocking steady at twilight,
groaning,
as they suck life blood
from the belly of the Earth.
The sun crests the horizon,
darkness flees,
allowing dawn her moment
in virgin day.
It is the end of night,
the myth of the American night.
Azure waves roll
across pale sky,
swirls of purple and gold,
whisper,
“All time is borrowed.”
All about town,
men rise,
weary,
ready themselves
for the workaday world
of heat and sweat,
turning wrenches,
clanging metal.
Longing for 5 o’clock
smiles
of their women.
sweet sounds of laughing
children
Sips of ice cold beer
to salvage the day.
Night comes
like a thief.
the realization
that another selfsame day
draws near.
I stumble headlong,
wine stained mouth,
drunk
as a waltzing
pissant,
on the heels of revenant visions,
derelict specters,
that say,
“Go on boy,
go thou this way,
seek and you will find.”
But the bottles are bled dry now,
usless as paperweights,
when once they held
such promise.
The sun rises lazily in the east,
The great world continues to spin.
A lonesome wolf howls,
in mourning.
Euthanasia
I come from a family
that doesn’t mind
dying.
We are not tethered
too tightly to this
world.
Upon diagnosis of
Cancer or what have
you we grin.
“You mean I’m gonna
get to die?”
We are above fighting
for life,
unless it’s a human,
fish, or animal opponent.
Or a condition able to
be cured by modern
medicine.
We are okay with
throwing in the towel,
pre-emptoryly
killing ourselves at
seventy-five,
or heading to Canada,
Oregon,
Mexico, or Holland
for a very short visit.
To All the Disabled in Any Way (and for the able-bodied too)
From 1881 to 1889
Vincent Van Gogh painted
some 900 paintings
often while looking out
the window of a
mental institute
painting what he saw.
And nothing could stop him.
Be like Vincent.
IT IS INSANE
It’s insane the way things go
and it does not matter
if it’s not getting any better
I had you by my side
it was a wild ride
yet you were brain food too
I twisted your arm and you died
If I said I loved you I would have lied
Forgive me the things I felt towards you
the hormones were to blame
and I went insane
Consumed by time
bitterness is like old wine
turned into vinegar
The young wine is nectar from hot rods
that see the light for the first time
they want to grow in strength
but not in wisdom
SEEKING ASYLUM
I am going mad
Maybe
I am mad
or a fool
or self deluding?
I am mad
I could take
a gun and kill
the bastard
Who?
The bastard
I could,
him,
him and me
There must be a better way
a simpler way
there is always a solution
for every problem,
one said so:
“I like to think there is a solution for every problem.”
How?
Is it true that if IT
does not kill you
IT makes you stronger?
How?
I am mad
and mad for
getting mad
I am cross
I am fuming
and
hit my head against
the wall
There is always a wall,
the invisible wall,
built for me
by the others
and the one I built
around myself
Peace be upon you
said the prophet
yet it brings violence
and people kill
for those they deem
PROPHETS
What if I kill the prophet
What if he kills me first?
What if
his followers
kill me
for him?
I am mad beyond words
for this world?
Am I?
GINGER B(ED)DING
Ginger headed
for each finger
a chick
singing
but no he is not
a prick
red flaming passion
razor-sharp rap
for he got the knack
of it
screeching
screaming
females
fans
paranoid
jealous
envious
males;
fans
up to a point
holding their
girlfriends
in a tighter grip
Pop star’s ego
equals
their vertigo
on the ladder
of popularity
signatures
sales
stardom
embrace it
the sky is the limit
but the fall so much the deeper
We are all made of
stardust
All shooting stars
one day
end up as stardust
TEARS FROM AFAR
I cry the tears of my heart
having repressed the pain
I need cuddles
sigh
words of sweetness
I die of grief
Where from come
these streams
of tears,
saline and dear?
I am adding some more.
Why so many questions
and no answers?
I added yet some more;
they get to me from the bottom
of my guts.
Mother how has life treated
you?
When will your journey of suffering end?
Have you not seen it all before?
We are missing each other
Separated by time and space
But I can hear you
strong as an earthquake
we are missing each other
but we are connected
like Siamese twins
good night, mum
Hold on for Dana
hold me
and squeeze
the ash
out of
my heart
the sand
from inside
my skin
lean in
and sing
into my
ear until
the ghosts
leave
run your
cool hands
over my
118 degree
nightmares
and if
I start
to cry
all the
tears I
have will
you build
a boat
out of
your memories
of our
life before
the war
The “Red Cloud” shirt.
Now, unlimited time only, get ’em while they’re hot. The one and only seriously “un-psuedo”, cantankerous, politically certain shirt. The first shirt, the trend busting rustic beatnik boy smoking a hand-roll in the Beatnik Cowboy T-shirt, gave birth to a Native brother. Since that first Cowboy chapped his hide at the Beatnik Cowboy jam-bore brother Red Cloud has joined the wagon train of sweet lovin’ cowboys!!! Some real “rough riders” plying “rough trade”. Dominatrix cowboys, timid “Brokeback” lonely ranch hands, slobbering greedy butt-cracks, all are welcome at the Gay Cowboy Olympics. Because every gay Beatnik Cowboy, straight or otherwise, holds no candle to the hermaphrodite scrotum.
We here at the Beating Off Cowboy, in order to preserve the most perfect Cowboy, do declare from now on everything is its exact opposite, or as near to it as we can be. And we take this bipolar opposite, or as close as we can come to it, to be a new, inverted truth, we then act incorrectly upon. Again, as close to acting on this new truth as we can approximately come in choosing actions to give our inverted reality “real truth” view, we have noticed our idea of real approximate truth is in line with our praxis. That is to say our inversion and its theorized uncovering of “ultimate truth” appears correct. The crux of the biscuit may be; truth is its own polar opposite. And employing our opposite truth paradigm we will begin/began to see, with repeated use of our formulae, that the “unreal” is far more “real”, than the real. This is to insinuate good plays out horrible given passion, and agony, to be Frank James with you, creates better feelings in people than satisfaction or euphoria, ever could!
So remember to forget and mentally replace, and carry on just the same. And woebegone, behold the clear waters of the truth of trans-valuation. Don’t we all know persons state or signify in way of opinion or ideas held, all, or most goodly all, the opposite of what they state?
No matter, what I am talking about here is the new Shirt. It is mesmerizing, tantalizing, epic in its fantastitude. Quite simply, this article of clothing will definitely complete your look. So get ’em fast, lest anyone mistake you for a ‘heterosexual” of incomplete resolution. Our Native model, Mr. Red Cloud, is a person of some renown and much distinction. In Red Cloud’s War 1866-1868 the Oglala and other Teton Sioux bands/tribes successfully warred with the US military. Following two years of armed conflict a peace between the US Government and Native forces was concluded at Fort Laramie in Wyoming Territory in 1868. It is this treaty and Indian rights to land in the Great Sioux Reservation (including the Black Hills) it conferred that continues to be contested. Because of the US Government’s violation of these treaty rights (by subsequent taking of Indian lands), US Government cash payments to Sioux tribes are awarded.
Simply put, because as Chief in 1866-68 he chose to fight and won, suing at the time for a favorable peace, Red Cloud is the Man. Furthermore, because also, later in the 1870s, he choose not to fight and move to the reservation he too is the Man. For by deciding thus in consultation with his people, Red Cloud saved himself and his people from continued death and destruction at the hands of the US military. For when faced with the hopeless prospect of continued armed resistance, he is very much the Wise Man for deciding continued violence is futile, and will only result in extermination. For unlike Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull and the other non-treaty “hostile” Indians, Red Cloud recognized the inevitable defeat of the Indian cause and peaceably moved his people into Reservation winter camps along the west bank of the Missouri river.. Other Natives continued to resist and despite the hostile coalition’s 1876 victory over US forces under General George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn, both Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull surrendered and were killed by US forces soon after. In the end, remnants of these hostile bands were murdered in mass by US troops at the 1890 Wounded Knee, South Dakota, where some two hundred Indian men, women, and children under chief Big Foot were slaughtered by US soldiers as they attempted to surrender.
So here’s to Red Cloud, most intelligent hero Chief of the Oglala Teton Sioux! Honorary Beatnik Indian and role model for all.
Now shirts come in sizes s, M, and Large up to 5XL and children’s sizes from infant by year up to adult size small. Every child should be dressed in Beatnik Cowboy art-historical T-shirts. Can you afford to allow your child to grow up without one?
$25 dollars per shirt. Make checks out to Beatnik Cowboy and send to Randall Rogers, 3410 Corral Drive, Apartment 208, Rapid City, South Dakota, 57702, USA. Thank you. Credit card purchases also available, call 1-605-593-2537 to place your order.
We must all pray to God for assistance in helping us become Atheists.
The Beatnik Cowboy 