The Water In The Well

We say, "The water in the well tastes a little odd."

"No, no," says the farmer.  "That's the natural taste of the spring water
that feeds the well. You just used to city water."

"Still, the water in the well tastes a little odd."

"No, no. That's just the minerals in the spring water. It's good for the
blood, also good for the rheumatiz. Good stuff for whatever ails ya.
Like natural spa water."

"Still, the water in the well tastes a little odd."

No sale. We passed on buying the farm.

That didn't make Farmer Brown very happy. Now he has to climb
down in the well and get the dead rats out himself.

Dying to Win

People rose to sing the 23rd Psalm
welcoming Bevan to eternal life.
Someone, who wasn’t close to him,
remarked ‘one less dickhead in the world.’
His epitaph, which he had instructed
to be read by the graveside, was
simple; ‘You owe me two thousand
bucks loser!’ I tried not to take it
personally. When he wagered he
would be dead before I left Molly
I laughed. It was gloating when I
texted him to say I was leaving the
family home tomorrow and could I stay
with him for a couple of days? Molly
blames the bet for our break up. She’s
in denial – I would have gone, but
perhaps a bit later. This of course is
the point and why Bevan, the cocky bastard
took a shitload of Valium and brandy.
I found him when I shifted in, with a little
note –Did this last night! Molly didn’t
attend the funeral but I haven’t conceded
yet and I won’t - until the coroner
releases the time of death.

Sharps

I never thought I’d become the kind
of guy who asks the bartender
what NA beers he had.
Not that it mattered.
They all taste like watered down light
beer and that tells you all need
to know.
I generally settle on Sharps or soda
water with a splash of cran and lime
wedge which looks like a cocktail but
sure as hell isn’t.
After a couple of those NA bottles, that
almost look like Amstel Light if you squint,
the barkeep knows what you have and
doesn’t have to ask which saves a lot
of potential embarrassment.
You can keep the label turned
in a way no one can read it and socialize
without the fear of recognition.
Drinking that way almost made me
nostalgic for the good old days I could
keep down a fair amount of scotch
and milk. Imagine ordering Johnny Walker
and milk in a night club.
Invariably some smartass bartender
would ask red or black? and just to be
ornery I’d say black because it costs more
and is a bigger sin to mix with anything
much less milk. Believe me you don’t
get any respect ordering the better brand.
But, hey, it was alcohol and you can dream,
right? Then the Doc told me those days
were over as there was too much acid
in the milk and coating the stomach with
anything was out of the question because
there was nothing left to coat.
So, I had a choice, one he made very clear
to me, you could end up dying on some
stinking gin mill bathroom floor puking
blood and alcohol or I could drink NA beer.
So, here I am, drinking Sharps, humiliated,
But alive. For now. Until I can’t take it anymore.

Stumps

All the great lands
Fielding armies

Century after century
Campaigns won and lost....

But in the final end,
Forests of soldiers

Bloody stumps...
Meeting their Maker.

mandated

 
the more i see people on tv

talk about politics i realize

that not only does abortion

have to stay legal, it should

be fucking mandated

 
thin the herd


we're running out of places

to live and personally, i have

no interest in a nice tent by

the river


plenty of vans down there

already


passing needles on the park

benches


recalling the days where a

bearded dude would play

guitar and we'd all sing

jane says while getting

high


and here comes the summer

and all the storms


a bad batch of god knows

whatever


needles dangling from

dead arms


the underbelly of what the

rich never want their precious

ones to ever know it exists


ignorance is what got us in

this fucking mess to begin

with
-------------------------------------------------------------

The Need

The owl seems oddly
out of place hooting
at this time of the day.

The coffee is growing
cold with time, it needs
to be dumped down the

drain, the mug needs to
be refilled, just as the owl
needs to call it a night.

This pen needs to move,
ink flowing, like a blood
letting-

this poem needs to end
and that story needs to
be written, the birds sing

my train of thought is
derailed once again.

 

Cowboy Poet

My friend – who calls himself a poet even though he doesn’t know what’s meant by terms like ‘stanza’, ‘iambic metre’ and ‘narrative poetry’ – said to me:

“Hell, I’m gonna write and submit a poem so damn suitable that The Beatnik Cowboy will simply have no choice but to publish it! It’s gonna be about Kerouac in the role of a gunslinger riding into town in the Old West, looking for a bed for the night and causing trouble at the local saloon – with Burroughs as the sheriff (I mean, who else but Old Bull Lee?) – and Ginsberg as a rent-boy brothel owner – and the likes of Corso, Snyder and Gysin as wranglers… Maybe I could even do a spin-off Spaghetti Western story about The Ferlinghetti Kid. I tell you, it’s a sure-fire way to get published!”

“I’m afraid it’s the exact opposite,” I replied.

Like Zen

This version
is tacitly the best.
I am in the morning sun
when the artist arrives.
My pair of pajamas
sleep in frozen still patterns.
I turn my face oriental with my poems.
Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out
light pink to white, brevity, for a short
time then walk alone, then die.
I hear the sound of notes in my ears
approaching on silent footprints.
I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely
meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette
toss garlands, toss racy clothing,
abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors.
I leave all sinful shadows behind.
But I am of this world, not out of this world.
I swear way too much and pray too little.
The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match.
Crack and smack a curse—
twigs break silence.

dogs years:

a boy was born with one heart. his sister was born with seven. if the boy was mad, the sister was madder. if the boy was in love, the sister was more in love. and while the boy could feel only one thing at a time, his sister could feel seven. so, of course, the sister died seven times faster than her brother. like a dog. such it is with hearts. a moral: beware acquiring more hearts. if needed, feed each extra to the street dogs, they're doomed already.

-for demi lindberg