Greetings Barrel-housers,

For fun and little profit, I’m taking a word stand. After every who, what, where, when, why and how or how much, I will say, whence I utter these words, immediately I will follow each with ‘on Earth.’ In a question, for example, of ‘who are you?’ I will say, ‘who, on Earth, are you?’ Might be fun and influential. Why, on Earth, I’m not sure.

In the meantime, a serious quake has occurred. A new work, a many splendor-ed thing, like aphids in May, blooms. Seriously, here we go gathering nuts in May…on a bright and frosty morning. Hark! The herald angels sing – the Anti-Chris is out with a new one. “Beatitudes” by Chris Butler, will be available soon.

This streamlined work of genius is hard to get. Matter of disputed fact but Mr. Butler himself, continues to hunt for the un-bagged manuscript. Just makes it rare, I try to tell the cult-leader, but he won’t have it. If we ever find it, meaning the rare manuscript, says the butled one, it’s free to the masses! Such marketing cunning in one so wise. This is the bard to watch! And learn from.

So here it comes. The book “Beatitudes,” by Chris (Cyanide) Butler, the Not Lame. In brilliant beatnik surround brain words. Free to subscribers!! Rare! Bigfoot approved corn dogs consumed during the writing.

$25 postage fee, for liberty. Checks accepted, old school style. Send any and all requests to our email, thebeatnikcowboy@gmail.com.

Adios Beatnik Amigos,

The Four Beatnik (Horsemen)

of the Apocalypse!

Write, send, feel, emote gems, & submit. Por favor.

Sustenance

 
the irony is not lost on me: checking
strips of treated paper every Monday, every Friday
praying and praying and failing to see
a “plus” sign appear in
the second window of the pregnancy test.

the irony is not lost on me: five years before
seeing this same sign made me
think briefly of suicide, led me to a life
I never would have lived, left me with a child
I would now die to have more of
if they could only be just like him.

the irony is not lost on me: two years, a single mother dating
squeaking by safely, using various forms
of uncomfortable contraception, and now
Husband #2 and I
can’t conceive. it’s ironic to think
that after the absolute hell #1 put me through
abuse, divorce, and complete financial abandonment
I owe him something
for giving me my son.

"philosophizing"


we can’t know
it.
we know we can’t know
it.
ask questions & not know 
it.
give answers & not know 
it.

like the man on Cherokee,
with the birdcage ribs, and smoke-riddled
voice, hollering, hollering with one
shoe on.

his other shoe, somewhere,
laceless,
& alone.

THE GREY (PERSPECTIVE, ACCEPTANCE LOOP)

I told my brother I hate it here.
It’s unrelenting, the grey.
He told me he doesn’t see it.
Through his shaky, pinhole vision
still. 
He sees more. Chooses to.

And I took comfort in that.

All this time I was luxuriating in the grey.
Bathing myself in absent sunlight.
Letting it sink me down, 
lower.
But the numbness never led me anywhere.
Unknowingly, I let it flatten me out.

Slowly, I start to pick up on the range,
tune in.
Most days now I see more.
The frost bites back, but so do I.

Today, with a laugh, he told me he sees the grey.
That we all do.

And I take comfort in that, too.



WINDOW OBSERVER

I’m glad you live across from the highway
Mom says over her shoulder.

It’ll remind you, even when you’re lonely
That there’s still life happening out there.

I wonder if the faceless people flashing by look in at me
And think the same thing.

I leave my blinds open.
To see and be seen.

But only through the window.

hungry

 
people ask
how you

find something
to do with
your life.
something to
burn for.
my response
is always:
do what
you skip
meals for.
what
makes you
hungry.

 

poems

 
people
move thru
the afternoon
in different ways.
naps, sex,
books, work,
exercise.
i glide
thru
in poems.
each one
moves me
closer
to dusk
and when
that falls
i know
i’ve
made it.

 

rampant

 
everyone’s
a comedian,
writer,
or artist
these days.
content runs
more rampant
than fentanyl.
it feels like
a bubble
might burst.
indie presses
swallow up
my books
and spit them
out
on amazon
with millions
of other books.
excess content
isn’t good
for
the culture.
but when
did we
prioritize
culture
over profit?

Paternal


Your father
Cocks his
Rifle, stifles

Pearled autumn
Murmurs with

Splintered hands
Wrapped around

The trigger.
Crowing out 

False morning,
Cracking dawn

Like his
Brother’s teeth

Once gnashed
Soil, sinking

As birds
Do into

Sunrise. Have
You caught
The bullet?

a 1,000 roads


I don’t know any roads like the back of my hand
but I’ve cut my palms crawling down a few,

crawling hands and feet to you,
being grateful I’ve got any blood left to bleed,

crawling through the mud
just to be able to rest on a riverbank 

for a night and avoid the flood,
crawling towards next pay day

with half a diet
and all the meters running low,

crawling through the working day
towards the weekend, the home time bell.

I have crawled for so long
I forgot how to stand up straight,

becoming natural to be down
in the dirt with the spurs kicking me.

How I longed to get back up on the saddle
and ride that horse on out of this town,

but it was my own spurs
pinning me down.

Paycheck.

My musical instruments
Blue topping ice creams
Matured conventional prologue
I see it barely now
How the postmen waited for the dove
How my natural insinuations
Folded before your zeal
X marked before and after
Afternoons planked a gaze
It's own milieu
Epiphanies phoned me
My hibiscus desk full of
Streamed lies
Lord's own megaphone
Metaphors everywhere
I swam under it
My musical instruments
I see it barely now
Lord's own paycheck.

Pops                                    


Making lots of trouble,
because I can’t be in control…
but I am.
Just like Pops.

I want to be how he was.

Pops brought me toys
when he’d be out working awhile.
Flashlights, pencils, and the like-
all with corporate branding.

Big surprises from Pops, always thinking of me.

He made his ballcap look so slick that
I wanted to hit dogs with him,
call my Mom a whore,
and hang out in bars with miners.

When Pops got mad, he’d use the most
colorful words-
an artist.
That’s who my Pops was.

I’d like to be like him.

Heck, I’ve already seen how it’s done.
Pops sure did like to throw me around,
and I’ll do the same with my boy.
Gotta show a young man
who’s the real man of the house.
Wear ballcaps,
hit cats with shovels,
slam whiskey at Noon,
grab children by the neck and squeeze.

A sensitive man…I want to be a sensitive man…like Pops.

Behind all the ballcap charisma,
he wept at World War documentaries.

It’s a brave man I wanna be.
A courageous man…like Pops.

Unholy Land 

Whether it is life itself that is garbled
or just the news that is, hell is settling in,

a dry white place where there is no need
to take sides, you can be on all sides at once,

now that the God of Gods, aloof, impassive,
acknowledges neither the cold nor dark,

neither ancient grudges nor new outrages,
but sits stone-faced on his tall throne

amid dead bodies and bombed-out buildings
and the continuous roar of unheard prayers.