A wild one

Appearing in early light

Glowing face

 

Living alone

Longing for mercy

 

Upset

Angry

Insane

 

Trembling soul

Humble thoughts

 

Our mouths

Our faces

We speak

We listen

 

Yet faces and mouths lie

 

The wild one

A gentlemen

Raised on virtue

And bad manners

 

Cursing like a pirate

Drinking just as hard

 

Sins are stubborn

Especially so

With a tattooed spirit

And a pierced heart

That only a love

Just as wild

Can tame

 

©James Dennis Casey IV

I remember Mama but she wouldn’t want you to call her that. No, she was no Mama in the traditional sense. I remember her saying to me about my older brother’s young kids; “they’re not my kids” meaning as a Grandma why the hell should she be overly concerned with them? I called her Mom and probably spent the most time with her – loved her the most – and knew probably best as to her quirky character. I learned her character because I am her, and I spent the most time with her following her separation and divorce from my Dad.

She left him for good in 1974. I was thirteen years old. It was about a year and a half after her Mother died and a rich aunt of hers died leaving her a sizable, though not huge, inheritance. Apparently she thought life with the family was too restrictive and though my parents never fought or argued in front of we two kids there was conflict – based on control of the family finances by my father and the too limiting role for Mom of mother and spouse. This was the era of the Woman’s Liberation Movement, Cosmopolitan magazine, and the free-spirited “Cosmo” girl. After her housewife mother died, Mom, a beauty, chose to fly. The death of her rich aunt and the inheritance gave her the wings in which to do so.

What can be said? She dumped the bum, the pooch, and the two progeny; older by two years brother and I. He was fifteen and I was thirteen; both just ready to really begin experiencing the world. Dad was hurt as I can see it but carried on just the same. He first moved to a cot in the north forty of our large home (Dad was a successful stockbroker), and later into a kitchenette motel room and a small cabin-house located in a lake park. Living at one of these locations Dad stopped by the house. He picked me up to do something and I suggested we go to a movie I knew of. It was currently playing and quite controversial. Dad, not an incredible movie buff (he liked musicals) agreed to get me into an “R” rated production.

We entered the theater while the movie had already briefly started. We sat down in the darkened theater, some ways back in the large center aisle, and got ready for the film “The Exorcist” to kick in. And kick in it did. Dad took it in, but I could see – like I – he was rather shocked. At one point in the movie, a tension oriented quiet moment, the point where the possessed little girl character Reagan was going to assault herself with a crucifix, in the quiet of the drama leading up to this, when all was dead quiet in the theater, when were all on edge due to the roller-coaster we had been seeing, Dad let fly one of his trademark huge sneezes. He did not, like he often did, say “Of ff-da!” after the seismic blast, but the sparse crowd that was there, at this night showing, couldn’t contain themselves. They roared with laughter. I thought it was great the crowd was small and it was dark in there. When the laughter subsided, and Dad was obliviously blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he looked a bit about him. He wore an expression of “What?” and he directed it most at me.

“I think you startled them in a humorous way,” or some such thing I said. Then the loudness and clamor of the scene on film overtook us all and were back inextricably into the ebb and flow of the movie.

Dear Dad, you just can’t beat his un-self-conscious ways. That night I had to go sleep in the master bed with my Mom, because I was so scared. I guess there are valid reasons for a thirteen year old not watching “R” rated movies. A few months later, Mom left our city to live alone in the big city, in nearby Minneapolis. Dad and we kids moved into a new-built condo a valley over from our old house, and with Dad and brother, a new Mom-less chapter in our life began. We were about to begin a more adult “single” stage of our lives, and this prospect cooled considerably the sadness begun by the parent’s breakup and what it meant for our lives. Besides, with Mom living alone in Minneapolis, that meant I could take a jet plane ride to visit her, by myself, and I could go live with her, her and I, and I could explore as much I could a big city! Therefore, selfishly at the time, the separation was alright with I.

Mom never stopped smoking. Except in the shower or while asleep. She would never crack a window in the car nor not smoke wherever she wanted to smoke because you could do that back then anywhere, even in the hospital. She had to be smoking right up to the time of having me; I don’t see a time of her not smoking after the age of sixteen or so. I’m not really sure how young she started smoking, just that it was in the middle of the latter (Humphrey) Bogart era. Mom too liked to drink.

Mom’s drinking increased following her leaving Dad and departure from our family. She liked Martinis, vodka martinis. Later she would dispense with the vermouth and just drink straight vodka. I have not been able to determine proportionally how much of her high alcohol intake was in response to the potential negative (or liberating?) psychological effect leaving her family had on her or that she just flat out was a lush and really liked the feeling of getting high? You know drinking and cigarette smoking were considered chic back then along with being independent and free. I mean there was a certain lifestyle back then and smoking and drinking were major pillars within it. As Mom used to say; “a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.”

From viewing myself, and then viewing my Mother, as old as I am now, I most rather think it was her friends at the part time job she got – before leaving my father – that propelled her to go from our cozy nuclear co-habitation. She got a job at a woman’s clothing store – a very small shop next to a larger place that sold furs. Both were part of a family-owned company that the large, centrally located, three story with basement and attic level, over century old former funeral home most substantial brick dwelling could provide. The small shop was named, “Next Door Two,” and sold stylish woman’s apparel. It accompanied the larger fur salon just across a small courtyard in the same building. This was Eihler’s Furs; a regional concern.

It was there she interacted with Rhonda, her co-worker at the ritzy ladies wear boutique. Rhonda had been widowed young, and had three children, but that didn’t stop her. As her former husband was of that class – he a lawyer I believe – and she a part of the upper crust – an attractive asset she possessed for men was her large bosom – and she was doing well with men in her life and independent. Apparently it was her influence and the circumstances of which I have outlined above, that led to the “adolescent adjustment” that when I now think about it, yeah, it probably did affect the entire future course and direction of my life. I mean, the living, teaching or studying in Jamaica, Ukraine, Moldova, Thailand, Cambodia, Antigua, China, England, and the high education stuff, the women at every landing, and no over entangling alliances resulting if that’s what you mean. Yeah, it’s been very bad for me. Nothing permanent, but is anything? I mean, by traveling around to nearby countries from the country in which I lived for twenty-four years I’ve seen much probably even the best-traveled will never see.

 

Dr. Randall Rogers

Cremains

 

As I did when she was alive

I risk infection or rejection.

 

I sterilize her ash in an autoclave

as with needles and rest,

makes sure it’s fine powder

mix it with the ink.

 

She will be under my skin.

 

Limbs With Pears

 

Pert  plump  green

as if young lasses first bairn

she shows as a bump

 

dangles from limbs

as if the tree needs a pillow

for its back

 

autumn shivers

as tight skin bitten

sweet waters break

 

Some Days I Am

 

young, rave

 

the rush, tingle in the stomach.

Mostly, I am old and want to rest,

from daily survival, scrimp and scrape.

 

Can’t plan,carry anything over,

no skills. Only certainty is uncertain.

I need regularity, rhythm, habit, sanity.

 

It doesn’t matter whether

I’m awake or not. In the space

of a day I’ve been old, deaf, dumb

and blind, no legs, no arms, no voice,

 

a she, but nothing lasts, for long. For a time,

I had a wife, kids, grandkids,

few hours later, perhaps, I had none.

I had brothers for about a week.

 

I loved, and was loved once.

Was it yesterday, or the day before?

We kissed. I remember the kiss.

 

Useless to think where or what they are.

All are strangers, now. Or once a billboard message,

perhaps “Friends who haven’t met yet”

 

I awake one day huddled in a shop doorway,

another in silk sheets with duck

feather pillows and a servant

asks what I would like for breakfast.

 

I can’t keep anything. Grab it,

while it’s there.  Buy my stuff,

again, the next day. Use it or lose it.

Things made, soon decay. Leaves

 

fall in summer, flowers blossom

in winter. Animals unsure what

they must do. Many die, as do we,

when wrong choice is made.

 

Maps are useless. Streets change

shape, new buildings where old.

Clothes bought that day

are soon rags. It’s a rush to buy new.

 

In summer folk say, ” Stuff it.”,

go naturist. Summer could be

Autumn. A lot of people

die in Winter. Pay Euro one day,

Yen the next. Rhymes are rare.

 

Language changes too.

Yesterday black was white,

red was yellow. Spend most

of my days out of fashion.

 

Cynics say it’s all about profit,

shops say they’re it’s a response

to customer’s needs. Often stuff

comes full circle, but all of its

 

perishable, now, clothes, cars,

buildings, walls, streets. History

is what you can remember, but

stuff changes so fast you can’t

 

remember it all. Against the grain,

never plus ca change. Even glass

decays nowadays, and these words

become something else. Maybe.

A Solitary Drinker

 

It’s not ever done for celebration.
There’s no cheer to his slurring voice.
Two of the main components
of the expression ‘Wine, Women & Song’
are partying at a separate location.
He’ll smoke that prison-thin roll-up
right down to the yellow bone,
wincing snarling white-knuckled ghosts
up from his raging throat.
Sometimes wall-casting empty bottles
without actually realizing who’s to blame?
Confuses an already muddled mind
and unfortunately sobers him up slightly.
It’s like he’s in the ring squaring up
to himself and neither one’s backing down.
Arguing with his own reflection and losing.
Trying to work out exactly what’s
imprisoning and gnawing at his soul?
When it’s obvious to everyone…it’s him!

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll Be Fawning My Way Back To You

 

As soon as I get caught.
Hit another wall.
Fuck up good and proper.
Fall flat upon my face.
Get myself into
so much trouble
that I am
emotionally drowning
and need you
as my rock to cling to.
When the breakdown
comes…
so must YOU!
With your loving,
loyal caring arms
and your never ending
compassion,
patience
& understanding.
At those times
I fully realize
just how lucky I am
to have you always
standing there
in my corner.
But until then,
you need to
back off a bit
while I’m doing
my thing, y’all.
You’re cramping
my style
& boring me
to tears, Motherfucker!

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sundays Don’t Look The Same Anymore

 

Empty like a spent chamber.
Stark as scarecrows
anticipating flame to follow.
OCD and badly broken pebbles.
My God! I’m cliff-leaping… inside.
The rings of age are smearing
the logic of today’s reason.
Hands which never snatch
are cleverer yet colder.
It’s just so impenetrable sometimes
from thought, communication
and onwards into hostility.
As the changeling heart
denies a granite employment.
And forget-me-lots
bloom around a drunken bar
of fallen ‘once’ heroes.
There are no winners,
the game’s evaporated.
Luck left as quickly
as it once ventured.
The taste of old pennies
and sepia memories
are all that now remain
within this ever falling rain.

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

Pleading Guilty

I’ve chosen to be
brutally honest
in the digital realm
of mediocrity

I haven’t bitten
my tongue once
therefore
I’ve never tasted
my own blood

All the punches
I’ve thrown
were never pulled
always hitting
their mark with
force and precision

A few publications
ending in WordPress
ran by the same
editor who claims
to be prolific
has forbidden me
from submitting
over a petty
little argument
standing my ground
like a statue
I’d be offended
if I admired his
writing

CHEERS!

I may not be
the most amiable
writer available
but I’ve never
pretended to be
something I am not
if candor is a crime
I’m pleading guilty
to the charge

 

4 pm

the 4 o’clock sun
delivers its blows
an ennui hammer

& you sit unshielded
as yr soul-juices run
in terrible rivulets

_______________________________

ashes & giants

somebody will burn
my body one day

but what about my
goddamn emptiness?

1,000 times larger
than my shape

that giant untouchable
motherfucker will hoot
at the puny flames

& haunt this bastard
planet forever

______________________________

in the sleepless dark

in the sleepless dark
you bleed
& unknowingly
drag & smear it
across the floors
& at dawn you awake
to an enormous
portrait of loneliness

I went into the bar… I went into the bar to get drunk, I came out- a poet. They followed me all the way home trying to get me to pay the bill. At night I talk by gravestones… At night, I talk by gravestones stars are their sulfur words- peculiar, but not mumbled quieter than sounds from the ghosts of the living. Cars I remember smiles in the snow as paper mache’ midnights and every car was warmer than home and before tomorrows phone call to another I should’ve prayed or toasted yesterday anyhow I write this now and the past is singing a dream in my bones tap your car where do the wheels go? O Andrew when there was no one you smiled at me wide where tomorrows spilled over the edge of our table- our dreams caught by the waitress a little booth in a little restaurant on the edge of a town even littler we had just gotten there and I was beginning to miss you already it’s time to get the check before we go draw me your eyes tap your car where do the wheels go? and Doug, a lost night is hovering it’s out on the deck of your apartment is it a haze we can have? could you capture it if you found that forgotten poem of mine lost in your old books? does what’s gone somehow go on? ask the clock on your wall does what never was remain what it is supposed to be ? ask destiny it’s hidden in midnight the long ash is about to fall tap your car where do the wheels go? and Steve, wanna go to a convenience store? I think there’s one in the glove compartment God, I’m sorry. I’m just tired tonight old friend what I meant to say is I think there’s some coupons in the glove box we can grab some food with them can we make this tonight last ten minutes longer? can we slow down the coming tomorrow? actually, I don’t want it to ever come since we can see its craters are better- let’s get to the moon Oh no, I can see the comets and the stars start to shoot tap your car where do the wheels go? and Jame, the money should be in at 2am this lotto ticket dough will only get us so far here’s our playing cards shuffle the deck until we go back in time or maybe to the future keep all of the jokers wild cause I don’t laugh with anyone this way but the worst was when you started to lift the curtain of this night to somewhere far away far away from me and I feel you in the deepest part of the waters we looked out at when every word rhymed with forever I should’ve prayed until my knees hurt that it wouldn’t end but I didn’t anyhow tap your car where do the wheels go? and God, your sun only comes out on sweet mornings after and I only know these smiles from yours and God, this poem is all red red as the sky that all of us waited for and do you replay these nights in heaven? these dreamlike nights these moments gone these precious faces I give to you alone under this night that has seeped into so many others alone though with so many more with the fuzz of the stars around your hair and all of my tears, with tomorrow a wave I may never touch, I ask you as humbly as I can to tap the cars and tell us where do the wheels go?

 

“My Hubby Has A Prince Albert On

 

his baby carrot

to blight his King Edwards.

He’d tickle your Vesuvius, love.”

Says Martin. I love shopping

with him. Gay blokes know what’s

good on you.

 

He says “My sister got Pound Shop threaded eyebrows:

two black slugs on a ledge.

Elizabeth Taylor weeps.

 

Yoga pants with holy knees.

She’s been shagging on the carpet.

Should have carpet burns

where her pants are ripped.

 

Looks like a bull with a ring

through its nose this septum thing.

She hasn’t got a jewellery box,

so dangles it all off her ears.

 

Bright and bold stripes. Ha!

She looks like a bloody deckchair,

or Denise the Menace. Put up or shut up.

 

Smiley piercings inside her top lip,

when she smiles looks like a lonely

curtain ring that’s lost its curtain.”

I love Martin. Wish straight blokes

were more like him.

 

 

Man Enough

 

18 in 1980 week afore starting uni,

lads night out and your dressed

in Burton’s bright yellow like a canary,

socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it’s cool.

 

Lads boast they down 11/12 pints

of John Smiths bitter a night,

shag a lass then do same next night.

You’ve never done neither.

 

Follow lads round like fresh meat,

loud and brash, they talk of shagging

bints, fast cars, live bands you’ve

never seen coddled by your mam and dad.

 

Four pints in and your eyelids droop,

bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses

in short skirts with intentions nuzzle

up but loud music means you can’t listen

 

to what they’re saying and wouldn’t know

what to say. Lads jostle you. “We’re off

to neet club. A tha cumming?”. I shout

an apology. “Got to be in by 11.”

 

They get off. I leave the pub, buy

a pizza and pissed walk home uphill

chomping on greasy slices, cardboard

box too big, one side of road to another.

 

Scars Publication, in coalition with Down in the Dirt Magazine, has published Chris Butler’s 7th poetic chapbook, “Neurotica: Cambodian Poems 2008-2013”.

The book is currently published online here:

Click to access 20161014Neurotica_by_Chris_Butler.pdf

It will soon be available to read in print.