Jesus Got Himself a Chrome .45   A Rosary tattoo wraps around his hand and wrist but you’ll never hear him mutter a Hail-Mary for the sins the tears on his face represent.   He’s known to take an eye for a dollar and would rather serve time than turn the other cheek.   Yesterday, Jesus showed us his new piece by shoving its barrel in the face of a junkie begging forgiveness.   Someday Jesus, Someone is gonna’ nail your ass to a cross.

 

Sleep

 

When did you own me,

pull rank, throw me in the waters

and command my limbs to forget how

to swim? When did it happen, a month ago?

Two towns ago? After I completed the mission.

 

Veins in stone, under skin, gauging the surface

of the Earth, rivers to maneuver across,

toxic currents unreckoned with.

 

How did it evolve into this obscene tumour,

blocking my view, deforming my youthful joy?

You are through with me – a deep cracked dish, breeder of bacteria.

Fiddle away. Eternity is dying in the pockets of my lungs, madness

infiltrating my chi.

How did you do it, did I let you? I must have

let my guard down when doing the laundry, counting radio

channels, mopping the spill.

I am still reaching but you are gone, very small

in stature and shrinking. When did you own me, gently

press my face into the pillow, gently

promising a dream?

 

The Alley & the Cat The dog pulls me. A black leash is wrapped around my wrist, connected to his neck. We walk up & down our alley at designated times of a day. Spots of familiar urinated aromas in weedy edges tug us along to a neighbor’s parked & battered little boat. Named “Purple Haze,” it’s docked on a rusted crib & flats, broken, a thing of the past, useless. The neighbor hoards things. He can’t let things go. He’s even older than I am. I understand. His yard is a disarray of fog rain, tumultuous Erie winters, & weathered clunky sections of automobiles. I peer thru half-dead scrawny pine-branches & the fence’s toothless slats. I see how he lives, alone & insane. Ragweed bends & waves its dispersing, molecular, allergic, yellow fingers. Bangles is too old & arthritic to lift his back leg, so he pisses as he stretches like a black greyhound in the tall brown grass that surrounds the ancient, surely-once-psychedelic, boat. Then we turn around. The other side of the alley where the dog sniffs, contorts, & shits, is all grass. Browned vines weave around chain-link fences of other insane neighbors whose ass-end homes face our back door. Nobody talks to nobody in our neighborhood. We live in heaven. We cross the alley. “Sit,” the dog instructs. I sit on an outside chair & smoke. Bangles drops his weight, & pants on some gravel & weeds. Overhead, triangles of electricity section a blue sky. The crows are furious, ear-shattering. Gulls rise as they fly north for Lake Erie. With my neck rolled onto the back of the chair, I feel a force wake me. I check Raspberry Street left & right for other owners & dogs, as we emerge to the front of our house. Under the wide yew bush, the scent of a black cat. We know that cat well. A real tease. Bangles looks up at me & declares, “I hate that fucking cat.” * Before Becoming a Member of the Police Force   Kill. Kill. Kill. Kick the door in, kill everybody. Spray bullets around the dusty room. Kill them twice, 3 times. They booby-trap the women & bottles of wine. Never feel ashamed. The battlefield forgives all insane rage. Look, they have been known to actually EAT Amerikan infants! They chop our babies into hot-dog chunks! Kill them all. They booby-trap the elderly. They aren’t us. Kill them. Kill them & feel good about it. Feel heroic. *

 

A Handshake

 

is a timepiece.

My sigh is a fire extinguisher.

 

Our held hands are wishes,

kisses a gushing tap.

 

snogs a succulent slab of meat.

Sex is walking a tightrope.

 

Engagement is a car park half full.

Marriage is a pink balloon.

 

Divorce is stale bread.

Remarriage is a reversing car.

Direction

We stand on that verge once again,
hanging by limp, depleting threads.
Our mouths stuffed with masticated
words that we spit out like blunted
bullets, their targets now lost in the
ether.

These same roads surround us,
unmarked, yet cracked. The concrete
reaching each corner, with obsessive
perfection, their surfaces like over used
notice boards, with messages tragically
out of date.

A certain smugness hangs in the air,
like ash-filled cobwebs, the shallow
intents not spoken, but suggested
through broken teeth, but never powerful
enough for us to change direction, as we
remain again on that same, broken path.

The Tantrum Sleuth “So, Sarge said you transferred over from Cockett?” “Yes, the wife’s from Glynneath see and the in-laws are getting on now so she wants as much time with them as she can before they pop their clogs like.” “Tidy, mun. Well, unless those Melyn Boys kick off again- they smashed up The King Edward last night- we’ve got a pretty quiet one lined up for your first nightshift in Neath.” “Suits me that do.” “We’re off up Fairyland for a look around.” “Fairyland… you’re pulling my pisser?” “No, no, I forget how funny that sounds to an outsider, me being born and bred here and all. God knows why they call it Fairyland? Probably because it’s just under The Gnoll Country Park and there’s nothing up there but duck ponds and magic mushrooms. Anyway, it ain’t full of gay people and you’ll see no winged ‘Lord of the Rings’ shit going on up there. It’s full of heroin, crack, meow meow and £10 wrap prostitutes. There’s a few of these Estates around The Valley, we like to keep our white trash scum contained, so to speak.” “Duly noted.” “We’re on the lookout for The Tantrum Sleuth. You’ve never seen anything quite like it, I swear. It’s Summertime and it’s a full moon. We catch the bugger every month, harmless enough I suppose but creepy as hell. He dresses up in wellington boots, a long trench coat with sod all on underneath it and one of those deerstalker caps like Sherlock Holmes. He goes around the Estate looking for arguing and shouting and when he finds it the dirty bugger settles down outside the window and starts masturbating.” “What?” “I’m serious, it probably stems from childhood trauma or some other psychological crap like that? When we actually caught him the last time there were a couple shagging over the way and she was a right screamer and all. But he completely blanked them and was having a tug listening to flatmates fighting over a TV remote instead.” “Jesus Christ!” “Aye, I know, we nick him see, he goes to court and they fine him, the fine goes up another £20 each time. They’ve given him Cautions and Probation in the past but none of it works, what can they do, you know? They ain’t going to jail him for knuckle shuffling himself.” “ASBO?” “They can’t, he lives on the cowing Estate himself. Anyway, here we are, we’ll start at the bottom and work our way up to the top. Stay within running distance and earshot and remember you’re looking for signs of ‘Domestics’. Oh and if you see anyone out and about over 5 years of age don’t go saying ‘Hello’ or ‘Good Evening’ or any crap like that. They call it throwing the first punch around these parts!” © Paul Tristram 2016

For Ryokan

—Sunil Sharma

 

Mending torn clothes

When the sun is up

Reading aloud the holy texts

By the light of moon.

 

Living quietly in a hut overgrown with ivy vines

Buried in a deep forest, largely unseen, conversing with the stars

And the sparkling streams—the whole thing a breathing organism.

 

Ryokan meditates on the meaning of human existence

A seer-like figure that can see life-altering truths hidden from ordinary eyes

The Zen master shares with those listening that not many things are required for living.

When such a sacrosanct poetry springs from a dialogue with nature and blends with the elements, pale words undergo a change and get suffused with new energy and convey fresh epistemes.

 

Ryokan finds nirvana in the middle of a forest, away from prying eyes of a civilization

And centeredness, mindfulness, harmony and tranquility within.

 

Poetry, in such exalted cases, can lead to spiritualism and a transcendental vision.

 

In order to connect with a higher realm glimpsed by the poet,

Follow his wise counsel.

Too many things can distract a seeker

So go and find the Greater Being in a tiny atom.

 

Words translucent, thus gained through a denial of indulgence, can open new vistas on invisible realms and be life-long blessings for the awakened!

 

Let new poetry work in this direction!

For The Sake Of Art

Nothing says new
like fresh staples
in the cranium
after a long night
of drinking and
running into
Dormont’s finest

Excitement is
unorganized
gang warfare
on the streets
of South Side
throwing bricks
at human beings
then tossing
them into the
river

Any argument
worth having
with a crazy
girlfriend
should include
self-mutilation
in discreet places

A trip to the
public library
isn’t complete
without an all
out screaming
match against
a neb shit
librarian who
hasn’t swallowed
her medication

Giving into
temptation for
the sake of art
and self-gratification
can be rewarding
for me and also
my ever growing
vast audience
but it almost
cost me my life
which means more
to me than any
bullshit poem in my
cliche catalogue
of literary
masturbation

I’ve done plenty
of raunchy
and morally
reprehensible
things in my
lifetime

Now it’s your turn
to point that liberal
finger and judge me
like the perverted priest
you wish you were
decent enough to be

Yes, I’m guilty
as charged
I’ve done all
the wrong things
for all the
right reasons

At the back end of the day

 

Leafs and ash merge

in an autumnal breeze

Old men know that they too

Will be there soon.

The ancient door frame

at the top of the stairs (ajar).

Inviting threatening

Psychology is no exact science

There is no leap of faith.

No time to dance –

Looking from work place window

The garbage can corner

Indicates this deterministic

Universes game plan

Lost leafs and the old souls

Find another pathway

To where they are blown.

A Not So Fullness of Being

 

Humans

Will never

Stop making

Up

False Gods.

 

God made it

This way.

And if the current

God ever

Were proven to

Not exist

Humans would

Create

Another one,

And if this

New God

Ever tried to

Show Herself

And walk the earth

Like Jesus

Did

Well, we’d kill

This new God

Too.

 

It’s like they said

In the

Bar down the

Hill from

Golgotha

The day after

Jesus

Was

Executed: “God sent

Jesus

Down to

See what

Earth was

Like;

And we gave him a taste of what

It’s like to be human.”