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

"That Sinking Feeling"

He died
sitting in his car

an old car
with all he owned
in the backseat and trunk

memories packed in his head
dreams that turned cold

skin washed with alcohol
deep breathing
keeping the tears in

finished figuring
how he could have changed

too worn down to work
not old enough for social security

he often talked 
to others

everyone feeling
the ruins of all

becoming forever.

Tattoo
 
I’ve been thinking about
getting a tattoo
on my skinny hairy forearm
honoring
my dad and brother
both deceased
a leafless tree
some puzzle pieces
a symbol combining their initials
carved into the tree trunk

neither had any tattoos
dad didn’t like them
body is a temple type shit
while he smoked a pack a day

I think about the tattoo
most on Sundays
Sundays are for contemplation
but the tattoo parlor
is closed on Sunday
Monday too
and by Tuesday
Contemplation is over
and my forearm
remains artless

One Former Bus Boy, Two Nurse Practitioners
After Shift Change and a Bar

They arrived around 1 A.M. on
a slow summer night. I remembered him
as one of the all-around good guys who,
actually, did the work at the restaurant that
cured me forever of living the good life,
in the fast lane, dealing with wealthy people
and all their entitled, privileged attitudes
that came with the money.
“How are you? I asked, though it seemed
pretty clear he was doing just fine.
“Couldn’t be better.” He said with one of
those smiles that spoke volumes about where
the rest of his night was headed with two,
still-in-uniform nurses, who had seen it all,
done it all, and didn’t care what anyone
thought about anything.
“Just out for a quick one with my two best girls.”
He didn’t bother asking me how I was.
It was just too obvious that I was putting in time
at this end of the world place, as compared
to where I had been when we had vastly different jobs
in the same place.
He left a nice tip, chugged his beer and
gave a, “catch you later” little wave, heading
out to wherever their bower of bliss was.
I wiped the bar down and thought how I had
nothing to look forward to but last call.

DENOUEMENT

 
Do hippies still smoke joints, then twine
septuagenarian limbs together? Do punks
shoot up in varicose veins, peace spat

out by needles? As Cheetah Chrome says,
“Stay off the shit!” Don’t forget, the Beats
listened to jazz before Bird recorded

with strings. Prior to that, bohemian artists
heard Django Reinhardt; long before middle
class hipsters grew their hair and carried

pictures of Mao, to the vexation of Lennon
and fellow paisley adorned capitalists.
The Stones raked in money and sneered,

turning Elvis’ grin on its head. Don’t get
me started on the kids of today. Good kids.
But cosmic destiny is just your brain

connecting dots to give things meaning.
There’s no master plan. Life chugs along
until it doesn’t.

Job Security Prayer

 
There’s no shame,
she said, in having a job
for more than 2 years.  In fact
some see it as a virtue,
a welcome sign of stability
in an increasingly unstable
world. 

But, then, what about
flexibility, freshness, change?
What about the stagnation
and the rot that sets in when
familiarity breeds apathy
and the status quo becomes . . .
status quo. 

Please god, do not lull me
to sleep against
the soft breast of security.
Please do not let me
be drawn by the allure
of comfortable monotony,
the stale, stationary
sameness that snuffs out
creativity in favor of
averting risk.

Let me, dear lord,
stick out my neck
on the chopping block
of originality, and let me
be inspired by the sound
of the executioner
sharpening his axe.

After Language

 
After language
     discovered me
     I thought, Oh, oh,
I’m in for it now.

After language
     discovered me
     whispering, it said,
you can raise your voice now.

After language
     discovered me
     it said, who said
you could talk now?

After language
     discovered it could
     confuse me like this,
now it will not leave me alone.