Pacquiao


Was lethal
In the ring
until he
found Jesus
then everyone
said he
lost his
edge his
killer instinct

but the
real truth
is when
a fighter
believes
in anything
more than
he believes
in himself

he is done.

Before the Relapse

 
a heart-prolapse, insignia of hour
graciously galloping in cyclone of gore.

every leap, every mile, a recalcitrant shower:
is every earth not an ore of the onerous?

breath, a dissonant swing, fluctuating
like a restless wind seeking where to nest.

are we not all wings seeking where to perch?
but this suffering, a persistent plough, a pinnacle

tirelessly rowing itself to unsatisfactory shores.
a spine-prolapse, an interminable hammering of life’s

tarnishing tides, tinctured into a threshold of damnable
trailblazings: are we not all farmers of futility

furnishing death’s furrow with our sweats? a larynx
of leaves, a sway of scythes—songs quartered,

quashed to rotten brown reminiscent of recurring droughts
stationed at doorposts of new beginnings, the reopening

of recycled ash. here, it’s either you grow or you burn.
it’s either you sing or you become a song ferried

by mythical birds meandering in restless winds.
euthanasia is a prayer, a fervid hope of things

to sprout in the afterlife—maybe there, mercy awaits us
like hungry loam awaits a lectern of raindrops.

Jubilee


pluto in aquarius, saturn in pisces
picking a tarot with an astrologer has
failed to regain a transactive memory
that passed away on a jubilee night
i paid a price for a failed bargain with 
fate, exposing an archetype in my energy
got me secluded to a place where men
plucked early flowers with a starkly life
growing from a bud. a light crimson
as blue as the universe freaks me to 
hades with an earth shattering laughter of 
a shenanigan tossing with his inventions 
of solving an algorithm, of undead men
roaming with beheaded heads, finding
brains like accessories, a kind of wilderness
that makes the world a dystopia.

Moments of Deep Enlightenment


At midnight there’s a
lady with a face of wings
standing in a field 

of blue snow, and the
moon resonates out across
the prairie like an

ancient temple bell
suddenly transforming this
random and one-time- 

only-occurrence
of stepping out on the back
porch to take a deep

and much-needed piss
off a deck, somewhere, in the
Heartland, U.S.A.,

into a moment
of deep enlightenment in
the courtyard of a

Zen monastery,
somewhere in the mountains of
Japan, maybe, and

for a few frozen
seconds, suspended there, in
the winter air, no

rush of wind through the
trees, no hooting of owls, no-
thing to disturb us.

Schnuckiputzi

When I called my girlfriend
by the German endearment
I had just learned –
Sweetie pie – she slapped my face,
accused me of being a perv.


She Club

I was in love with Jo Weldon
from the days she first danced
at The Classy Cat in the early 80s. 
New to Atlanta – I grew up in Indianapolis –
I started going to strip clubs
soon after I moved here, a lonely guy, no friends.
Bikers, drug dealers and furtive guys hung out there,
but I always kept to myself.
Jo got me hooked on burlesque,
and when she moved on
to the clubs on Cheshire Bridge Road,
I followed her, a big fan. At the She Club
she’d do robe dances and acrobatics,
cartwheeling across the stage
on four-inch heels, and my God,
there was a reason her nickname was “Boobs.”
I followed her across the street to the Starcastle
when she left the She Club.
But then, a few months later,
somebody fire-bombed the joint!
I remember it well, November 30, 1981,
my 28th birthday. I’d gone to see Jo dance
at the Starcastle. I’d heard  the rumors,
bad blood  between the owners of She and Starcastle,
but I didn’t know Manny Isaacs, the She Club owner,
arranged to have the Starcastle burned down.
All that came out at the trial a couple years later.
By then I’d given up on clubbing,
met my first wife Lucinda at a friend’s party 
had our own little Atlanta social circle.
But I still dream about Jo Boobs Weldon
forty years, two wives, three kids and eight grandchildren later,
nearly every single night.

Contrast

Ahead behold
an awesome sight
Our house burning
against the night

Darkness hangs on
cindering frame
Weighing down
the house aflame

I must enter
this place tonight
For it is the
last source of light

Grandeur:

each poem
is an excuse
for not having lived
more grand.

take this poem.
i wrote it instead
of seducing twin milkmaids.

dear friend, beware:
life is brief.
and there's as much paper
as there is life.

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.