Amnesiac Memory

It starts with 
Just a trigger
A buzzer, an alarm. 
A shot fired from a practicing gun. 
A dart of aim, 
A gong of cacophony, 
Rattle of screeching steel tyres 
Its skin, tearing apart. 
Fire sparks stretching on the road. 
My voice, a shrill of tongue
Still unheard. 
Hard rain dripping 
Striking the tin roof. 
Any sound is a game here 
Playing with the disturbed politics. 
Sounds metamorphosed to war cries 
Creativity escaping through bullet holes. 
Broken vase of poetry 
Dead flowers of elegy
Decorating the epitaph 
Of silenced sound of amnesiac memory. 
Is it also easy to forget war? 

Wretched

Deeper I've drawn by distress, 
Flooded by the flooding river of discomfort
Leaving me shaky and shaggy within my heart and body

Turbulent sea is where I arrived
The whales and dolphins wanted to have a catch
After being freed from the shark
Trying to combat and to turn tail

The ribcage and the cardia jumbled
Eyes and its conjoins became reddish
Like the burned wood or an ember left to be eaten by the ash

My Heart

She ripped out my heart
And stomped on it,
Which made it break into hard,
Stone cold, razor sharp shards.
If she’d try that now,
She’d hurt her feet.


The Bar Room Floor

The bar room floor
Is more comfortable
Than you’d think it’d be.
The fall didn’t hurt much.
I know my drinkin’ limit.
I done passed it a while back.
Shoulda just stayed in the chair.
But, I needed to get to the bar
To get that “last call” drink.
I hope people are kind enough
To step around or over me.
This ain’t my first time down here.
Lately, as the nights wear on
I’ve become a regular fixture
On the floor of this fine establishment.
No worries, no woes, just a drunk.
Barkeep says I certainly make
A great conversation piece.
Likes my routine.
Closing time, everybody’s leaving.
Damn, lady.  Watch those stilettos.
I wanted to keep that hand.

with plenty of whiskey
 
these are the nights i take 
my night time medicine 
with plenty of whiskey
 
no one likes the fucker that 
overstays his damn welcome
 
i see the evil eyes when i'm 
out in public, the whispers 
as i walk by
 
one day they'll get to see the 
monster they believe me to be
 
though i'm sure they will be 
disappointed
 
everyone else has been
 
my father could never bring 
himself to say he loves me
 
chose to die instead
 
my mother does it out of guilt
 
my sister has moved on
 
any chance for a lover was pissed 
away so many years ago
 
and i have no fucking interest in 
dying old and alone
 
i'm sure there is some gutter out 
west with my name on it
 
a concrete pillow, a pet rat
 
and a random needle with just 
enough to see me through
-------------------------------------------------------
the best kind of neighbor
 
six days before christmas
the guy across the street
decided it was time
 
he took his gun to the 
basement and shot 
himself in the head
 
i have no clue if there 
was problems with the 
job or money or the 
family, etc.
 
some people argue 
that makes me a 
bad neighbor
 
i tend to think i'm 
the best kind of 
neighbor
 
i help when asked
 
wave when waved at
 
and most of the time
 
i simply mind my own
fucking business

In Lieu of Flowers

A first cousin my age dead from an overdose. A childhood friend dead from a rare cancer. My very nice mother-in-law dead from Alzheimer’s. A twenty-something student of mine dead from an undetected heart condition. Death, death, death, death. Some say it’s by design, but others that it’s mad slaughter. I don’t know. Maybe. There are times I’ll find myself staring at the back of people’s heads on the commuter bus with just so much sadness.

WreTcheD

i sauntered down our old town. now altered to a cemetery, the garden we used to play. two, three, four....&... houses, were wrecked. and the people i left, were asked to make mansions with the skulls of innocent men. 

then, it was a garden full of ripped mangoes. now, a cemetery; a black one with hills. i could remember writing my name on the middle tree that drops juice,  went to taste its horny, but found blood answering its sugary name.


i then met an old man, & he said the hills which i ride, are the graves of my townmen. and the dew which falls at dawn, is no more water, but the tears of chained, raped young women. 

God, onto you i hinge, give me back my name. the dialect i used to speak, is now the language of death. for now, even my name is another name of grief. 

Of Gods and Mice
Open my mouth
starburst spray
I’ve loved you for centuries
you never felt it
like the purple chez
that crushed velvet so plush
it feels right to run your hand over it
or revel in the crunch of boots over fresh fallen snow
I picked a basket full of moon-glow for your melancholy
place it in the corner
it births a milky way
I cross over to pull you out
drag you by your feet
back from the dead - back from Herod
Clean your track marks
ripe with infection
bathe you in rose water
dry you
pack you up and send you off to try again
and again

Still I Write
Try to make sense of the data
all this input
no output
where’s it all going
cuz I got nothin to say
and nothin to give
Yet I keep pullin it in
day after day
Instagram after Instagram
this uninteresting
batch after batch
of people
I don’t give a flying fuck about
what they’re wearing
where they flew to over the weekend
I’ve got a mortgage
I multi-task at least forty times a day
trying to do things that I can’t
but have to
cuz what else is there
Still I write so much
as a dumbass clock
that’s broken - it’s right twice a day
Somewhere in this gibberish
has to be something
of interest
some inspiring words
of wisdom
that will later be on
a Facebook post
under a daisy photo
some shit like that

When Jesus Went to Get a Tattoo

When Jesus went to get a tattoo
The Philistine dude who runs the
Combo head shop and tattoo parlor
Suggested all sorts of cool designs.
Crosses?  Too many bad memories.
Hot babes?  Near naked hula girls?
Sweet smiling Spanish senoritas?
Maybe too hot for the Son of God.
Snakes?  Totally out of the question.
Wild eyed devils?  Oh, right, sorry.
Unicorns?  Quite popular right now.
Perhaps, tribal art on the privates?
I take that look as a definite ‘no’.
Fancy script?  Have a nice day?
Ride to live, live to ride?  USMC?
Your place or mine?  Hell bound?
Free spirit?  Deities do it better?
The ever popular: Satan sucks?
Gods just wanna have fun?
With so many choices, it was just
A real heavy decision.  Doobie time.
Laid back and mellow, with a casual
Scan of the room, he suddenly found
Just exactly what he was looking for.
If he’d settled for anything else, I’d
Be surprised.  Super job, looks good,
A big heart with MOM across it.

ON A NEW YEAR’S DAY, LONG LONG AGO
 
Loneliness caught up with me in a mirror.
There I was staring back at me.
The eyes were mine and no one else’s.
Same with the mouth.
And the arms draped at my sides.
There was no one to ask,
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Or who inquired of me,
“It’s New Year.
Why haven’t you taken down 
the Christmas decorations?”
The light above tried to come off as a halo.
But I was no one’s angel.
Just my own fat chance.

 
THE RED OR THE GREEN
 
And do I cut the red wire or the green wire,
say something or not mention it at all,
concentrate hard or let my thoughts scatter –
the unexploded bomb has its reasons,
as does the fault in you that can’t be blamed
completely on the stars,
and my mind is only totally free from outside influences
maybe one or two times a day –
best just to look at my reflection in the window 
of the tea shop.
 
A simple play of light and glass
is better than a soft slap in the face.
Everything else is too complex.
If I leave everyone undisturbed, 
they can’t blow up on me.

BRAUTIGAN'S BLUE MOON

I pop a couple 
of marijuana gummies---
one green, one yellow---
and I'm soon asleep.

Fade in: 
I stand on a deserted beach
under a pale gray sky. 
A sharp wind cuts my face. 
Whitecaps tell me that 
the sea is angry, impatient.

Several yards off shore, 
I spot a man standing 
half-submerged in the water. 
Waves hit him at thigh-level. 
He's a tall, lanky guy 
wearing John Lennon glasses, 
a walrus mustache and 
a navy surplus pea coat. 
His shoulder-length hair
blows in the wind. 
And, he's sinking. 

I'm startled to recognize the man. 
"Richard Brautigan!" I call 
out to him, waving my arms. 
"What in hell are you doing there?"

Brautigan shrugs. "I'm stuck out here.
Nobody reads my books anymore."

I shake my head. "Bullshit!
Look man, just paddle back in.
We'll discuss this in a warm bar
over cold beer, my treat. 
Summer's over, you know?"

Brautigan pulls a red bandana
out of his coat and 
removes his glasses. 
He calmly wipes the lenses 
with the bandana. 

"Believe me," he says, "I'd like 
nothing more. But it ain't my choice. 
I didn't want to die twice, you know?"

I take a few steps forward;
icy water quickly reaches my knees. 
"What's your deal?" I ask.
"I don't see any water wings. 
Were you just curious about 
the slow agony of drowning?"

Brautigan pockets his bandana
and replaces his glasses. 

"No, I told you," he says. 
"My books are rotting on the shelves---
shelves that still have them, I mean. 
In minutes, I'll be washed away 
like Rod McKuen and Edgar A. Guest. 
So mosey up on that seashore.
Nobody reads your books, either."

I stumble back to the sand. 
"Listen," I yell over the waves,
"I have all your books!"

Brautigan folds his arms. 
"Hardcovers?" he asks, skeptically.  

"Mostly paperbacks," I reply, 
"alphabetized by title on their own shelf!"

Brautigan chews his mustache. 
"My ass, you do. You're always 
reading Bukowski or Lee Child. 
You haven't cracked a cover 
of mine in a blue moon."
The water is up to his chest.

With my sleeve, I wipe 
ocean spray off my face. 
"Okay," I say, "you got me. 
I admit it's been a while. 
But I've always said that 
you're one of my great influences."

Brautigan locks his hands 
behind his head, keeping 
his elbows just above the waves. 

"All show and no go," he scoffs. 
"You're nothing like me!
I'd never ramble on like this.
None of my poems runs 
over eight lines long---
which you'd know if you read
Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork."

"I'm sure I've got that one!"
I exclaim, with a pounding heart. 
"It's locked in my storage space.
Come with me and I'll show you.
Please swim, tread water, something!
Don't let yourself go under this way!"

Brautigan chuckles bloodlessly.
"I've been treading water since 1984.
With luck, I'll wash up in Japan." 
The ocean laps his chin.

I claw at my hair, pacing the beach. 
"Christ, Brautigan! What can I do?"

"Read, dumbass," Brautigan says,
as the water encloses him. "Read."

Fade out.