The Old Man From The Corner Condo

 

 

 

The old man from the corner condo

doesn’t notice he’s started a wave. 

He picks his nose, as he rolls his gums

like a donkey.  I would like to ride him

to the top of a mountain.

We could both use exercise. 

The old man has a secret. 

I will beat it out of him, if

he is not a primitive earthquake.

 

 

A Workman’s Truck

 

 

A workman’s truck landed

from outer space.  What a fool. 

There’s no pay on earth

worth leavening the moon. 

It’s crowded here.

Its beeps and clunks,

diseased deer, and dead

dogs and well manicured yards. 

No picnic baskets insight.  

 

 

 

The Sirens

 

The sirens of this mad

city scream for help. 

The old lady is dead.

Go on and yell. 

You’ll find out soon enough. 

 

 

 

A Red Monster

 

 

A red monster

lives inside of me.

She’s what makes the bunny

so damn irritable and what

stops the pain in my hand,

my lonely lover.

 

 

 

My Husband is Scared

 

 

My husband is scared

I will eat him whole and shit

out a little square of his bones.

I may, if I can regain the wisdom.

I’ve done it before to a cat. 

 

What more does he want out of a poem?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went to a local coffee

 

I went to a local coffee

shop and drank four

cups of black Mexican brew.

It was okay.  I wish

Theo the Dead River was there.  

He roasts coffee for God. 

 

 

 

 

Remember

Remember

when your first lover died, the world kept

smiling and moving, and you stared, and wondered, don’t they know,

oh they must not know, one lover has died.

 

The grass doesn’t droop and sun keeps up, and is hard

to understand why like war, when you’re 19,

when you have nothing in your past to hold, you can’t see out 

Your grandfather had a war, so did your father, and now

so do you. You do not have a tin cup or a coffee ration.

 

No smokes handed out but you still get a gun

THE SOLDIER EATS BROTHER

Brother eats war, like he

sits and eats chicken, smacking his lips, as he

plays a game of dice.  He is dumb to fear and blood.

He read the battle stories and said, they were good.

Not a breath or pause, not a groan or a god slipped out,  

nothing left him.  Just another blank stare

ahead and a wipe of his face.

 

Could say, stop playing dead, stop playing dumb brother

but don’t because really, he is lucky. his childhood games have

continued to work and  have not killed him off completely.

If one were to talk to him about this, intellectually he’d comprehend,

but emotionally he’d stop it before it could crawl under his

heart and box it out of rhythm.

 

Actively pursuing tender hands, I internalize

the soldiers’ stories, read them over and over

and bite my lip in the dead parts.

The truth, don’t know anyone who is willing

to feel as much as a soldier.

 

Brother acts like he doesn’t let himself

touch the agony of breath stops

but he slips up, he zooms in and out.

Caught in the web of the living and the bills,

 the streets moving around him and a war.

 

If you put “the” in front of war, it makes it personal.

The war compared to a war has an urgency. 

Some aren’t stupid enough to be tricked into a war. 

Others, like you soldier, have no other way but the war. 

You would never join in war

You would never join in war.  You know

what war is more than pink recruits. Your soldier

is wet and a triangle flag.

Home does not seem a place

to be. Shouldn’t be rushing or resting 

Have no right to

be angry or at peace

not while the taps are played

oh nation –turn, it is you that grieves

 

In Some Kind of Sick Trance

In some kind of sick trance

you’ve forced  yourself to read war stories

written by conscientious  dissenters.

 

Your son is war and you

must know what to say and what

not to say when he calls, to cry.

Just in case he can’t

remember a time before,

you must know a thing of war

so you can start where

he is and lead him home

 

 

If You Do Survive, Soldier

 

If you do survive, soldier, you have nowhere to go.

You  can’t join a civil society, you can’t go home

 after you’ve sucked up a landfill of guts  and bones.

Its hard to see familiar faces that come

 from the years before you ate humans.

That is war and it is a problem. 

An old farmer or a fat waitress raises

an eyebrow at you. And you think

the simple people know what your hands

have been in. They are just as pink as you, soldier,

were at 17.  Most have never killed a village or

been waste deep in entrails. 

There is something hard and dead now in the lines

 

 

 

 There is something hard and dead now in the lines

That won’t, despite these grandeur terms, stop.

We all know better then to start another but

our hands are tied sausages. 

Old men tell us the blood of youth 

must be glugged down

 

Of course, everyone is easily stirred into hunger.

No one wants to lose their way of life.

None want to give up tennis shoes or custard. 

So, again the young are molested

into humping exotic streets and town

squares as adrenaline pounds them forward

The master perverts sit in comfortable chairs,

while the almost human become free

animals and toss out morality.