Some rumors

a poem from Nov. 1992 - one of my more prolific periods - oh, a long time ago, i know.

a few updates - still no contract, though i hear the talks continue but obviously it is not a major priority to either side, since the meetings are not scheduled very often _ too many conflicting agendas, or so they say. some rumors say nothing will get signed until October or November, but you know how reliable rumors can be. Also, no real word on buyers for the paper-side of the Weyco world. Some rumors were floating around last week a potential (or interested party) would be named today, but it seems that was just a hoax that got taken seriously by a few employees.



I TELLS YOU, MAN

i tells you man, i hates telephones
solicitors that worm their way into your psyche,
make you feel like rat piss
rejecting the blind, disabled & maimed.
hurrah for me! cruel bastard
that relishes suffering. theirs & mine.

no need for guaranteed light bulbs in my dungeons.
no need for dancing,
club foots on my two aching legs.
i tells you man, i hates telephones
late night callers on their knees,
not even rusting in mock worship,
for my last shiny pennies.

some economics

from 1992 - i was not giving my poems titles back then, so when (if) i submitted them, or put them in manuscripts, i usually just made the first line the title, making it a bit easier on editors. This is an unsolicited poem, so it's unpublished as well, like most everything anymore.


THE ECONOMICS WERE SIMPLE ENOUGH

the economics were simple enough
America had failed
(no billboards announced it, but the graffiti artists knew it, sang the song upon derelict buildings
the hookers & bums knew it, sang the song together in the decayed city cores)
America had failed
it was in the tombstone eyes of once believers even if their hearts desperately tried to deny it

poem for going back to work

a poem written in 7:95. this poem was published by Vantage Point in April 1998. another of those small press publications that need any sort of support you can give. it's also a poem that fits the mental outlook as i head back to the paper-machine tomorrow morning, and those Oh, so lovely (NOT) heavyweight export orders that our crew seems to get all too often.


POEM

no address & the rags no one else wanted on his back
he searches garbage cans for breakfast
like a runaway dog - no license
just a snarl & growl
for early morning fog

a prose poem from 82-87 era

a poem from 1982-1987 era - unsolicited, unpublished. a prose poem.

on a few days off, after a rough night shift ... went to Wildlife Safari this morning, saw dem big cats up close. Pretty impressive creatures. Got close to Bison and Rhinos as well. Interesting place and worth rediscovering every four or five years.



LESSON OF THE GYPSY

i met four gypsies - each with a golden earring, each with a curse, on the distant highway to leads from the silver highway of the City of David to the golden highway of the City of God.

Of the four, two were blind and two were lame.

As they hobbled along, the sun was pleasant and they wailed the names of their mothers turned to whores and their gods turned to the pleasures of war and though each voice cried in imperfect harmony, the names they expelled as a vile arrangement with unknown beasts was identical to the other.

i asked them of their lament.

They knocked me down and spat upon my face and took my wallet and threw it into the dancing river that ran wonderfully along the Highway of God. They cursed me and then fell on their knees, begging for forgiveness.

i stood up, silent and strong, as a judge or assassin and demanded they be out of my life.

Without saying a word, they rose and took to the highway, tears, the delicate touch of sorrow, dripped from their eyes.

And as they vanished into the haze of holiness that rose along the edge of the golden Highway of God, i felt only envy and found myself too cursing mothers turned to whoring and gods turned to the pleasures of war.

vacation time ends ... and the happy papermill awaits

today's poem is from 1:98

still not feeling like work (which awaits tomorrow) is a great alternative to vacation - but alas ... pay-checks seem to be a rather major necessity.




CALL ME WHEN YOU ARE LONELY

you take yarn from old clothes
rework it into new blankets

call me when you are lonely
when the moon is drunk
over dark fields
& the owl is content
to sit on high posts
& sing of contentment

even though i have sworn off
all pleasures
in this place of simple survival
for you i will make exceptions

still not ready to wrestle alligators

a poem from 5:93 - accepted in edited form (which i have since lost) by Midwest Poetry Review in July 97, supposedly to be published in April 1998. i don't think i ever got a copy of the issue .... so here is the poem, not the original piece, but also not the edited/accepted form either. (i guess that makes sense. in other words, re-edited from the original.) anyway, support those small presses in anyway you can.

still feeling under the weather, but think i'll make it, so i can get back to work in a couple of days. Gees, would hate to be sick going back to work, now wouldn't we? just not quite feeling ready to wrestle any alligators at the moment.



POEM TO EDITOR OF ONTHEBUS

gather the bones in less than symbolic piles
the flesh will burn even as the soul seeks immortality

if every poem is a sin (according to yeventushenko)
then we are all the vilest of sinners

we are designed to be creatures of beauty
-most of us bastard sucking the dirty tits of desperation
finding no nourishment, but inspiration
- soiled & unholy -

we are a discardable bunch
our cancered flesh fit for the fires of your purification
we are the tainted blood in veins
the dirty air you are forced to breath

to curse our imperfection is to curse yourself

feeling under the weather, a bit

and here is yet another poem for ya'all - from 1995 - same old song and dance - unsolicited - thus unpublished.

vacation continues. really feeling under the weather today. tired, aches and pains and a headache that won't go away. i am certain it's withdrawal symptoms from being away from the paper machine for 6 days. no other explanation works.

other than that - not much going on. really warm (OK, it's HOT) again today. certainly can tell it's summertime in the olde Willamette Valley. that should please the sun lovers ....


SONG OF REJECTION

all my stamps gone
what does it matter? no one was publishing dreams of darkness this year anyway.

i sit beside the muddy river & wonder how anything could live in those dark waters.
lovers stroll by, arm in arm. she is beautiful. he is masculine.
they are giddy & skip stones across slow eddies.
(just like god hurling thunderbolts upon a drenched Midwest.)

i listen to the wind through fallen timber.
squirrels wait for hand-outs. i give them instead pages of poems no one wanted.
they too refuse to be impressed & leave for easier scores.
the old man with an eagle on his hat shares stale pop-corn.
in the sky, an osprey - but it could have been a vulture - searches for also dinner.

when the rain finally accompanies darkness, i watch neon bleed.
somewhere in the blurred faces that flash between head-lamps are dreams & love & poems.
but i do not capture them. instead i listen to the rain as it whispers in a language i try desperately to translate
unsuccessfully tonight.

what does it matter? all my stamps are gone!