A LOST CLOWN LOOKS BACK

August 5, 2015

It’s good I guess that guilt ignore me

And better yet,  that  regret may

forget me, unknown,  after it all goes down.

Actually,  clowns,

Surely cloistered  in cells near,

Surely watch the latches,

They’re keen for keys that wait inside them, some;

Compromises, cast in a cold metal fit.

Here’s the thing;

The king knows nothing if not

To let them  spring them open,

Anxious, fast toward the lights,  pass massive

Ancient doorways.

Gone, they get off to make fun

For themselves.

.

.

.

.                                             (from 2009)

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C H E E R S

.

I own my own muse
uncannily, I can amuse me
it’s fairly common knowledge,I think, that some Irish may
consider a spot of poteen and a pint at the end of a well-spent day…
God’s pay for a day’s good work. Earned.
when I get home from work, mornings, I spill a half swallow of irish whiskey in my glass, turn to look out the back window,raise my glass some, and To the sunrise’s orange and yellows, To the trees & water
I’ll whisper “yes, here’s to ya,then”.
Coupla nights back, I noticed there was just half a swallow in the bottle I might savor in the next morning after work, and get the empty bottle out to the recyclable bin before the early truck. Before I headed off to work
the night before though, it was apparent that my sweet & neat mate, thinking logically that the bottle was another empty to go out, the night before, took it out.
the next morning, after getting out all the rest of the trash out to the front that needed to go,walking the 30 yards back up my broken driveway to the house, I stopped. I smiled, then started laughing as I walked back to the road, all the time thinking of the imaginary guy across the street, opening his blinds for the 6AM sunrise, slippers & robe, looking out and seeing the real life guy across the street walking out to the road, lifting the top up, and reaching deep down into the bin, pulling out a bottle, unscrewing the top and tipping it back for that last swallow.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – — – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

A friend of a friend was a new nurse in a new high rise hospital where she mostly has clerical duties. One midday in the lunchroom, her break is broken when a man across the way from her starts making alarming choking sounds. A room full of nurses might humorously seem like an ideal location for choking, but our friend of a friend nurse has been away from hands-on medical aid for some time, she’s been busy on the computer w/the files for years, and could only notice that the other more proficient nurses seemed to be ignoring the situation. Confused and frustrated with their behavior she rushes over to the man (He’s a large man, not unlike myself, this big Irish head’s gotta ride on a big body. size isn’t everything)
She awkwardly positions herself behind him and begins to vigorously hug him,again and again from behind. It’s a bit difficult because of the man’s size, but she presses on. again and again. His choking breaks up some to a rasp and he mumbles that he’ll be all right.
After he shyly ambles off, our nurse turns to scowl & glare at her fellow professionals when one of them declares, “the police have been called, he’s done this before.”
I’m thinking that things aren’t always as they seem. Maybe this guy wasn’t a manipulative, sexual deviant. Maybe he was at the point where he Must have a hug. The things we do for love.

A guy I kinda know once talked about going to a professional massage therapist and decidedly took a Viagra beforehand. I’m thinking that things aren’t always as they seem. Maybe he so loved when his lover laughed, it would be so precious when he told her. The things we do for love

If  thrift  wit

Against  all  it;

Adversity,

And/or  deadpanness,

Can handle that beast

W/ Monkey grease,

Why go  quiet?

And you’re thus  quite  dangerous,

Or at least

You’re red-lit  too quiet

So red that

All fear for to stand clear,

They’ll stop, some spy some, and bet, I think

To see you Pop

Or soften to a safer pink.

 

 

 

 

 

A friend of a friend was a new nurse in a new high rise hospital where she mostly has clerical duties. One midday in the lunchroom, her break is broken when a man across the way from her starts making alarming choking sounds. A room full of nurses might humorously seem like an ideal location for choking, but our friend of a friend nurse has been away from hands-on medical aid for some time, she’s been busy on the computer w/the files for years, and could only notice that the other more proficient nurses seemed to be ignoring the situation. Confused and frustrated with their behavior she rushes over to the man (He’s a large man, not unlike myself, this big Irish head’s gotta ride on a big body. size isn’t everything)
She awkwardly positions herself behind him and begins to vigorously hug him,again and again from behind. It’s a bit difficult because of the man’s size, but she presses on. again and again. His choking breaks up some to a rasp and he mumbles that he’ll be all right.
After he shyly ambles off, our nurse turns to scowl & glare at her fellow professionals when one of them declares, “the police have been called, he’s done this before.”
I’m thinking that things aren’t always as they seem. Maybe this guy wasn’t a manipulative, sexual deviant. Maybe he was at the point where he Must have a hug. The things we do for love.

A guy I kinda know once talked about going to a professional massage therapist and decidedly took a Viagra beforehand. I’m thinking that things aren’t always as they seem. Maybe he loved when his lover laughed, it would be so precious when he told her. The things we do for love

DARK JOKE

December 18, 2012

It went

That after horrible or violent events,

As a cruel way to vent too serious grief

& to take the pressure off some,

Dark jokes will soon surface. Then spread.

To workplaces, as casual talk, yes,

Plus, throughout  campuses.

Though not through the usual mediums, this time./

.

I find it kinda funny when odd fears are realized

By the armed

Violence enablers,

Hoarding their hidden caches of

FearFirePower/.

When the same crack team

Of govt.-trained troups

So successful far from home

Do  go door to door  At home,

Search warrant  OK’d  by presidential decree,

To go in, and go under underwear drawers,

Rifling for rifles;

Masturbatory safe dolls.  Icons, even./

.

But at a time  before that time,

We’ll drop by the plush residences

Of our adopted representatives,

Pay ‘em a visit,

Packing.

Nothing melodramatic

Tight white shirts  so they know

We’re carrying a friend.

We’ll mention

That though a lot of commerce has come,

A lot of exchanges, agreed & understood,

This time there’ll be no threat of voter retribution,

This time they might do the right thing.

We’ll mention how wrong decisions

Made might mean

Not seeing

One’s big boat, or golf clubs,

Or mistress, or ” Rainy Day” fund

Tomorrow, or even ever again./

.

Then, these same guns that surely helped ensure

A democracy  we could live with,

Would go with the rest.

.

.

.Half a laugh I guess.

 

SOLID THINGS

August 4, 2012

 

 

 

There’s this secret I’ve kept so discreet

From lovers, & brothers, & mothers.

I’ve mis managed to become  so mum

It was only clearer to me

After  self therapy

The  other day,  or another.

.

From  this  encompassing  dream,

I   finally  wanted

All the  solid things  I was sold  to get,

When it’s important  to want one.

.

I   Get

Silk  batik ties, Italian silk shirts,

Mostly-silk  jackets,

Dry cleaned,  & all in the closet.

.

I  Wait For And Get

Too new Peter & P.J., Gabriel and Harvey,

Unheard of, they’re still in their jacket.

Too new Laurie Anderson, Richard Thompson,

Unheard of, they’re still in their jacket.

.

I  Waited  For  &  Get a

Big  Bio book   of Elliott Smith,

and the case is still closed

.

I   Get

New  Yorker’s

Drawings  &  Captions

All of them  (All these years)

Data   on   disc

unplayed  &  unsmiled  to. (sadly)

I   Got

New  Yorker’s

Drawings  & Captions

The Board Game…

.

..

Why  I  With-hold

All  that  pleasure,

I haven’t a clue.

It’s half-like  holding  love

At arm’s length,

& watching it  do

.

 

C H E E R S

July 21, 2012

“It is the function of art to renew our perception.  What we are familiar with  we cease to see.

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.”

– Anais Nin

.

.

.

(from 2007, years ago, for laughs, we always require laughter)

.

C H E E R S

.

I own my own muse
uncannily, I can amuse me
it’s fairly common knowledge,I think, that some Irish may
consider a spot of poteen and a pint at the end of a well-spent day…
God’s pay for a day’s good work. Earned.
when I get home from work, mornings, I spill a half swallow of irish whiskey in my glass, turn to look out the back window,raise my glass some, and To the sunrise’s orange and yellows, To the trees & water
I’ll whisper “yes, here’s to ya,then”.Coupla nights back, I noticed there was just half a swallow in the bottle I might savor in the next morning after work, and get the empty bottle out to the recyclable bin before the early truck. Before I headed off to work
the night before though, it was apparent that my sweet & neat mate, thinking logically that the bottle was another empty to go out, the night before, took it out.
the next morning, after getting out all the rest of the trash out to the front that needed to go,walking the 30 yards back up my broken driveway to the house, I stopped. I smiled, then started laughing as I walked back to the road, all the time thinking of the imaginary guy across the street, opening his blinds for the sunrise, slippers & robe, looking out and seeing the real life guy across the street walking out to the road, lifting the top up, and reaching deep down into the bin, pulling out a bottle, unscrewing the top and tipping it back for that last swallow.

I  had  offered,

I had  fondness for the face

I had found on her hallway mirror. then with aplomb, y’know,

Why “You’ve really done up the place”

Didn’t even faze her.

I don’t know.

&  I don’t know what would  wow  her.

I’m a clown balancing wildly  on a wire,

And a  blind child

Won’t look up.

.

Once home, I would only  steady my hand.

Steadfastly, I’d straighten up

For my last, and barely  stand.

.

.

.

.

.

(As I heard him sing this some, I’m hoping that Jarvis Cocker reads & steals this verse as his own)

OR

“I am a drinker with writing problems.”
— Brendan Behan

My ummagicmake shun!

makes me ache

Then this misinformation

Am I immune from taking

Soulful pulls from the moon?

 

I go no wrong to take

A long standing  mistake

And go on misunderstanding

My  awake

&  try  to go  & see  poetry

because here at the hacienda

I  AC  the place

to most morgues’ health code  regs.

On  cool  spells

I’ll ajar doors open

at both ends of the place.

I’ll orchestrate this  Through-Air Movement.

To such a breeze

I call “Easing my zephyr open”.

OK, it’s a bit rude, I’ll allow.

But what I won’t allow

is when the snipers,  or “swat team”,

(whatever yr political bent)

starts shooting away through open doors;

Blacking out big screens, PC monitors,

& other necessary life lines.

Their marksmen & women are  so ready

The 5 dogs next door

won’t, once again, bark away

like some Asylum’s Pots & Pan Band

like they do on warmer days & nights

when they’re inheritedly  astutely aware

to something  out of the ordinary

out of place here in our neighborhood.