Golden olive arab eyes
Gods only know that look belies
Raw emotions there residing
A force, to rival time or tide
Or maybe just a passing thought of passion from ago

Anadulterated love or hate
Her capacity for each, so great
Mercurial, maternal journal
Of passing days with eyes alit
On fire, in frenzy, champs at bit
Or maybe she'll just dance

Or sing a song, puff on her ****
Shes fine as **** in nets or thong
But classy, unlike wiry roughnecks
Trying to tag along

My goddess of the cradle,
She'll send me to my grave
From hair breaths,
A hairs breadth before I drown in satin

Her love shines through like bright white linen,
She lights me up
In prayers, in sinnin
Frantically, she gives her all
She spends herself
Heeds every call
For help they ask and ask and take
Dont tell her that love conquers all
She knows thats ****
And shes no doll of fragile porcelain,
She'll fall and bounce right back but better
Howd i ******* go and get her
To fall for me, cause im no catch
A schlub from that ol black gold patch
An angel, just like Lucifer
Was, upon a time
She sees in me what I can't see
And when those eyes are cast on me
I wither like the ashes of burnt paper
Or my life
I hope some day she'll let me (if i were her, i wouldnt, bet me)
Make my queen my love-ed wife
...
J Nc 12-31-19

Cast that spinner bait
The emerald bass tail walks
Til I reel her in

Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its ****.

-Stephen Dobyns

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed

Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats

Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.

The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.

The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong

He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"

"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees

"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****!
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"

The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place

"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout

The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke

Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle

A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ******, you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.

Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy

An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair

The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36

Way up there
In the thin, thin air
There sits a man
Who laughs and grins
And fiddles with his double chins
A lunatic, if you must know
He paces, paces,
To and fro
Not love, nor hate
Does Steve perceive
But TV programs make him seethe
Xanax, ******, amyl poppers
None of these are Steve's show stoppers
Thorazine would do him good
But he won't take it
Like he should
So Mumbling Steve will grimace/grin
Until it's time to cry again

His mother loved him not a whit
Flushed Steve away, like so much ****
He killed his daddy, uncle, too
He killed that man, with Devil's Brew
Mumbling Steve drank up the rest
Of that that killed the old ******
Then laughed and laughed
And flashed a grin
Then burned off his extra chin


JNc 3-16

A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger,
was accused, and nailed to a cross. He lingered hanging.
Laughed at the crowd. "The nails are iron," he
said, "You are cheap. In my country when we crucify
we use silver nails..." So he went jeering. They
did not understand him at first. Later they talked about
him in changed voices in the saloons, bowling alleys, and
churches. It came over them every man is crucified
only once in his life and the law of humanity dictates
silver nails be used for the job. A statue was erected
to him in a public square. Not having gathered his
name when he was among them, they wrote him as John
Silvernail on the statue.

"I Don't Care"
Black Flag

I don't care - gonna ******* anyways
don't care - your boyfriends here anyways
don't care - is that a ****** on anyways
don't care - well your gross anyways

I don't care
I don't care
(haha you're ugly)

I don't care - well your messed up anyways
don't care - your a doggy anyways
don't care - you got a dull place anyways
don't care - well you look like pregnant anyways

I don't care
I don't care

don't care - well your messed up anyways
don't care - your boyfriends here anyways
don't care - all your parents are here too

I don't care

~Black Flag
82? 83?

"You're not one of them", he says
"I can tell, I got this GIFT, see?"
The relief clear on his animated face
Too twitchy, too... off
"They watch us, you know?
They got those satellites and ****
They'll read your ID through your pocket
Then they gotcha!"
I nod, only mildly alarmed
And throw down my smoke.
Step on it to make sure it's out
"Only you can prevent forest fires"
A childhood echo
He picks it up
Looks wildly around
"Your DNA is on that! Epithelials!
I seen it! I seen it on that CSI!"
I mumble something
His eyes narrow. He laughs too hard.
"Kidding man, I'm just kidding"
He skitters off, like an ant missing 4 legs
I look up, and nod to the ****** on the roof.

~JNc
9-15

Every night
It's 3 am
Dead hour
The heals are awake
The heals are alive
A body without a soul
Is a corpse of course
Lifeless limbs
Still walk
In the dead hour
Some say they're gone
I say just broken
Hickery tickery tock
Hourglass breaks
There goes the clock
Birds chime away in the heads of the insane
They are searching for something
In the nothingness of black
Staring at the ceiling
Does the ceiling stare back?
They think about outer space and stars
Insomnia and insomniacs
And healers and mystics
of all kinds
But there is no light to be seen
and every night
It's 3 am
The dead hour