it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse

a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...

it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
******, ******, robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...

not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...

The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.

light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.

then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
***, except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

I warned you, son.
"Don't break her heart."
Now you think about that while I rip you apart.

I don't know what it is you seek,
but my sister is out of your league.
Failed to see how lucky you were.
Did not heed my warning when you texted her

What kind of ***** breaks up via texting?
The same little ***** that thinks bussing is flexing.
She'll move onto better, just for a toy.
She won't wait long for a mere busboy.

I could go on forever about things that you lack.
Like, interest, money, a life, a six-pack.
You'll never be good enough for my little sister,
but I hope she's moved on when you realize you've missed her.

Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?

Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?

Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.

I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,

but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.

Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.

Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning

nothing ever. I shall not want,

I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,

Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.

true? fair? goodwill? wait

if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?

from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,

then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.

From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,

George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,

thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.

Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so

many, many more.

Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.

I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,

winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.

On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.

I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.

In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.

The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.

I hear these songs.

I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.

The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.

The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.

I escape to and from the soundscape.

1:38pm:
this wasn’t meant to come off as “take me
back” but a customer looks just like you.
1:47pm:
she said “thank you” when i poured her water
and her lips creased the same way
yours did when you smile.
1:48pm:
she looked to her right at table 32, i remember when i brought you
here that evening and we shared an apple **** over
conversations with people i’ve never introduced to my friends.
1:56pm:
maybe 32 wasn’t our lucky number but her smile had that
amount of stars, and i thought about the fact your
stars are still burning
2:03pm:
she smells just like you, i don’t want anyone
else to take away her plate.
2:04pm:
she dropped her fork and i think i fell in love.
2:12pm:
she eats her dessert the same way you told me
“i love you.”
2:12pm:
she’s not eating anything.

i promised that when
the sun hit i'd be happier
but now my mind is clear
and i'm back to my senses

don't think i want to do
this anymore

the sun rose today and my
heart said we're going to the
river, going for a ride
and my mind said that sounds fine

i'd like to learn to live
slow again

I’ve been a busboy, a waiter,
A salesman for road crews
A cook and a soda ****.
The American market is
Not set up that well for
Kids who want to work.
Before I was twenty five
I’d had eighty different jobs
Some of them at the same time.
Some parents think their kids
Are a good source of income.
Others think that is a crime.

I suppose it’s one thing
If the kid picks his own job;
Does what he wants with money.
But robbing his stash
When he is out working
Is not even close to being funny.
And keeping a youngster
Both working and schooling
And no social or playtime is sad.
It robs him of childhood
And rips off all his ambition.
The child has to somehow turn bad.

Maybe it only trusting
That the kid learns not to do.
Maybe that dreams don’t come true.
Maybe the kid learns
His hard work and dedication
Only gets him blisters when he’s through.
That was all true of me;
I did what I was told and
I learned that joy and accomplishment
Earned no praise for the doing
Only produced, if I didn’t work hard
A tremendous amount of admonishment.

So, when I left home
I had no direction in mind;
I looked ahead to sixty more years
Of working and being robbed
By people I wanted to trust
And not even being capable of tears.
This may sound like a whine
Blaming and much worse
A griper that’s totally out of line.
But what it really means
Is your kids aren’t your slaves
To be put to work in some coal mine.

inside my soup cup, a fly swims the backstroke,
dives from the spoon to my tongue and I choke

scream as the porcelain saucer tossed broke
and out from the waitress's eyes rises smoke

chef bombs me with eggs, curls drip yellow yolk
run as he yells slobbering ~ this cook may stroke.

a guy on a bicycle falls breaking a wheel spoke,
the busboy laughs at him - the man sees no joke

red bloodshot eyes rage - he ***** slaps the bloke
pile-drives and jabs with the three stooges poke.

dogs trailing cats chasing toads in a stereo croak
stop to mark the ground but the busboy they soak

standing as the hostess throws a bottle of coke
she pegs his forehead and ricocheted glass broke

seeing the ice for his lump I jump up - then spoke
of the green head flies in the cubes gag and choke

chaos erupts - a food fight hits and flying dishes broke
police cars roll, folks scatter and I duck behind an oak.

No one saw my pain
Even when I had no idea how to smile
I was literally dying inside
And at the closest call of ending it

No one saw my pain
I was sort of always in the backround
It sounds like a clyche but it was my reality

Everybody saw a door as a door
I saw a gate with steel bars and no password to get inside
They saw new people as an opportunite
I saw them as kings and queens, as higher royalty than me
I could never reach their level of "hey be my friend"
Why were they so scary
Why was I so afraid
I have no answer
It was just constant hell and me seeking for help without asking

I am not a happy pearl
I am not a bursting sea
I don't know when to turn back and wave for help
I always felt so trapped, there was just no place for me
Of all the steps I took, there was no shoes to be filling the path I made in the snow
Not a single one followed me, for my secrets are meant to be kept?

If they had just looked a little closer, way past the camera lense
They would have seen my scar, and my bleeding hand
They were always so happy and cheerful as they could be,
As I was laying on the ground thinking about what could be

How are they so carefree, when I plan every step and move I make
To not be in the way, but also be seen
I tried so hard playing that part, but with no confidence

They were all so cheerful
I just didn't understand
How can I be in the same room
But not understanding what is there

I just kept hiding those flaws they never saw
I didn't dare to eat the dinner that we cooked
I stayed far away and went around as a busboy the whole day

I think I could have been more
Maybe just a little more off the side
Not right in the middle but like a quarter of enough

I kept it a secret as long as I could
But I had to give an answer and to the emergency we went
I was hiding
I was venting
I was in pain
I am in pain
Will I always feel this pain inside
This was years ago,  you would think memories would go
But not mine no, they stay hidden until they pop up and i'm right back there again.

I met a busboy and once he really ***** twill
of this winding expressway
with a bourgeois vex in this supper quest
why a Turk described them admirably
a shrew whirled in a shrill of the night
still could skirt his papa's pants
in a romance of tennis
to further kind with a match
only with a foul drama again
and put it in court

She held me closer than life itself
Arms caressed my shaking body
For until now I only dreamed of love
In some old downtown hotel lobby

The busboy held the lift doors open
And my legs carried me on
With her still holding me
Hoping that today wasn't gone

This hotel of love for all that stay
Opens to all lone hearts
With dreams that climb way up high
And sleep upon the stars

The day starts out like any day--
A Saturday morning just like most others.
The diner is buzzing with customers:
Grandparents, kids, fathers, mothers.

Breakfast specials, waitresses dashing
To and fro--no time for slacking.
Each waitress proudly displays her handgun.
(This is a state where everyone's packing.)

Somebody hears a man complain
To the waitress, saying his eggs aren't done.
He doesn't like how she responds,
So he kills her with one shot from his gun.

Suddenly all hell breaks loose.
Bullets go flying; people are screaming.
Covered with blood, a survivor says later,
"It happened so fast, I thought I was dreaming."

Shrieking at seeing the waitress fall,
A young mother aims at the shooter,
Missing him and instead sending
A bullet into the town's prosecutor,

Whose wife shoots at the impulsive mother,
Hitting the woman smack in the head.
Meanwhile, the husband points his gun
At his wife's killer, shooting her dead.

Customers everywhere dive for cover,
Aiming their guns in the air and firing.
Popping noises drown out the screams
And moans of people hit and expiring.

Running out of the kitchen a cook
Shoots his gun in all directions,
Missing his targets and yet hitting someone
And displaying his shooting imperfections.

Someone else has better aim--
Or a random bullet plays its part--
For Henry, the cook, falls to the floor
When a bullet pierces his heart.

The busboy--having been grazed in the face--
Shoots into the chaotic river
Of mayhem and bullets. He is killed
When he is shot through the stomach and liver.

Pockmarked with holes, the once-cheerful joint
Is now streaked and splattered with blood.
Survivors will never forget hearing
Each bang and scream, followed by a thud.

Everybody gets caught in the crossfire.
The rounds spare neither adult nor child.
(Fifteen people lose their lives
By the time all the reports are compiled.)

When the police arrive at the diner,
In horror they observe the slaughter.
The sheriff suddenly screams out in agony
When he notices his blood-covered daughter.

On the wall, a TV is playing.
Somehow it has managed to survive.
On the news an NRA
Spokesman is being interviewed live,

Saying that America needs more guns
And that gun regulation is obscene.
Aiming his gun at the TV, the sheriff
Pulls the trigger and blows out the screen

- by Bob B