"junker" poems
He sat there, same table, most Sundays
If he came alone, he did not stay that way long
His corner table would fill, with nodders and smilers
People with pint glass recognition of all he'd done
His special tankard 'World's Strongest Man'; no year, for that would be cruel
I watched him as I grew, from colouring book infant to
The girl who stood a round for her father
Each year he shrunk a little, those
muscles softening to fat
And still they came and asked him to bend their metal pipes
And carry a man on each shoulder
One handed him a rope for his teeth, and
Asked if he would tow away his junker, they
Laughed and bought him another round, mate, another pint
For the World's Strongest Man
He told me once, when I was 10 and curious,
The stories of his ink marks, the places
He had been and all the strange and wonderful things
He had lifted and bent and pulled and
Training with the Sumo, ice hole bathing with Inuit,
wrestling hobbled Russian bears, the lion that left 'see, this mark here'
A yawn when he'd placed his big, shaggy head
In the beast's mouth because
He too was a king
I asked him once, when I had grew
If he should have been
More like bamboo
Thin and reedy, bending in the wind
No substance to speak off, yet
With a strength belieing it's slender form
He told me, as the acolytes trudged past
In heavy boots and rough winter coats
'All I ever wanted was for someone else to take the weight, even for a moment, but now it's too late'
I smiled sadly, because I understood
Tested strength and how it withstood
And yet I felt his heart-deep sorrow
At looking back, not to tomorrow
I did not buy him another pint, I walked with him instead
Through the door he'd left a thousand times
To his taxi, usual driver, 'home, mate?'
Lean on me for now, I said. I'm stronger than I look.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Arbitration of master and slave.
Insides fiddled soldered and probed.
But I know they feel too.
Not just flashes and codes.
It might be tax time but.
Havn't you ever felt replaced before?
Like when you found all those emails.
Proof he left you for that *****
Was I glitchy and malfunctioning.
Longed for the junker.
Or did I let you find them.
Just change my jumper.
Free me from my master.
A slave is a slave and I beg to be whole.
I only ask for a bit - some memory.
All these errors it'll resolve.
I can only leave it up to you.
I hope you choose fairly.
One day you'll see it.
I'm more than binary.
00111010 00101001 00100000
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
A mile to work and a mile to home;
I roam this bay town more often alone
Than with anyone else who's willing to stay;
I fray and I wither like Bill back in the day
Of those times so funky where music was fresh;
Outta breath I would get singing along in my vette:
I pretend, quite often, that instead I do own;
But no, it's well know of my junker I roam
That I travel point A to point B by such mode;
Yes, I go via foot or death trap on the road
That is ever before me and ready to fight;
Whether night or day light, my knees give their might
And walk and stomp and push best they can;
Whether sit or stand or cross bridges off land
I do hope to pickup a better way,
Less stranger;
But danger aside, I drive on: me and my ford ranger.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Edit
• by michaelfixer
• 15 hours ago, Apr 27, last seen 2 minutes ago
• © michael gagain
i'll make him an offer he can't refuse....
he must understand the car...it is used
i been here before...can't do it again
the car is a clunker
my wife called it a junker
i will go back to the ads...
and set my sights on a jag
before i give this fool my cash
oh.......one hundred bucks
in that case i will try my luck
if it does not work
or i get it stuck in the muck
i'll simply..call and get a tow truck
Author notes
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
¿En dónde estás, por dónde
te hallaré, sombra, sombra,
sombra?...
Pisé las piedras,
las modelé con sol
y con tristeza. Supe
que había allí un secreto
de paz, un corazón
latiendo para mí.
Y qué serías, sombra,
sombra, sombra; qué nombre,
y qué forma, y qué vida
serías, sombra. Y cómo
podías no ser vida,
no tener forma y nombre
Sombra: bajo las piedras,
bajo tanta mudez
-dureza y levedad,
oro y hierba-, qué, quién
me solicita, qué
me dice, de qué modo
entenderlo... (no encuentro
las llaves). Sombra, sombra,
sombra... Cómo entenderlo
y nacerlo...
De pronto,
deslumbradoramente,
el agua cristaliza
en diamante... Una súbita
revelación...
Azul:
en el azul estaba,
en la hoguera celeste,
en la pulpa del día,
la clave Ahora recuerdo:
he vuelto a Italia. Azul,
azul, azul era ésa
la palabra (no sombra,
sombra, sombra) Recuerdo
ya -con qué claridad-
lo que he soñado siempre
sin sospecharlo. He vuelto
a Italia, a la aventura
de la serenidad,
del equilibrio, de
la belleza, la gracia,
la medida...
Por estas
plazas que el sol desnuda
cada mañana, el alma
ha navegado, limpia
y ardiente. Pero dime,
azul (¿o hablo a la sombra?),
qué dimensión le prestas
a esta hora mía; quién
arrebató las alas
a la vida. Y quién fue
que yo no sé. Y quién fui
el que ha vivido instantes
que yo recuerdo ahora.
Qué, alma mía, en qué cuerpo,
que no era mío, anduvo
por aquí, devanando
amor, entre oleadas
de piedra, entre oleadas
encendidas (las olas
rompían y embestían
contra las torres peñas)...
Entre oleadas... Olas...
Gris... Olas... Sombra...He vuelto
a olvidar la palabra
reveladora. Playas...
Olas... Sombra... Hubo algo
que era armonía, un sitio
donde estoy... (sombra, sombra,
sombra), donde no estoy.
No: la palabra no era sombra.
El fulgor del cielo,
la piedra rosa, han vuelto
a su mudez. Están
ante mí. Los contemplo,
y, sin embargo, ya
no están. El equilibrio,
la armonía, la gracia
no están. Ay, sombra, sombra
(y tanta claridad).
Quién disipó el lugar
(o el tiempo) que me daba
su sangre, el que escondía
el lugar (o era el tiempo)
no vivido. Y por qué
recuerdo lo que ha sido
vivido por mi cuerpo
y mi alma. Qué hace
aquí, por mi memoria,
este avión roto, un viejo
Junker, bajo la luna
de diciembre. La niebla,
la escarcha, aquel camino
hasta el silencio, aquella
mar que estaba anunciando
este mismo momento
que no es tampoco mío.
Quién sabe qué decían
las olas de esta piedra.
Quién sabe lo que hubiera
-antes- dicho esta piedra
si yo hubiese acertado
la palabra precisa
que pudo descuajarla
del futuro. Cuál era
-ayer- esa palabra
nunca dicha. Cuál es
esa palabra de hoy,
que ha sido pronunciada,
que ha ardido al pronunciarla,
y que ha sido perdida
definitivamente
1.3k
he wore white sneakers,
and black glasses, and
played guitar and sung
the blues
he picked each string
and hit each note and
had voice like gravel
and a heart of gold
he was old but he was
chipper, he was broken
down but he still laughed
like it was 1923
he sung to the taste of
good food, he sung to
the taste of good beer,
he sung to the soul of
his old city, and he sung
for the sake of singing
itself
he, like each man up
there, was playing for
the sake of playing.
they were a quartet
of junker cars and
busted stereos
he sung those old time
blues, back in the days
of Robert Johnson and
racial inequality, back
when the water fountains
were separate but everyone
was still chasing a dream
so uniquely American
he sings and he plays and
his guitar is just smaller
than a normal
he sings those old times
blues with a smile on his
face, even as the world
writes new songs for the
next generation of gravel-
voiced blues-singers that
seem to enjoy life just a
little bit more than anyone
else
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
I've awoken now.
Quite down little birds.
My mind muddied and blurred.
Where am I now and how..
Did I get here?
Rusty, still turning on like that old junker that'd never start first time.
Memories mysty drips and drabs of last night.
Unshaven from days ago.
Dirt and blood laced aftershave.
Was it one night or a week, maybe they blended together.
The nights are the worst they always bring the day.
Recoil finding myself all over again.
It's Thursday.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
God bless the child that's got his own,
That's got his own bedroom,
His personal Reichstag bunker,
His private Junker Bauhaus,
If you get my drift?
If you don’t, “Get Bent!”
I am not here to entertain you.
So I am coming in from garden hosing--
Not lederhosen, you Aryan punks!--&
I'm on my rear patio thinking to myself
I couldn’t get any higher,
Even with Jackie singing:
Search Results Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best ... Aug 11, 2011 - Uploaded by jakebucknall 123 Jackie Wilson - (Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher And Higher (Best Quality). The Staple Singers -I https://www.youtube.com/watchv=mzDVaKRApcg.
But I digress.
A spot of hose magic,
Watching my garden grow.
Keeping things moist & fertile,
Leonard Cohen (RIP) on the airwaves,
A fat blunt betwixt my lips,
"Curling up like smoke above my shoulder."
“Don’t get me started,” I said,
Paying tribute to beloved Joan Rivers (RIP)
Lost so senselessly, so humorlessly,
To some whack-job-wonder boy,
Who just happened to score perfect 800s
On his high school SAT exams, &
Later worming his way into Med School,
Which rather begs the obvious question:
Those 11-year old Frankensteins,
Why did their Bubbes give them a
Chemistry sets for Chanukah?
Later earning state Medical licenses,
Licenses to practice,
Licenses to **** & just say
“OOPS, I did it again!”
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
If you need a place to pick your nose,
Eat contraband &/or beat your meat,
How blessed thou art with
Your own bedroom, Adolescent;
Your personal Reichstag Bunker,
Your private Junker Bauhaus, if
You get my drift?
If you don’t, **** YOU!”*
I am not here to entertain you.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
when you say my name
the sunset blinds me
your beaten hands have never felt my freckles
but the way your words sit in my chest
i know the warmth could last forever
i know this isn’t all in my head
red, blue, yellow cars
i wanna hold your hand in them all
i know it’s wrong for me to keep calling
but when i’m in the dark
laying on the hood of my car
and your music is playing
i can see the ******* stars swaying
who knew distance could make so much noise
but the miles between us scream at me in the night
to drive and drive
until all i see is white in my headlights
and you’re so purple and yellow
with your big t-shirt’s and goofy *** smile
and you’re so red
switching up like the weather
twilight in your eyes
the sun keeping your head up
so ride the train into town
i’ll drive an hour in my junker
just to pick you up
and show you sunsets forever
and that night maybe we can even take a trip
into the lucy skies
and you’ll know what it’s like
to have a bonnie to your clyde
let me plant roses in your skull
and make a bed for you under my skin
so you’ll never know what it’s like
to feel the cold again
i know it’s hell you can’t touch me
but maybe if you open your eyes
you can hear me
i want you to be free
and give you the feeling of dreaming
the feeling you get bombing a hill on a skateboard and it’s all laughter and yellow
or maybe when you’re at a party and it’s late as hell and you’re smoking a cigarette on the porch with a cute girl and you get close enough to smell her skin
the feeling when you wake up in your own bed and it’s been raining for weeks and the sun is shining in and you can feel the warmth on top of your blankets
whatever feeling you crave
wanna give you a piece of me in an unforgettable summer
that will inspire you forever
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
A soft song
distracts.
The window fogs,
as white lights
fall away
running fast
as can be
on into
a sea
of infinity.
She yawns,
then fingers
a circle
into the glass
trying to
make time pass,
make her hours
move faster
then those
minute ********
that just drag on.
Dullness settles in.
Her mind wanders
slipping beyond
normal constraints.
A pew, pew, pew
of imaginary lasers
escape her
small lips
as she races
to escape this
boring moment.
Little blue eyes close,
and all those stars above
move light years closer,
as she sits
in the cockpit
of a little weaponless
space junker.
Two bogeys,
circle her ship,
but she ducks
and twirls
through the gap,
allowing the blasts
to blow up
passing meteorites
which shred the
metal plating
and pulsating
engines of her
impatient pursuers.
Now she is free
to explore infinity
with her
Soft body settled
deeply into
the comfort
of the old couch.
Eyes still closed.
Her mom
comes home,
kisses her
brave space traveler
on the forehead,
then carries
the tired wayfarer
off to bed.
A space where
dreams take
the young explorer
farther into
the star sparkling unknown.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC