It’s like some beast
whose roar startles
drowsy landscapes  
from a mechanical planet
where veins leak oil
where organs deoxidize
where bones lay scattered
unburied like discarded rods
homes are garages
churches are factories
cemeteries are junkyards
where all organisms operate
toward a singular optimum imperative:

EFFICIENCY

Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass

Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.

Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road

So my Lawnmower Repair Guy...

                                   The wind that blows
                                Is all that anyone knows

                                  -Henry David Thoreau

And is the man all right? Nobody knows

And my lawnmower is hidden behind a fence
A chain-link fence, among mowers in rows
The owner lost a gunfight; he was taken hence
And what about the mowers? Nobody knows

And is the man all right? Nobody knows

UPS has left notes; the door is locked
There is no sound of man or machine
No one has answered when customers knocked
Only the guard-dogs (yep, they’re really mean)

And is the man all right? Nobody knows

Sergeant Schultz at the cop-shop - she knows nothink
She’s busy with her personal smartphone
Her eyes are fixed; they do not move or blink
And I am all alone in The Twilight Zone

And is the man all right? Nobody knows

So what really happened? Nobody knows

And is the man all right? Nobody knows

So who can I contact? Nobody knows

And is the man all right? Nobody knows


Only the wind...

Here
I made a video right here to help you understand
Well i mean, you technically made the video...
I just uh...
Borrowed it?
I can see that you're...mad
But you know now right?
Please
Sit back down, you can wag your finger after
This is important

This is a video your child took of you mowing the lawn in 1994
Her big strong  parent, fumbling with this heavy-as-hell-is contraption
That sputters, and whirs, and kicks back
But like some superhero you...start to shove it along, and conquer the beast
And it sprays curiously alluring smog, that like a well behaved child, she knows not to breathe in,
Knows not to touch because she's not old enough
Or strong enough to pull that chord to trigger the bells and whistles
That she, nor i, nor probably you understands.

But i digress...

So here you are, with your child on the stoop, taking might i add some
Fine, stable footage you should really enroll her in some classes,
And you traveling around your suburban front yard, chasing away a squirrel with the lawnmower, harmlessly of course
And laughing with your daughter
Talking to your neighbors over the roaring engine,
Emptying the bag of fresh cut grass into the bin...

And that's where the battery died
No! Don't leave yet
I want you to watch again, listen again
Here...
Listen closely...








Did you hear the grass screaming of their judgement day, beneath the lovers kissing each other goodbye, wrapped around each other, as we hold hands, still entangled in  the mass graves you made for them

Beneath the ants cowering in their homes, begging their laborers to come back inside before they are noticed, before they are eviscerated and the foreman is forced to pay settlements

Beneath the subtle sound of your daughter breathing deeply of the sweet smelling gas that you told her to stay away from, that we learned to be repulsed by, that she has been told to be repulsed by

Beneath the...
Here, i'll rewind again
Here
You see the label on the lawnmower?
That manufacturer? That bar code? That order number? That factory? That steel purchase? That mine?
Did you hear the songs of the forced laborers there, the modern slaves that bear striking resemblance to the songs you learned in high school history class, except softer, pushed under the magazines

Beneath the squirrel complaining to the squirrel police about dangerous and disrespectful conduct it's neighbors have been performing when he comes to say hello and finally meet someone in the neighborhood, that he's lived so long in, just to be told it's not "Illegal,"

Beneath the slightly offensive joke you made towards your black neighbor, who missed the punchline over the roar of the engine, when you asked him why he was so light skinned, and whether that was a "slavery thing,"

Beneath your child hearing everything

You didn't yet...
You made that happen, didn't you?
This isn't me judging your character
I don't blame you "O' causer of destruction"

You were not given the tools i was given
And similarly i... was not given the tools you were given

You were given a lawnmower, and a camera
A beautiful daughter, a home, a job
Gas! The ability to live where you want!

I...well...
i was given the opportunity to talk to the grass...

And well...

In 1994, that same year, in Rwanda an atrocity was committed, a genocide.

And the characteristic machetes used to massacre the Tutsi people
Contained the same steel blend, from the same producer
As the blades in many lawnmowers at the time.

This isn't a conviction
I did this because i wanted you to know and be okay with being complicit because you exist a certain way
Innocent because you never knew, and couldn't have known

Because we love you
Because we need you
Because we need you to know now

Hey there, you, driving the lawnmower,
sitting atop your shiny red toy--
state of the art, the best of the best
in lawn technology.

My meager fields are no longer in disarray
since you came around;

Tell me, Mr. Lawnmower,
Do the aspiring clovers and rogue dandelions irritate you?

Is their determination to survive a mere inconvenience,
Or is that the slight trickle of fear running down your back?

What about the bird's nest perched perilously in the gutter
and the rusted horseshoes nesting in my flower bed?
The disused swing set, now eroding in my backyard?

I rather like my own personal jungle!

Still, I suppose someone has to trim the branches
that hang over the power lines.

The poison ivy sneaking its way toward the roof
needs an occasional reminder
of the terms of our uneasy truce.

Perhaps I need you after all.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                      A Lawnmower, Chlorophyll, Birds, and Love

           “A little place in the country, a dog, a few good books –
                               every Englishman’s dream”

            -David Niven as Sir Arthur in 55 Days at Peking

A lawnmower is a rackety thing
But the garden doesn’t seem to mind at all
This second mowing of the season:
“Just a little trim along the edges”

The bees among the flowers and their little pool
Bobbin’ robins up early for their worms
Woodpeckers and finches at the feeder
And young oak leaves showing off their new green

Honoring each life as a sister or brother –
Love is much better than shooting each other

i pull the cord
a sputter and a spit

he
she
it
tells me,
let the grass grow under
your feet
pick no
weeds
let the leaves lie where
they fall
put a lounge chair
on the front lawn
sunbathe naked
(***** the neighbors)
throw the empty
beer cans
into the street
and when the cops come.
laugh.

pick a mountain
any mountain

climb up through
the ice and snow
and when
you get to the top
of the mountain

keep climbing

if no one's going to respect who I am and that I'm actually trying I might as well just **** myself and erase every trace of my existence because if I'm that unimportant and you don't need me then I guess I don't need to be here but I can't go anywhere else so I'll just die
maybe I'll just delete and burn everything I ever created because it's all crap good for nothing crap and no one wants me
don't feed me a ton of pretty lies about how I'm necessary and wanted and all that **** because I've heard all that crap before
other people always ***** me over and I want to SCREAM
mark my words because no matter how lonely you are,company always makes it worse.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                  A Lawnmower in Idle Repose

I found a treasure of bluebonnets in a weedy ditch
Next to the shell of a rotted armadillo
That’s where the mower stopped (“son of a /////!”)
(Apologies for the verbal pecadillo)

I bought the mower from a long-time friend
It worked for an hour and came to a stop
Its beginning was also pretty much its end
Its career has been long visits to the shop

One of life’s great truths (there are many more):
Never, ever buy a used lawnmower

Just as a boy grows into teenager,
he is bound, to one day, grow into man.
I think it's when he is just five years old,
he becomes a demolition fan.

At that juncture, it's all about the tools.
To dismantle what works perfectly well.
They may begin plastic at the start,
but it triggers something in their cells.

A teenager will start with something small,
a lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars.
Then as he ages and gains life experience,
the quest for tools is written in the stars.

It starts with a simple set of wrenches.
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet.
Not just ASE, they need metric as well.
A tool store is a veritable banquet.

Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic,
Plumber a welder and electrician.
Wrapped up in a testosterone package,
needing a new tool for the next mission.

Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool,
that's new to the market, sitting on display.
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box.
It will be tools from now till his dying day.

Seven nuns
at the Seven
Sisters Tube
Station ready
themselves
for their trip.

Two of my Zen friends
who, at the time,
I thought were some kind
of Zen enemies,
seemed to condemn me
to a soap opera
of eternal cookies
and the sound of lawnmowers,
and it took me
forty-some years
to understand this koan,
and the suburban heaven
that I was condemned to,
where instead of a life
in the forest
with snakes and mosquitos,
or a life in the city
with rats and roaches,
I was given
a life in this quiet, rich suburb
with an air-conditioned summer
and a toasty warm winter,
so that surrealistic understanding
of cookie and lawnmower hell,
turned into everyday Nirvana.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

          The Existential Despair in Replacing a Lawnmower Battery

My language is blue and my knuckles bleed -
I can never find the wrench I need!

Day 1: You're always shaking, you're like the grass under the whirring blades of a lawnmower. I laugh at that. You're so funny when you can't breathe. You're so funny with your scars, hidden beneath sleeves like white soldier grave stones, underneath a blanket of shaking grass, tall grass, dead grass, laughing grass, long forgotten names. Like, like, firing squad death row under sheets of blood- no- fallen brick walls. Civilians, awaiting rescue. You tug at your shirt awkwardly, I am staring.

Day 6: What are you asking me now? What? Them? No, they don't hate you. The stars with molars, canines, and needles out their sides don't at least. You're asking me about the fish? Scales, fins, aquatic? The star fish with self-esteem issues doesn't mind you. He's just selfish. The narcissistic parrot fish loves you as much as her own reflection. The high strung cat fish is kinda infatuated. He's something else. The shark? She thinks you're ****, but don't tell her I said that. You won't? You never do. I like that about you.

Day 23: You been okay? You haven't been asking much about me lately. Me? Funny you should ask. I'm not sick. Not now. Haven't tried to bash my skull in in a week, it's progress. You? Oh ****, that's too bad. I wish you'd stop opening up your forearms. I wish you'd just stop popping pills like after Chinese food dinner mints, bursting them in your stomach to spread like fog, milky white to drown out whatever your drawing from your wrists.

Day 72: You're drunk again? Jesus, what will it take for me to leave you? You've already bitten the hand that feeds too many times you sloppy wolf puppy you. I mean, sure I waved it in front of your face but don't you know your own teeth? *******, quit throwing up and get back to work, paint me a pretty picture pathetic *****. Put down the knife or broken glass or razor or whatever the ****, I don't want to do that anymore it stopped being interesting after like, the fifth time. Yeah I know I said I cared! I know I said I wouldn't stop caring, wouldn't leave you! But have you ******* seen yourself? Go ahead kid, count those scars, make some more, whatever you do in that basement of yours. I can't stand you! I can't stand your stupid brain, you're always crying what's up with that? How old are you now? Right. My point exactly. Jesus Christ, shut up for once.

Day 95: No wait- ****- sorry. I didn't realize. Hey, you know what sweetheart? Let's shake hands. Your end of the deal? I won't be the reason you **** yourself, you stop making your arms look like bulldog wrinkle jowls, or like, sliced bread, cracked sidewalk, blistered vein soup, running like drippy little kid noses, whatever- just make it stop. I won't tell you all the ways you fall short in 3 words or less. Deal? Deal.

Day 103: Just kid- keep breathing. I won't do it for you. See ya', have fun ******* yourself up and over.

Enjoying the cool evening air
in the middle of May.
Walking my dog through the neighborhood,
enchanted by its bucolic setting--

Besotted with the scent of freshly cut grass,
and the drone from the lawnmower that renders it,
and the chatter of crickets far in the distance,
preparing for their evening performance,

and closer to me are the squawks and chirps of the birds
hunched in the brush and perched upon telephone wires.

Enamored with the sight of lush foliage,
scintillating at the utmost tier of the woods
where the golden haze of the shrinking afternoon sun
is still hopelessly chromantic in its fading vigor.

The clouds, dispersed like shreds of cloth
against a looming soft blue sky,
the color of the walls in my crib-room as an infant.

The affable hand-waves veiled behind translucent glass passing by
propelling fleeting smiles onward in the journey.

Though the atmosphere is dense,
its ambiance expounds a soft lull.
          There's a hush over the six o'clock late afternoon day,
as the auriculariae settle gently aside my temples,
placating the rooted tendons wrapped tautly
in my grove of flesh and bone.

                  It suddenly becomes disturbed

by the creaking and squeaking of a rusty frame,
the slow groan of old worn tires treading across harsh gravel,
and the conductor of the indistinct cacophony himself:

A placid old man,
in his worn red and black plaid long sleeve shirt,
faded grey work trousers,
dingy black socks,
muddy crusty ragged off-white sneakers,
and an old camouflage military cap to top it all off.

His face, barely visible under the old cap
and the worn silent shroud of his visage,
holds dull dark eyes steadfast peering ahead,
off into the horizon,
with slackened skin the color of clay,
from afar having the countenance of subtle cracks in worn concrete.

The One Man Band rides atop his aged machination silently--
I hear no stressed breath or grunts,
but in passing--

a slow mechanical raise of the right hand,
a slight tip of the head,
and a soft whisper of a hello in greeting.

          If I had blinked I would have missed it.

He slowly creaked and squeaked and groaned his way onward,
in his slow and steady rhythmic pace,
until he disappeared in the golden afternoon horizon.

I see him every morning and afternoon
as I drive in and out of the neighborhood--
I wave, always he in return with that slow mechanical gesture,
like an old theme park ride from the fifties.

It was the first time I had actually heard and felt his presence,
to see up close the picture of health and resilience that he is,
the Dorian Gray of bicyclists,
transferring his years of wear and tear onto his metal frame
and his balding rubber soles.

Every time I see him come round the bend now,
I still think of that aged Carousel with the rusty horses
and the song worn a semitone off-pitch,
or the "tranquil" boat ride with the languid mechanical dolls
with thick black eyes goggling eerily
and sallow arms waving infirmly--

but he will not erode as the horses, dolls, and his bicycle--
he will live on, and only he shall demarcate
the trash from the treasure.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­   The Lawnmower Man

He came at last, with pickup truck and tools
And for some two hours there was hammering:
Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! (Dang!)
(Dang!) Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang!

And then he went to the store for a bigger hammer:
Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! (Dang!)
(Dang!) Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! Clang! Bang! (Dang!)

Heat, humidity, grease, the wrong wrench
The grease gun’s empty, the wrong hex key
Dead battery, no brake spring, maybe next week

The evening was concluded with a lecture
On the infallibility of Donald Trump

I am an umbrella, a rain jacket,
For the Cinderella, a stored away packet,
Till the day the skies sputter rain.
I am a tool box, a first aid kit lain
In a dark, webs-infested dusty corner,
Touching no light; seeing no cleaner.
The kitchen accident and toys’ breakdown
Are such welcome picnics to the town.
Could have been a willow, nor am I a pillow
To cry on in times of immense pains in kilo
And to hug out of a heart exploding joy.
But I am a bomb-shelter, a floating life buoy,
A tower of refuge in times of need;
A furrow-deserted land planted no seed,
Awaiting to be useful again in season,
Not Jesus, but bearing a crystal reason
To be also a rock in that weary land.
I am a handkerchief in a man’s hand;
Ironically stuffed useless in the back pocket,
To blow away flu mucus off the nosy socket,
Or wipe the intermittently rare solitary tears
That graces the dry eyes from heartbreak fears.
I am not a flowerbed; I am a mango tree;
Having no admirers save the monkeys, free
To shelter, mate, play and make all merry,
Spring has come with flowers and I draw very
Much attention; the promise of fruits abundance,
Needed, loved, and embraced in a scarce annual chance.
I am an audience for the sad breaking news;
The princess’s Eulogizer in dilemma to possible views,
I am a lawnmower in her abandoned backyard,
A joker of little importance in her game play card.
I am a muzzled ox treading the corn;
A mockery of treasure, glittering scorn,
In her darkest times, the cherished glow-worm;
An apologetic shelter in the times of storm.

Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.

The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.

High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.

"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.

It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!

Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi-natzi-****-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea­-notsee-not see!"
_


—cold sweat.

I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.

The dream had felt real—
solid, like flesh-out reality.

I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.

Everything appears normal here
on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.



2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)

Stuffed on chicken wire,
no rooster in the yard.

I’m practicing magic
while the lawnmower rides.

Funny that,
said her valentine.

They hadn’t yet learned
there’s so much to know,

her body opening
like a rose.

You make me not hate snoring.
You miracle worker, you.
Usually it feels like a lawnmower
massaging my skull, but you, buddy,
croak like an angel.

The acoustics of your voice,
the high fidelity and crumpled static,
the seesaw between treble and bass,
have my head singing
pitch-perfect harmonies.
Your hum slows down my tempo,
heightens my crescendo,
sends my heart pumping
at double-time *staccato.

A friend once wrote
that my soap opera
was the sound
of a lawnmower
and he seems
to be right,
right now,
as I listen to one
growling outside.

here's the way i see it.

i'm an artist, a writer, a gambler, a fighter, a scientist, a scholar, a critic, a failure, a dramatist, a dreamer, a peddler, a nuisance, a bassist, a wanderer, a magician, a follower, a therapist, a liar, a professional, a healer, a pacifist, a chisel, a storyteller, a mathemetician, a physicist, a cook, a puzzler, a loser, a programmer, a lawnmower, a supporter, a musician, a tape-deck, a mirror, a survivor, and a dude.

i'm not very good at any of it.

I think you're gone
but there is inside me
that voice
disapproving, judging
I had celebrated my freedom
with a Budweiser
and some tears
not realising like
Steven King's
Lawnmower Man
you had been released
into my every nerve ending
my very being
part of my matrix
in life you had the strength
of an ark angel
and as I stumble
over these words
I am afraid retribution
is at hand
I am still scared of secrets
to let too much show
you once asked if I still
write poetry after dissing it
well I'd hardly call it that
this is my fear factory

So, the window
is open
and a lawnmower
is speaking
in mechanical tongues
as the weather
in early spring
is warm and nice
and the birds
are, you know,
well, birds,
and a friend told me
a long time ago
that Detroit
could be completely underwater
in the future,
so even though that bothers me

I guess it's OK.

Young Kalachnokov made an odd discovery,
Odd because no beneficiary it had ever since.
He complained over
the dust of amount it brought
into his purse
as a bridegroom who would be served
whine in pint by the in-laws
at wedding party.

The sound achievement  
brought him an ocean of reflections
when he saw how tense-eyed
became lads holding the AK-47,
When he saw that they crawled like snakes
(which move to bite),
Forcing their fellows’ lives away,
Forcing their fellows’ to become foes,
Forcing their fellows to flee abodes and gardens around,
The gardens he saw without care,
And bitterly old Kalachnokov regretted
he hadn’t made  a lawnmower.

Note :
1. Mikhail Kalachnokov was twenty years old when he made the fire weapon.
2. AK47 : A : Automatic ; K : Kalachnokov ; 47 : The year 1947  the automatic weapon was made by the man who gave it his name « Kalachnokov »

patience, patience
jaw tight stomach purr
like lawnmower cat
like industrial brewing
like wheat paste motorcycle
like bellowing brook

adapt, adapt
bite tongue with sugar
stick to cold arches
stick to dewy lemongrass
stick to knife scissor sharp
stick to hooves and acrylic

forward, forward
ink rolled down track
onto chocolate silver boats
onto plain air flight
onto lightning scared bees
onto several unsure sets

relinquish, relinquish
dreaming fixed empty space
pushing black blanket bike
pushing solid redwood glass
pushing bowls ceramic smoke
pushing fields blue red and gray

it is hard sometimes to determine
how to proceed.

Its hot outside
Hot outside
so fine

Spill your fruit punch
On your pink blouse
the bar of soap will
get it out

What a joy
For a girl to care
Blue eyes/blue stare

Wear the storm cloud
like a cloak
lightning storm
rain soaked

Grass stains on blue denim
The lawnmower blade
The flower petal

Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a *****, I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.

fifteen minutes or so
the pilot lumbers out from the ladies room
she weighs as much as our cessna.
perhaps now she's lighter.

she grunts into the cockpit
and ensures her girth has not switched on or off
any vital instruments.
safety is our number one concern.

i've been more confident in lawnmower engines.
this rumbled like rapture.
i shook, but so did everything else.
we flew like a mallard

over lakes and forest.
we saw a shipwreck that now hosts
families for lunch.
as well as a few baseball fields.

the air was a force.
it asserted it self, to be certain.
i sensed its angst.
it translated thoroughly.

she rambled on
it was her tenth flight today.
i looked behind,
my love was green.