Making love,
a sweaty pit stop
between the sheets.
Politicians,
librarians,
directors,
janitors,
authors,
qu­eens,
kings,
moms,
you,
me,
All guilty of this bittersweet act of sticky significance.
All willing to tangle our limbs every night.

When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in
        Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother
        96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-
        in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters
        their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche,
        there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting
        America, Satchitananda Swami
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche,
        Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau
        Roshis, Lama Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each
        other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand
        day retreat --"
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he
        loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
        arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my
        skivvies would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my *** with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
        sleep in his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed **** with anyone before, he was so gentle my
        stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen ****** to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth
        & fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
        gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender
        and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my *****,
        tickled with his tongue my behind"
"I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged
        chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a
        pillow --"
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his
        walk-up flat,
seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him
        again never wanted to... "
"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made
        sure I came first"
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor--
Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock
        star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con-
        ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum-
        peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
        fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto-
        harp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India,
        Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman *****-
        chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty
        sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American
        provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio-
        philes, *** liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either ***
"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved
        him anyway, true artist"
"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me
        from suicide hospitals"
"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my
        studio guest a week in Budapest"
Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"
"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- "
"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas
        City"
"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"
"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"
"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized
        others like me out there"
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo-
        graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural
        historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-
        hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive

                                                February 22, 1997

The letter was a warm invitation  and a perfect getaway I needed to lay low after are  brief rise to cult status i had partaken of the
rewards of semi obscurity and had a few angry fathers searching for me.

The big apple it called to me like a stripper apon a pole demanding thats all you got is ones you cheap *******?
My true sidkick  like robin to batman just less gay and good looking.

Met me at the station  Amigo how the hell are you now were's the bar?
Drinks on you right?
Cause when your a semi celeb slash rockstar of hello why the **** should i pay.
Why should women be the only ones to walk into a bar with three dollars  in there purse and get rip roaring drunk.
Besides if i was a chick id be a **** *****.

The stage was set the bar was filled with strange sounding people
all asking my well know  brother in madness who tha  ***** this *******.
****** good man im not just any ******* im Gonzo.

Beer on another mans tab always tasted better   just remember ******
im not putting out   well unless  you ask me niceley  or pay  me
like that rich old lady used to who  also was missing her leg.

yes what memeories id slip her a mickey  rearrange her  clothes and after she woke  up tell her what a wild night we had yes i know
true romance.

BUT ENOUGH WITH THE FOREPLAY CHILDREN!

We began are quest like any other  seeing how much ***** we could
hold  till  normal people began to make sense.
I work everyday busting my freakin ***  still it aint enough Gonz.
The angry little italian man who's wallet i had borrowed said beside me.
Hey a girls gotta eat.
Dear lord man you mean you actully have to go back everyday hey is this a gold card   your worse than my wife freakin ***.
Sir you are a charmer  what angry little people  lived here.

Bill lets hit the ******* im in need of culture  and some naked women amigo  come on im  drinks are on Vinny who gives a ****.

After bill  dipped into his life savings to pay the tab we hopped
a cab headed for Manhattan  to the place  of great myths and wonder
it called to great men from arond the world to bask in its beauty.

No not the statue of the giggantic woman  with a torch although i wondred  as i stood below her ****** why cant she be wearing a mini skirt.
You gotta love a big girl  she was such a tease.

No as i stood  tears meeting my bloodshot eyes
befor the mecca  the big apple and the home  of legends and playground to the *****.

Hey get the **** outta the street *******.
It"s Gonzo  man ****** how many times do i need to repeat myself.
Scores a ******* to the rich  a fools paradise **** Disneyland.
Ive been on spacemountian most my life anyways.

As through the doors we were met by a scene of true
art much like the Mona Lisa  if she were a stripper named candice cane  in red high heels hanging from a stripper  pole.

the drinks flowed  the lap dances were well you get the point.
I realized my two drink minimum freind was a little how should i say it poetically.
******* wasted.

As he tried  to give a stripper named honey a lap dance  
never mind him ladies he's my  ******* brother.
In a plan of true drunken genius i explained he was sick and
his last wish was for his older brother to hookup with
some   hot  strippers to have  ahh  some  after hours activities  
Who's ***** bingo.
how i love  bango I mean bingo.

Tears welled up in there eyes  thank god they didnt question why my little brother was 58.
Hey there strippers  and if they  were all going to college  then
this would be a ******* library  not a high  dollar  titie bar.

Librarians with there hair up short tight skirts and glasses
i swear you get busted for  having a little alone time on a public
computer   in that over rated book store for a second time and everyone  flips ****.
Society is so judgemental  but that's another story  
and court case   away.

The plastic fake boobie women had fallin for it.
So like drunken ninjas in a fog of  dellusion and wild turkey we made are last exit to brooklyn.
  
Hey  Gonz why do these chicks keep asking how much longer do i have.
Smacking my friend swiftly in the head had drawn the attention
of the strippers away from counting there tips and comparing there fake breast.

He's got brain dammage sometimes you have to hit em in the  
head to get him unstuck  ****** just look at the poor *******
he thinks he's not sick  oh dam life i need a cuddle girls.
Bill hold the camera.

We hit my friend's apartment like tourist slipping across the boarder grabing and  consuming great amounts of ***** and some sort of white powder  must have been for allergies.

Like squirrels  on acid  running down the interstate we were  
half nuts by the time that big orange ball thats causes me to wear sunglases did appear.

The ladies who names i cant recall  but honestly who gives a ****.
were passed out in bed Bill  in the fish tank  
calling himself captian nimmo  at this point led me to belive just maybe he had  a little  to much  but theres  many pitfalls on the road to Gonzo pacman.

Few men had the liver  or insanity of your's truely.
so after i talked my  tripping amigo off the frige.
Reassuring him its okay   amigo   thats what women look like naked.

I assure you  just cause they broke theres off doesnt mean they'll do the same to yours.
****** son why have a computer if not to look at **** and read long rants by insane people who call themself Gonzo?

After are long disscussion   about good touch bad touch and happy endings  we were off  again.

                                                 Ground Zero

                                        Silence And Respect

Standing there there was a shared  moment.
And a pain any soul could feel.
It wasnt about race or religion  it was about people
we all lost that day.
John Patrick Robbins stood beside a brother without a word
said as it spoke a million feeling's to the soul.

                           No one ever truley leaves there.

At the bus station a few cocktails behind us me and the kiddster
parted slightly hung over   and strung out smelling of reckless abandon
and strippers and wild turkey.

Apon the bus sitting by the window and some large man.
Who reaked of sardines  and  resembled a  cerial ******.
yes ladies he's single  and will probaly **** ya.
Wonder why he has a hard time getting dates?

As Bill waved goobye to his demented  brother from his own planet.
I waved back saying hey amigo  is this your debit card hell no worries
i'll keep  good care of it and reward myself.

As the bus left the station  my semi ******* friend chasing behind
yelling Gonzo i'll get you for this you freakin *******.
Kidster  that hurt i yelled but not as much as it's gonna hurt you bank account cheers.

That guy in black is ******  you  better watch out he's probaly connected.
No worries my funny smelling oversized friend
so am i replied.
I have the internet as well.

Bound for parts unknown Gonzo  made many stops
and if not for legal reason's  id share most of them.
Yes as i sat apon the beach  after taking a little side trip to Florida.
Drink in hand lost in deep thought's for which i cant remember.
      
Reflecting apon my time in the big apple.
And my friend the Kiddster
A toast to my friend.
Hope you like the post card  and the three week vacation
i treated myself to.

Sorry about the whole life savings thing but
who needs to retire in there 80's  work will keep you young girlfriend.

Cheers your slightly insane friend Gonzo.

I would have rather been Orpheus,
travelling to various hells for you
and singing songs to save you
even though you couldn't save yourself:
stop looking back. The flames aren't worth it.
Let my eyes burn brighter than the abyss.
Just whatever you do don't turn your face
away Eurydice. Hades will have his Persephone
and you are not her.

It's better this way I guess. I would have looked
back at you and watched you crumble into
a shadowy pillar of salt as did the wife of Lot
when she looked back at *****. I am faithless,
which is why I cannot sing like Orpheus. I am faithless,
which is why I would have watched you melt into
a shadowy memory of the underworld even if I could.

Instead, I was a messenger of these strange myths.

Wings on my feet, I raced against the multitudinous
skylines of the worlds I do not inhabit, skipped across
volumes and volumes of rows and columns of planets and
stars written by dead old men and women. They spoke presently
of the voluminous presence their absence had created, and did so
without having known of the secrets of this absence when
they wrote about their respective presents. Presents conferred
to winged-feet wishful thinkers who spiral uncontrollably with their mouths
to sudden and dangerous depths: Every serious reader remembers
the time they stopped whispering controversies and started shouting them
without knowing that they were shouting them: Ideas are messy things
that don't need loudspeakers: Decibels violently shudder themselves out
of being the moment you mention to your mother that God
might not exist and Camus said so: Existence itself implodes outwards
like how plants produce seeds that make themselves when novels
start at their ends which are really their beginnings: Children
**** their mothers through birth: Boys with wings on their feet
take the library too seriously.

This is
          how
and
          where
I flew towards you without a chariot

and found you in your various hells, one book at a time,
and why I would have rather have been Orpheus
because at least then I could have sang you songs
before you ended up retreating back into your various
selves. It could have been my fault then for looking back.

It could have been,
   could have been,
   could have been
you that was Orpheus. You who looked back.
You being the reason that I crumbled into a pillar of
shadow and salt because, as did Lot's wife, I looked back.

We both did, and watched the whole world invert itself
on its axis, then turn and twist and shift itself
into superimposed images and shapes and dreams
that changed you from muse to poet and
dream to dreamer
and Eurydice to Orpheus
and to Lot then his wife
and to this: which you always were.

              Those wings on your feet: When
the librarians changed the positions of the bookshelves-
and therefore our imaginations: our movements
and stanzas and scenes and days and nights-
               Those wings on your feet: When
that happened they must have stopped fluttering
for a second. I tried flying again and fell.

I haven't been much of a messenger since.

Organizing books
Answering calls about the availability of books

This is the role of the librarian

I am watching them in action now

Looks like a fun position to have

I don't have a position

I just wander from place to place

the glockenspiel of our daily raid of sewers in heaven
and our Jovian dwarves appalling the rapturous capacity of forever and ever.
the kooky jingle of our serpents, darning socks for the antichrist
and our elaborate rats. the simple maze of our condition
in the hell were at. the creaking gate to a twilight
and a lost chapter
marooned on an
island
of undead Librarians.
starving for brains
tardy with the
Harold
Robins

knife in red breast.

Gold and silver battle *****
torn from swords saddles and crosses
lying beneath a farmer's field
tributes to kings and bellicose gods.

Fierce birds of prey snakes fish and bears
framed in filigree geometry
guarded warriors' savage souls.
No mercy in Mercia.

Archeologists anthropologists
historians librarians
curators and consertvators
collect confer and classify
while I just try to connect.

i

i think why not to let
but proved the query set
a double somersault-twist
or kiss your sweet lips..

can  end in cold death-
still the birds in the trees
go cheep or not at all..
i have reason to not question..

ii

i have memories return from the crib
it is all just part of the aging process
we beetle by saying that can´t be right
the lights´ get bright and bright..!

birds talk to us but i don´t hear voices
we become preoccupied with prices..
i recall four blackjacks  a penny
dying has a long curious way..

i am pretty sure i am someone else
absolute and completely and yet
these early feelings as blithe pictures
remain constant..



iii


more work less ******* about
but creation is just living
some absolute and indistinct
(it is tough being a poet..)..

iv

lily says,for it is her,
you don´t play no more,
only i say in mind
the years don´t lie
content´ s fragile store..
repetition dulls the brightest
core..eventually a silent purr ask´ s why
not why not..

v

why write poetry says lily
because it is a futile act
of achieving something perfectly..
we like that..


or like stubbing one´ s little toe
a rabbit from a dream hat
in a vain effort to retain what
remains of my memory..

lily why not or why bother..
lily red diamond from her
eyes sparking like a star is
just a ******* star baby..

she half nelson bottle wine
why do anything..a sign
a metaphor an hieroglyph
love and hate lily..

or the little bird in the agaves
i would like to shoot that one
hate and love lily
porquoi-pas..

vi

i read o twenty years before actually commiting to paper
not much but i knew the stuff i loved and kept there
i know it was charles bukowski i loved his funky gear
thank you norwegion liz for lending me his books dear..

ham on rye and factotum you say don´t lose them mf
i swore i would not lose them i would not lose them kf
kind friend..but i lost them i lost them..df..
dumb ******..


i leant them to someone that swore the same
they suffered an horrendous head..crang..
on and the books lost the books got lost..
there was scant satisfaction in plaster form..

maybe they went to a happy home
so not my fault that his drunk poems
god is he fun liz i hear your laugh then
such a wild sound ..generous so!

you said i should write and thank you
only human to encourage me true
and always a good drinking companion
you bought decent wine..

i adored cognac o..that was my poison
you always attracted van gelis errant tounge
unpleasant but one had to watch him..
that was his fun..

and then backgammon
goes a bit faint then..
i would like to say i won
you told me roland was cheating..

i think it was fun to play him anyway
esspicially on cement truck day..
not that he ever bought me a drink
not that i liked cement..

i lived with roland actually
this stopped any conversation
i met him by accident in eilat
that place was a laugh..

i think i enjoyed the second time
first loads of day jobs though i
played in the streets..and living with
the russians..

that a blast lily..my immediate neighbor
we never spoke..and the police pulled his hair
and yet not a squeak..a match box of grass cheap
i went to silently get a light..

he did say never run boy..
i thought alright for you
alright,
who was playing late night
in the soft quiet night..

so i was nosy
within the deepest hush
a glass and bottle jungle
impossible this silence

and i could hear him swallow
once the army ran through
i was tucked up in bead reading
by hopeless candle light..

i met roland in the peace cafe
a misnomer if ever there was
he picked me up and tossed me
around..

hey mike we got ****** and under
the landing planes roaring down
aint had hash like that in so many
years..

there was the red lion and at seven
free food and a drink and a movie
i read miguel cervantes..they
play the eye of the tiger later..

then the hard rock cafe with killer
egg and chips
i worked with an architect and made
a few shekals.

vii

i got out of there man i went south
dhab a quiet hut and goats..
that is the life right there..
o the corral beauties..

the stars as glimpsed through the palm..
pretty carpet and soften-songs of balm
brain blown and fly blown
and then back to town..

which came as a shock then
i had a drink and a very nice mention
for the cafe at the bus station..
i salut the the patience of the librarians..

When you live in the suburbs like I do and like I always have,
the same house even, there is an intimacy that develops- real or imagined -with your neighbors. It's like those dreams we sometimes have about people and places that really do exist, but it just ain't quite what it's supposed to be , but we accept it anyway, because it's a dream and in that ethereal realm of dreams -that's what you do ...you accept the normally unacceptable.
       For instance, who could ever have imagined that the Rosses ,who live at 1423 ,would turn out to be secret swingers ? Mr. Ross is 62 years old, probably five foot nine with a horseshoe ring of white on white  cotton- fluff hair,  perched on his round pink scalp,  over his round pink face , accentuated by round -wire rim- glasses perched on his nose and a  little white mustache that hangs under his nose - like an afterthought.
    Mrs Ross is a  slightly rounded little woman that  always wears  flowery dresses, and  those god awful  tortoiseshell glasses secured to a  string around the neck  like secretaries and librarians often wear.   Her hair would also be white , if not for her habit of having it dyed blue , as is a habit of many suburban housewives of her age .
     So it would be impossible to ever imagine this pair of- short , jolly - suburbanites as secret swingers , but it's true. . I know!  Because I've seen them at it .  About 2 years ago- while Billy Joe Randall , Macy and me were( oh yeah my name is Rance Reed short for Clarence -but don't call me that ) anyway; where was I -oh yeah -we were down at the little pocket park on Grove Street- sitting behind a hydrangea bush-smoking a fatty- and telling each other lies that no one believes anyway, when we saw the Rosses walking toward the park, holding hands as they were often doing.
     Mr Ross looked into the park- suspiciously - as if he were afraid a  hit- man were  hiding somewhere .  There  for a moment I thought he could possibly smell our smoke.,but seemingly satisfied with his inspection, the two of them strolled -hand in hand - across the grass to the playground area where the spring horses , the merry-go-round and swings were.  Mrs Ross perched herself on the rubber - sling like - seat of a swing as Mr Ross pushed to get her started and then he climbed aboard the one to her left .  Using  that see-saw motion one uses to get himself going and then the two of them sat there -swinging and laughing together -for almost an hour.   Sometimes we could hear Mr. Ross go varoooom varoooom and Mrs. Ross would go wheeeeee. It  was the funniest thing that I've ever seen and the three of us sat there making jokes and laughing at them.   Three 23 year old wasted wastrels thinking that laughing at this spectacle was the right thing to do . Then a little while later , as a melancholy wave washed over us like a sea tide , we all stopped laughing.  All three of us -I believe - realized that jealousy is a hard pill to swallow while you're laughing . Looking back at that now I'm a  little  ashamed of myself.  So yeah, the Rosses were secret swingers , but you would never know it by looking at them--- (Oh!  You thought I meant the other kind of swingers. didn't you ? )   -anyway ; where was I ?- Oh  yeah .-     I believe they were sort of embarrassed about the whole thing so I've never said a word  to anyone  about what I saw -until now.  
     Then there is old man George (call me GL ) Angleton and his wife Sarah.   Theirs was the big grey, split -level rock and cedar  house that  dominates the very end of the cul-de-sac we live on called Grayson circle . An enormous porch dominates the front and that is the first thing anyone  - turning onto Grayson Circle- sees after making the turn.   The Angeltons house was always the most decorated house on the block , no matter the holiday,  especially at Christmas- when a raucous mix a snowmen, reindeer and especially Santa's, gathered under the thousands of twinkling lights each year.    There were so many Santas on the lawn, on the roof ,along the porch , one climbing the chimney   that- I always thought - it  looked  like the gathering together of Santa's for a Santa gang fight.
   Halloween was another special time with the Angeltons when they gave out more -kinds and just plain more -candy to all the kids than anyone else for blocks  around or even miles around. One year Mr. Angleton gave a comic books along with the candy to every kid  that  came to the door.
    So who could have ever imagined that just 6 months ago ,  2 days before Christmas , Mr Angleton , who was always of sweet disposition  and always quick to give you a warm smile or a compassionate pat on the shoulder would shoot and **** his wife Sarah and then turn the gun on himself ?  NOBODY!!!
   Certainly not me.
   No, you cannot just see the outside of a house, with the flocks of flowers , the nice neat lawn  and charming old rocking chairs on the porch and really know anything about the heights of happiness or  the depths of despair that live or die behind the front doors .
    When I was growing up , you sure couldn't have done any of that at my house. Looking back now I realize that G.L .didn't put out any decorations last Christmas .
        I should have noticed that.     Yeah , I really should have noticed that!

Shouldn't we all be studying?

dedicated to M M Jones from Montana,
where I guess big skies make people think
about big questions and young poets thrive.


the butterflies of child-awakening
to the certainty
that school and
shame and embarrassment
were only minutes away,
once again,
is as fresh as
the flowers my love
buys every Friday,
fifty plus year later.

I would awake,
climb into bed with my mother,
telling her I did not feel well,
that my
stomach felt gray.  

I could not tell her that
the mocking I received by
my richer classmates at the
multiple lines in the fabric
of my corduroy pants
where she let my pants down
made me cannon fodder
for what we call now
bullying.

I could not tell her
of the heartbreak
when somehow the parents
of my supposed suburban friends
forgot to
pick me up for the weekly swim,
leaving me to watch
the sunset fall as I sat
on the stoop of our old house,
tucked away in an out of the way,
unfashionable street,
the shame still wet.

I could not tell her
of how two bothers tortured me
as I sat in the back seat
of their station wagon,
spitting seeds
on me like curses.  

Their older brother died of cancer
when that was still unusual,
and the mother wrote
a beautiful book
about his life.

I still hate them, those two,
fifty years later and it gives me
unusually great pleasure to
announce it to the world.

So I studied.  

Not my schoolbooks,
but lovely and ***** literature.
Friday afternoons, three children,
me the baby brother,
(anonymous, for they nicknamed me
brother as if  I was nothing but
checked off category)
to the library went.

Five, five was the max
they the austere librarians
and their coda of holy silence,
would let me withdraw.
(god I can see my library card still).  

By Friday night,
I had finished one or two,
ruining my eyes in
the lousy lamp light
in the living room,
falling asleep on the couch.  

this, reading addiction,
which afflicted the entire family,
I did well into my teens.

I have stopped reading
which amazes the very few
who know and care.

do let us re-pose,
let us repose,
the question:

Shouldn't we all be studying?

the answer of course is
yes and no.

my studying blue period
is long since ended.
now, my biographer,
will call this my red period.

for red are the memories that my remembrances
come back to me.
crystal is the clarity
of the indignities
I recall, though red,
is the anger
at the shame and
abuse I took.

now I can write what I have always held in my heart.  

those two awful brothers,
who loved to torture me,
I was glad their
wonderful brother died.

so this is my red writing period,
when the studying of a kind,
has long since ended
but the smell,
the memory of
fresh textbooks still can
make me nauseous.

Yet, I still study life around me,
as I clean countertops,
walk deserted beach isles
in early September...
this studying,
is the product of years
of studying the inside out
of me, and turning that study
fruitful into poetry.

why?
why am I writing this at 2:00 am on a Sunday morning?

I did not pose the question.

but it posed me,
and the dialogue in my mind came
sugarcane fresh and tumbling out
and will be both
recorded and recoded
("in the truth will out eventually" file)
after a fashion.

these days I sometimes study
my older poems,
whose titles I recognize,
but whose content
I cannot recall.  

so double digit delight
when I
meet again old words,
wondrous and trite,
that make believe
that all my studying
somehow paid off after all.

Well now, I used to teach.
I mean, I still do, but it's only for their benefit now, isn't it?
It's like the doctors and the greengrocers
and the streetsweepers and librarians,
still going through the motions
while they take recordings and what have you.
I guess we should be glad
that they're interested in the way we lived,
you know,
before they arrived.
But my kids, you know,
they're all actors.
They might learn the odd piece
of arcane knowledge
but I can tell they know
they don't need it.

No, no, I'm no rebel
I don't want any trouble.
Things are better since they arrived,
of course they are.
I mean, their technology -
we couldn't have come up with that
in a million years.
And they're very polite.
I have a colleague who says
this is because they feel guilty about their success,
but I don't know about that.
Things were bad for a while,
but I guess maybe that was our fault.
We didn't know how to react.
We adjusted poorly.
It's hard to accept that you're, you know,
obsolete.

Even me, you know.
For a while there I was,
well,
I was drinking a little too much.
It was hard, seeing the school destroyed.
They've done a good job
with the facsimile though.
even smells the same.

Yup,
can't complain.
Can't complain.

There is a boy in the library, ignoring the crazy lady talking through the window.
I feel like telling him she is nice. And probably not half as crazy as the librarians in this town. She has 2 children. They live in Greece. And when she cries, her dogs hide under the deck.
But he probably doesn't speak English.
Hardly any of these people sitting on their backpacks at the library do. And even if he did, he wouldn't listen.
He is reading. Its a good book. I know its a good book. I've read it. Now I feeling like telling him to leave.
He should not read it here, underneath the colour wallpaper. He needs to find a corner of a beach, so he doesn't have to cry in public. And he has to cry, because if he doesn't, I know the crying will happen inside. And his eyes will turn a shade darker with the smoke of their deaths, and his muscles will strain to rip from his ridiculously alive tendons. His eyes are already black, and I do not think he can afford to find more darkness.
Not that I would know.
He might pick cherries for a living and flirt with a trailer park attendant called Fiona is his spare time.
But I have a smell for the scared and enclosed people here. I can see the kracken hunters and the faerie kissers. They show themselves to me accidentally and I turn watch them destroy their dreams.
People ask me why I am cold all the time. They do not understand, because the boy at the library closed the book before he could cry and I knew he would be destroyed anyway

He is wearing gym shorts and she is a ten.
My god, a shimmering exemplar
in a new breed of **** librarians and
he is wearing gym shorts.
If you must roll off your front porch
into the world
do so with some self respect.
If you must work out
you probably aren't playing hard enough,
with a slight chance at
this being a projection
of my horrible personality
stained by the dregs in my
solitude's electric feedback.

I have an irrepressible drive
to archive knowledge,
A data addiction.

I'm fulfilling it right now
by writing this.
"I can't get no sleep",
My interminable drive to score
until I win.

Yeah, that's the way librarians binge.

My Brothers and Sister and Me
We all share the same genes
Though some hide it better than others.
Similarities And Differences are pronounced.
The apples don’t fall far from the tree
Though a couple of them bounced.

Apples baked into pies or
Thrown to the horses
Rotten and brown and wormy and
Delicious apple cider in the Fall.
Applesauce and apple butter and Appleton, Wisconsin
Looking for a job?  Applications for them all.

Mountains, and mountains of books
Rivers, and streams of numbers
Hiking and running through canyons
Flowers and gardens and mushrooms and parks.
Shooting pheasants in the fields
Shooting stars in the dark.

Time will tell.  Time will tell
Mom’s in Heaven, Dad’s in his own Hell.
Whose footsteps will you follow?
What size boots do you own?
Who most will you resemble?
When your own kids are grown.

We are laughing.  We are laughing.
We are librarians and teachers
And accountants and staff and lumbermen always.
And still we all laugh.  
“Thought one of you’d be a preacher.”
“Good money in that.”

Each generation’s gaps grow wider
As the trees grow taller the apples fall farther
Similarities and Differences well-defined
Still laughing. Still laughing at things
New genes swimming in the family pool
Some of the cousins can sing!!
PwL March, 2015

Her name was petunia
She had hair the color of twilight settling after a hurricane and irises darker than the moon
Her smile was the crescent that the stars sung for
her fingers as dainty as China ware on the finest plates
Shy as werewolves howling for comfort
and brave as the wind dusting the horizon
She never did understand why her mother named her after something as petite as a flower
She couldn't understand her own beauty

Daisy; nose as freckled as the beach is sandy
Wrists as worn as the pages of a librarians favorite book
Sundays sunny as the sunflowers she wore on her church dress
inconspicuous was the boy she held hands with under the pews
Hated her parents for her wretched name
she murmured between kisses with the preachers son
the devil himself wasn't a flower, but a ****
Took her life the day he was baptized
A flowers life is not the life for me, said daisy

Rose
The beautiful of the most
with red lies that'd set your heart to flames
She'd burn down every field
and ***** every finger of those who kissed her lips
Ivory skin of leaves so green
envious of those who weren't picked,  and pitied, and deprived of their innocence and privacy
Just because fate handed her the life of lust and friends of petunias and Daisy's who never made the cut

My college instituted a new policy today.
In an effort to promote solidarity,
All students, professors, service workers,
Janitors, coaches, board members,
Dining hall workers, librarians, baristas,
Gardeners and printers
Are required to mark their foreheads,
A sort of branding if you will,
With permanent marker.
This is retroactive immediately.
I had thought I had seen it all within week one:
Lions, GPAs, phone numbers concealed by long
bangs
Personality traits, four letter words, names of
significant others
The very same that were crossed out as the bottom
fell out,
Rocket ships,
Or what I'm assuming were rocket ships,
Advertisements, slogans, “taken”.
I also saw bar codes
And statistics
And long, non-terminating sequences.
I looked at myself in the mirror
And saw that I had not yet marked my forehead.
I pulled out a sharpie
And upon my face
Highlighted my wrinkles.
Because, who isn't tired of being a cog in the machine?
And who doesn't worry about life otherwise?

If we were two books who happened to cross covers
Or over lap tittles,
In a momentary lack of structure
You would find us stacked back to back
As unlikely as a tragedy with star struck lovers..
Happened upon the other
in a library archiving
Written word and lives, and eons worth of soft
Text typed,

I would be a book of Russian poems
Roughly speaking of beautiful things,
With a bare textured cover, a soft sea foam green.
And you would be lost in the meaning,
In the reflections of your wealth
I would give you all the answers you hide inside your self,

You would be of another breed,
Your italic headings speaking of vastly different things,
You would show a thousand places I wish to know,
With a hundred hand drawn maps
Filled to the indentation with
realities greater than my own imagination
with pictures
That capture you, whisper liberation,
You would be the inspiration every trapped
lower class individual looks upon while dreaming up
Vacation homes.
You are the window to the places everyone
Everyone wants to know
Your pages crisp but warm, smelling of vanilla
Not a single scuff, crease, you are not torn.
A soft Carmel brown cover where
A hundred careful fingers hover.

You are probably thinking we don’t belong together.
Not in a library alphabetized and
Split into sections,
Good thing great librarians
Know better, she
Stole us and set us together in her own
Private collection.
There is no where I fit better than
Next to you, pressed cover to cover,
we are becoming  a story of
unlikely lovers,
We are best friends,
Penned from different ink
Speaking different themes
meeting
Resting between book ends designed
Out of clever minds set out to
To fuzz the line between actuality
And your aspiration,
We are just the perfect combination of
Drive and a dream,
The fact you are here means something
And the more I read the more it seems
Together we'll achieve great things.

The Mecca is the trifecta of the vertex of the epicenter of the apex
But we just use that as a reference point
We refused to be swayed by centripetal force
And peeled back the layers of the mind to find the inertia that had given us the centrifugal force to push us in our quest to find the ultimate reality

I saw a vandal giving in to voyeurism
When a watershed moment happened

He had a sudden premonition
There were nervous virgins about to take the plunge
There were people giving hi 5's to each other and making pinky promises they swore to keep
There were poor soul's trying to quit cold turkey
Eating molten ****** cakes

I looked to the East and visions came to me as well
I saw kids having fever dreams of pitching fits and fever pitches
I saw liberated lesbian librarians eating their feelings and playing
"**** one, **** one, marry one"
I saw the extinction of guilty pleasures
I saw a man being caught up in getting up to speed with
I trifling teenagers
Low on money but high off drugs
I saw myself checking in to check up on the check out line to pick out and pick up a new catcher's mitt
I caught a case
A call
And a cold

I saw the love of my life running towards me on a soft white beach
As she came closer I could see her beginning to decay
Her skin melted
Her organs and blood fell from her
Her eyes and teeth dropped out of her head
Her hair fell out
And her skeleton came into my arms and I heard a whisper
"I will always be with you, my uncrowned king"

Art work in pencil
Peach shadows on the outline of everything
Jaw lines, good times
Trees in the park
Dinosaur tracks and Fedex Fax

Librarians don't do their job

I was talking about shadows
Then my mind was robbed

Will you fall in love
With the contents
Of my pages

this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations

there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy

When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down

Enough!

unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,

"the night shall not disrobe you,"

that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping

surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script

and he gets that...

where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue

it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,

perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams

<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/

9/5/17 13:55pm

many learn lessons that schools cannot teach
where ego meets danger and unknowns beseech
perhaps there is nothing and everyone’s clean
or maybe there’s something that’s going unseen
from teachers who cheat to admins who steal
no dose of prestige can save lives that are real

the crossing guard owns twenty cats with the mange
school cop clipped his brother while out on the range
a history teacher abusing his kids
librarians selling school books to high bids
the crew in the arts are all in on a coup
while the principal staff launders money for *****

hey, i’m just here to sweep up and i call what i see
other folks won’t speak up but a few will agree
i don’t do that no more, i’m out five years last june
they’ll be following suit lest they change their act soon
still no one here dares to expose what’s involved
in keeping the peace held among these halls

he weeps in that subtle way
whereby the crumbs of grief
shaken from his eyelids
are caught by his thumbs
and his head shakes
like a kite chewed by a tree
he's all trembles and tremors
and he quakes
like his body breaks
when tectonic plates collide
he surveys the carpet and the shoelaces
the way that all librarians know their places
the books return to their stands and their spaces and
he keeps his fear in the crook of his tongue
and eyes hook him like bait
that's there for the taking
he pulls with veined hands
at the ashen strands of his afro
they've seen more years evaporate
than they've seen tears
because his eyes and sacked and
the corners of his cornered collar
escape his clasp as he cracks
among the shelves
like dropped eggs
and window panes
and dancers' legs
and weather vanes spun too hard
he gets a should touch like
a stroke through the wire of a rabbit hutch
and he sits beside closed ears
that pretend to listen to the clutch of his fingers
on his forehead

he leaves and they rearrange the chairs
remove the water glass
and erase the marks
of where his heart has passed

Corn syrup! on blue table-wood!
The librarians
kick you out, right after
you get it,
the heart monitor high that comes
from so much well-spent sugar.

i was born in a house on 5th south
my mother nearly bled to death
                                                           ­ i guess it's only fair that i am anemic

i learned to write long before i learned how to talk,
probably because a thumb was always in my mouth
and we didn't have a tv
                                                            th­e librarians knew me by name

i was always scowling, couldn't find reasoning
for my parents being sad, for the eating of animals
for not having any friends
or a cat of my own
                                                            w­ords were my escape from the start
                                                           ­  a lonely girl's only constant.

comfort is pen to paper
                                   therapy is a journal so used the binding breaks
                                                          ­                                                    writing is home

I like walking to see the man.

When the trees are stiff

and the clouds are glowing,

i take the high road up

to where creeks are flowing.

To where panthers sing, in

the darkest nights, to where shadows

are pythons and liken bites

when i can i see the man

i feel something inside me

bland, but beautiful,

second hand,

like a magic spell

in possum land, goannas

lizards, private lynx,

and kissen wizards

hybrid shrinks

when iv got a problem,

or my eye lid kinks

i follow the road

up to the skyward links.

Theres three roads,

once you arrive there well

theres one that will take

you up a plywood cell

and in this you scream

“take me to the dream

mr Pirolell!”

And if he hears you

in time youl smell

a clear blue gel, or feel a tear brew.

Well that is a bridge to enter your dreams.

—

The next road, the second, leads to

a humble abode with a pleasant

decadent essence. Inside this are

creatures that are big and

small, hairy and airy

ones, some are fairies holden

up librarians with scary guns

some are twisted toads with

bowed blisted noads

living life in a dark pit

solarium.

You must confront these

creatures to reach

the immortal bays

of the Pirolell beaches.

And here you will

be taught by the teacher

of teachers.

And that is the man i

walk to see.

—

The third road

you must tame an

insane hawk to walk

to the magic chalk board.

The bird is wanting to

**** those that wish

to write with the sword or quill, in spite

of it guarding its lord that is still.

If you can tame the hawk

than what ever you question

on the board with chalk will speak aloud

proud monstrous way,

and will discover all that is heavenly.

And youl realise that the man is fantasy.

this patron
no longer exsists

well this is news
to me

i just returned some
overdue books

and wish to borrow more

but nope, not me
I no longer exsist

that must mean
I need not buy
those lambshanks
for tea

Not pay those bills
teeter tottering  on
the verge of overedue

no need to be pleasent
to any one, especially
not you

Rude lady, new
to the system
who has coldly
informed me
of my demise

Who states with
disinterest and haught
in her spectacled eyes
You must not have
borrowed for
the past three years
You no longer exsist
this she did insist
even as I pointed out
I had returned books
only three days overdue
Even as other librarians
stopped to chat, knowing
my name, recommending
new books, telling me gossip
about this and that....

This patron does not exsist
it cannot be true, it is not a glitch
this patron is a patron
through and through
I left them to figure out
the mystery, I did not pout
or get out of sorts and a little blue
I said I would come back Monday
that is if over the weekend
I do not simply fade away

How many ******* times had that mirror lied.
Just stood there and blatantly lied.
Probably laughed it's ******* head off
How many times did that mirror scream
You look ******* hot, girl
If those **** could talk
They would be shouting
I’m all yours
But he ain't
He’s off with a ******* librarian
Who the **** jumps a librarian
Every guy demands a *****
You marry librarians
That’s all you do
She would show him
******* sophistication
She would show him sophistication
Short skirts became dress suits
Blonde to black
She just oozed power
Stood across from him
Gazing into his soul
He kept glancing at her
Sensing the challenge
Sensing victory
She played with him
Feigning indifference
Getting into his head
Pushing all the right buttons
The mirror laughed
Like it knew
How the game would ensue
You marry librarians
That’s all you do...

Twas the night of a strike when all through the school yard
Not a teacher was stirring, not even a guard.
The boys were all gaming, the girls in their sweats
all anxiously waiting to return to their desks

The students were nestled all snug in their beds,
While the linger of alcohol danced in their heads.
Though some were quite worried, and some didn't give a crap,
We all settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out from head office there arose such a clatter
We sprang from our beds, "a resolution to the matter!?"
Away to our laptops we quickly did dash,
Tore open our emails, our inbox did flash.

The glow of the message that appeared on the screen
Gave a glimmer of hope from what it had seemed.
Then what to our wandering ears should they hear?
But a tentative agreement. (its meaning is unclear).

The vote in its favor would allow the agreement to stick
But everyone knew it would have to be quick
Everyone waited to hear what they’d say
We quickly found out we’d go back on Monday

Now students, now staff, and all workers alike
Professors, librarians, we’ve finished the strike!
To the top of the hill, to the top of our game
Its back to the books so let’s wake up our brains

But then we all wonder what is yet to be done
As we meet with an obstacle, because such time has gone
With all this time off, the courses, they flew,
We’ve lost so much time now what will we do?

And then, in a twinkling, that appeared on the screen
There was a revised schedule from the UNB team
As we drew in our heads and then read the jot.
We knew in a moment it was just as we thought.

The term’s been extended until April 17th
And exams will take place in that month’s final week
And the very fear that made everyone shake
It cannot be so but it’s true… No March break.

The poor wide eyed students saw their dreams slip away
“But I already paid for the flight for my vaycay!”
It doesn’t seem fair that we pay for this fumble
But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles

On the optimist side, if it makes you feel better
At least we don’t have to throw out the semester
We all can return to our classes with ease
And we won’t have wait to complete our degrees.

So let’s use these few days to complete our unwind
Come Monday we’re all heading back to the grind.
But when we are stressing few weeks down the road
Remember the strike when you complained you were bored.

As we rise from our beds we will let out a chuckle
When we realize it’s been weeks since we’ve worn pants that buckle
And we’ll recognize the sunrise when we get out of bed.
But it won’t rise as we’re sleeping, but waking instead.

We’ll turn on our cars and our engines will whistle
And we’ll scrape off the ice and the snow with a bristle.
But they’ll hear us exclaim as we drive out of sight
"Happy learning to all, and an end to the strike!”

Do we use the glossary when searching the back pages of our lives  follow the indexes when something perplexes
Motions making sounds ,representing actions & reactions ,lessons forming curiosity ,constantly seeking answers
Surrounding ourselves with sounds ,breaking into syllables ,basics as a beginning then hopefully turning us into detectives
Now lessons become narratives not always with a heart moving title ,but open feelings harder to bridle, days forming chapters

As new breaths begin in a nursery, mysteries are awaiting within the walls & halls ,nooks & books of  depositories
From embryo to a first cleansing ,protection is constant ,warmth of blankets envelop similar to bindings encasing the fruits comprised on papyrus.
Opening the world through the first window ,light ,sky, flowing forms taken in with a healthy grin,integral parts of out future stories
The main doors as a cover  ,silence is golden while the words are screaming ,what is first? a daily rag ,twirling of the mighty globe?
facts or fiction now lay  fractured

Fondly absorbing phonics ,tasting the clicks or ticks & annunciations  still samples for future refining
Labeled as language or merely absorbed as sound forming ,trying to become an individual expression
Flashcards as roots into an inner corridor, signals separated with commas dots or dashes ,awaiting future defining
Roads or paths laid out like aisles, alphabetized such as street names shelves as floors of buildings ,books as unopened doors to a new lesson

A long life search no longer monotonous as a Dewey decimal offered ,but click or a flick ,automated corrections leaving many clueless
Even building faith often based within bindings ,factors of fame or items for blame made best by those who clearly see the text
Holidays as often as book of the month ,b.m.i. becomes t.m.i. , forever offering lessons in hindsight ,many offerings to amuse
A mind akin to a vault taking in all offerings  by default ,endless it seems for storage capacity ,Librarians or doctors can off a new zest.R.C.

You are more
Beautiful
More brilliant
Reminiscent of stars
And librarians
With their glasses
Hooked on strings

And yet I am
Here
Wait for you
To notice me
To find me
To love
Something
About me

And you speak to me
And post your
Little
Self deprecating
Harmful
Hurtful
Thoughts
Of how you’re
Unloved and alone

The room
You’ve locked yourself
In
Is shut
Unopened
Do not disturb
With walls lined
In black

But with
The light off
And your hands
Over your
Beautiful
Wide
Tear-filled eyes
You fail
To see me
Wanting to
Love you