"moines" poems
It's Wednesday, April 2, 1997, at 12:00 PM
I took a Greyhound bus to Des Moines, Iowa
It was a six-hour profanity demon hellride
At 6:00 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Des Moines bus station
Two of my music fans picked me up and drove me to Fort Dodge, Iowa
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
At 2:00 PM on Friday, April 4, 1997, I went on a radio show joyride
I whipped out my Technics KN3000 keyboard and sung four rock songs on 88.1 KICB
At 6:30 PM, I rode with my friends to Knights of Columbus for sound checking
At 9:30 PM, I got up on stage and sung twenty rock songs in front of 200 rock fans
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
At 11:20 AM on Saturday, April 5, 1997, I caught the Greyhound bus to Chicago, Illinois
The Greyhound bus left Des Moines, Iowa at 11:30 AM
It was an eight-hour profanity demon hellride without music
At 7:30 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Chicago bus station
I then got off the intercity bus and yelled like a stupid fool
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Kinkos, it's the new way to office
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
IT'S going to come out all right-do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass-they know.
They get along-and we'll get along.
Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting
And the letter you wait for won't come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for won't come.
There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
I never heard a mockingbird in Kentucky
Spilling its heart in the morning.
I never saw the snow on Chimborazo.
It's a high white Mexican hat, I hear.
I never had supper with Abe Lincoln.
Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill.
But I've been around.
I know some of the boys here who can go a little.
I know girls good for a burst of speed any time.
I heard Williams and Walker
Before Walker died in the bughouse.
I knew a mandolin player
Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town,
And he thought he had a million dollars.
I knew a hotel girl in Des Moines.
She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself
The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes.
I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat.
We took away the money for a prize waltz at a Brotherhood dance.
She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the Mississippi at Burlington; I married her.
Last summer we took the cushions going west.
Pike's Peak is a big old stone, believe me.
It's fastened down; something you can count on.
It's going to come out all right-do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass-they know.
They get along-and we'll get along.
2.1k
Entangled in plastic
and fishing line
eyes pecked by
crows; a new
America.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 8:35 AM UTC
Des Moines
Monks
Filthy knees from fresh plowed earth
When Jesus spoke of the least of these
This is where he meant
Windmill shadows unassuming
Tickled by forgotten trains
This quiet soul is full of gardens
Growing everything but up
Content to work for working’s sake
Habits sweaty and faded blue
Here is a life lived by the sun
For prepossessing daughters
Here is a life in solitude
Outside the reach of urban wake
Where God has called apostle farmers
Their harvest is a silent one
Overalls and liturgy
Parables they will reap
Sowing seeds in humble penance
The earth their common creed
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
A ride today in Des Moines
that appraise law and counteract
any that country may enact
where Wichita lineman forthwith
and mackinaw shall really embellish
furthermore with Granny Smith
awhile down stream on a riverboat
that foregoing is never behind
where a river is always wide
and bourgeois with a paddle wheel stride
why his atropine smile
reach the delta with such desire
and let him take the home route
in an abode of parish shanty
where river dance makes day long
a simple beast, a man
with chinchilla wrap round his neck
that sweep her off flourishing deck
these stratospheric ideals now
for sovereign witness entail campaign.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Près des ruisseaux, près des cascades,
Dans les champs d'oliviers fleuris,
Sur les rochers, sous les arcades
Dont le temps sape les débris,
Sous les murs du vieux monastère.
Dans le bois qu'aime le mystère,
Sous l'ombre du pin solitaire,
Sous le platane aux frais abris ;
A l'heure où, sous l'humble chaumière.
Le chevrier prend son repas,
A l'heure où brille la lumière,
A l'heure où le jour ne luit pas ;
L'été, quand sous le vert ombrage
Tu viens t'asseoir après l'ouvrage :
L'hiver, par le froid, par l'orage ;
Toujours, partout, je suis tes pas.
Lorsque les cloches argentines
Réveillent l'oiseau dans son nid,
C'est moi qui te suis à matines :
Et quand la prière finit.
Au sortir du temple gothique,
C'est moi qui vais sous le portique
T'offrir, suivant l'usage antique.
L'eau sainte et le rameau bénit.
Quand, vers la fin de la journée,
Tu vas près du saint tribunal,
Devant l'ermite prosternée.
Incliner ton front virginal,
C'est moi qui d'un air humble et tendre.
Quand l'Angélus s'est fait entendre,
Esclave assidu, vais t'attendre
Auprès du confessionnal.
Viens, je te dirai le cantique
Que je suis allé, ce matin.
Choisir pour toi dans la boutique
D'un colporteur napolitain,
Et contre la dent meurtrière
Des loups errants dans la clairière,
Je t'apprendrai quelle prière
Il faut réciter en latin.
Je mettrai dans ton oratoire
Un missel à fermoirs dorés,
Où des moines ont peint l'histoire
De nos anciens livres sacrés ;
Des apôtres les douze images,
La bonne Vierge, et les trois Mages
Au Christ apportant leurs hommages,
Et baisant ses pieds adorés.
Oh, regarde-moi sans colère !
Promets-moi que tu m'aimeras :
Ne me défends pas de te plaire,
Laisse-toi serrer dans mes bras !
Que cette froideur t'abandonne ;
A péché secret Dieu pardonne,
Et je mettrai sur ta madone
Le voile que tu quitteras.
702
See Moe with a cup of joe,
***** hair, he's old.
There's his toes through his
socks, basically bone.
The rains made his
calling card runny.
He says he wouldn't have it if
he got his car running.
His excuses are pitiful,
he's sticking anticubitals,
Planning a funeral
But he'll wake up per usual
With a cop bop of the
Top of his head.
Wipe the sleep, find a corner
Shake his hand for some bread.
The coins don't fill up in
Des Moines though.
His kinfolk don't recognize
Him anymore-
Ain't that something?
Used to break bread
But took off running.
Didn't even look back when
They heard that he was bumming.
Moe can't get out of this hole.
Chasing charlie really took its toll.
Now he's the saddest thing on Euclid
And it's stupid.
Went and fought for freedom just
To come home and lose it.
The poor man, can't even afford
A storage can.
Old school hobo
Played war with his hands.
Now we don't even give a ****
Now he's asking around for a bullet
He can swallow.
This what happens when your soul goes hollow.
What fills him rage is he lied about his age.
Woulda been a different story if
This fib wasn't played
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
They say it's
the sport of kings.
I have royal
memories of being
at Santa Anita and
Hollywood Park with
my dad and brother.
As kids, we watched
some of the best horses
and jockeys in the world.
The jocks were our
tiny heroes, gladiators
in silks riding tremendous
beasts.
Dad taught us
how to bet and study
the horses.
He called it
doping the form.
I liked the show bet.
I still cashed the ticket, as
long as the horse didn't
do worse than third.
My heart still gallops when
I think of those Southern
California afternoons.
Dad used to say, don't ever
gamble what you can't
afford to lose.
I live with my brother
now in Iowa.
Dad is long gone, and so is
the shoe, our favorite ****
There are new jockeys on
the scene. New horses.
We drove to Des Moines, to do
some off-track betting on
the Kentucky Derby.
The pageantry is decadent.
The hats and mint juleps.
Someone sings a beautiful
version of, My Old Kentucky Home.
It was truly a sublime scene.
Now, we have to
figure out how
we are going to pay
the rent.
Jun 19, 2024
Jun 19, 2024 at 11:50 AM UTC
I am alone, as I have always been, as is my natural state
I am tired, as I have been for too long, as I became comfortable with
Only my depression and anxiety feel right
I cannot be happy
I will never be
I am unlovable
I am broken
I am baggage
It is in my nature to want to die
Why would anyone want to live like this?
I drink myself to sleep, I smoke until I can't breathe, and somehow that makes me feel alive
I am mortal, I can end this seemingly never-ending train of consciousness
I cannot remember the last time I was genuinely happy
Is it because I have never been genuinely happy?
My step-dad would only take us out when he and my mom fought or when he would abuse my oldest sister
He would take us to Fontana Park, random Amish stores, Iowa City, Des Moines
All to try to convince us that everything was okay, to cover up the dismay, the pain
All of my "happy" memories come from lies
Lies my mother told herself, lies I told myself
I often asked my mom "when are we going home?" But what a ridiculous thing to ask when you don't have one
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 6:00 PM UTC
Deus accepto fert lumine,
the room was warm
I stood by a radiator
reading a book
by Abbot Marion hard covered,
from the window I saw
the French monk walk
a slow pace through the cloisters,
when one loves
one does not calculate
Therese said,
the book smelt of dampness
aged and as I turned the pages
my fingers sensed it,
touch me here she said
you can bring me to joy,
the bell from the cloister
by the refectory door tolled
Hugh held the rope dull looking,
Deus est lumen nostrum,
sunlight brightened the staircase
as I descended
to go to work in the church
polish stalls,
we are twice armed
if we fight with faith
Gareth said quoting Plato
as we walked to the refectory
after the office of Sext,
George looked cold
in the choir stall
he rubbed his hands
the smell of polish
met the incense from mass,
my husband is away for the day
she said come make me,
the tall church tower
orange ****** even in sunlight,
molehills in the monk's cemetery
Dom Frederick said I saw you
clear them with concern,
wind in the trees around me
voices of the dead maybe I thought,
seuls les moines sont ensemble
the French monk said
yet together he added
in English eyeing me,
let us go now Hugh said
supper is about to be served
and I went my stomach
calling within me,
I kissed each part of her
as a wind blessing,
God brings us light
brings us out of night.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
all in the glory
a skin piece
melting down the sewer eyes
****
Columbus ave.
sickly "light"? grizzly stairs up the bridge
******* on the low stoopway
forget that corner and a glinting nametag, a dancer
stay here and run! don't do it again YES
who bends over in the streets
BAM!
"I wasn't watching I'm sorry"
"Oh, no need honey"
undress me
organic hair pitted down matted in a Tesla
Nikol, Nico
the watchburn and lion's breath purple dangling "in the car again?"
****
not again"
trunkbed aroma hitting
Des Moines!
or was it blue again?
who's sound is closer to the truth and who's taking the first shower?
get naked
I reach down for the stone
I feel the soft at its edges
cigarette soaring!
Waterloo
which of you suckers ruled England last year?
the weekend slowly sleeps
in the bay's gentle red cradle
Mother
fitting quietly
an alleyway above our heads
who?
Edward
a hand raises from the striped automobile
"Hey! **** out of the road!"
Chopin, the glissando with no lost word
the shattered beer bottle of 20 years, antiquity
glow into the sink
washing onward Barton and Lombard
Barton and Lombard
both streets unacting like the other
shards of melting black pavement lying so tight and close, the lovers of suburbia
...
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a
private school in
Camarillo California.
Mom sent us
to live with him after
we traded our
education, back in
Des Moines, for **** and
sitting around
listening to Led
Zeppelin records in the
basement.
We had it all figured out.
Before we started
a day of class, we
went on a week-long
skiing trip to
Sequoia National Park.
I loved that school.
A passion grew in
me for literature,
Melville and Dickens,
Dylan Thomas and the
rest of the greats visited
me in my dreams.
They were good, gentle
nights back then.
I wrote a paper on
Billy Budd, and received a C
for my weak effort.
Dad explained aspects of
the story:
plot
theme
antagonist
protagonist
and tragic character flaws.
I didn’t get a C again on
anything to do with
literature.
I was still inept
with the numbers game.
Math didn’t hold my
Interest.
It dog-paddled, then drowned in
my budding poet brain.
I had a gorgeous Dutch
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or
Van something or other.
I acted in the play,
and started at small
forward on the
basketball team.
I even got into a
fight with a kid for
telling the principal that
he sold me a little ****
I was suspended for a week,
but Dad didn’t seem to
mind that much.
He gave me a copy of
Don Quixote, and told
me to write an essay a day.
Back then, I was
the prince of the private school.
I started to care about
learning.
The teachers taught with
zeal and zest.
The lust for literature was
born in me
beneath that smiling
West Coast sunshine, and
melancholy California fog.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 5:07 PM UTC
J'ai vu, tels que des morts réveillés par le glas,
Les moines, lampe en main, se ranger en silence,
Puis pousser, comme un vol de corbeaux qui s'élance,
Leurs noirs miserere qui plaisent au cœur las.
Le néant dans le cloître a sonné sous mes pas ;
J'ai connu la cellule, où le calme commence,
D'où le monde nous semble une mêlée immense
Dont le vain dénouement ne nous regarde pas.
La blancheur des grands murs m'a hanté comme un rêve ;
J'ai senti dans ma vie une ineffable trêve :
L'avant-goût du sépulcre a réjoui mes os.
Mais, adieu ! Le soldat court où le canon gronde :
Je retourne où j'entends la bataille du monde,
Sans pitié pour mon cœur affamé de repos.
381
Posé comme un défi tout près d'une montagne,
L'on aperçoit de **** dans la morne campagne
Le sombre Escurial, à trois cents pieds du sol,
Soulevant sur le coin de son épaule énorme,
Éléphant monstrueux, la coupole difforme ;
Débauche de granit du Tibère espagnol.
Jamais vieux Pharaon, au flanc d'un mont d'Égypte,
Ne fit pour sa momie une plus noire crypte ;
Jamais sphinx au désert n'a gardé plus d'ennui ;
La cigogne s'endort au bout des cheminées ;
Partout l'herbe verdit les cours abandonnées ;
Moines, prêtres, soldats, courtisans, tout a fui !
Et tout semblerait mort, si du bord des corniches,
Des mains des rois sculptés, des frontons et des niches,
Avec leurs cris charmants et leur folle gaîté,
Il ne s'envolait pas des essaims d'hirondelles,
Qui, pour le réveiller, agacent à coups d'ailes
Le géant assoupi qui rêve éternité !...
362
A la morne Chartreuse, entre des murs de pierre,
En place de jardin l'on voit un cimetière,
Un cimetière nu comme un sillon fauché,
Sans croix, sans monument, sans tertre qui se hausse :
L'oubli couvre le nom, l'herbe couvre la fosse ;
La mère ignorerait où son fils est couché.
Les végétations maladives du cloître
Seules sur ce terrain peuvent germer et croître,
Dans l'humidité froide à l'ombre des longs murs ;
Des morts abandonnés douces consolatrices,
Les fleurs n'oseraient pas incliner leurs calices
Sur le vague tombeau de ces dormeurs obscurs.
Au milieu, deux cyprès à la noire verdure
Profilent tristement leur silhouette dure,
Longs soupirs de feuillage élancés vers les cieux,
Pendant que du bassin d'une avare fontaine
Tombe en frange effilée une nappe incertaine,
Comme des pleurs furtifs qui débordent des yeux.
Par les saints ossements des vieux moines filtrée,
L'eau coule à flots si clairs dans la vasque éplorée,
Que pour en boire un peu je m'approchai du bord...
Dans le cristal glacé quand je trempai ma lèvre,
Je me sentis saisi par un frisson de fièvre :
Cette eau de diamant avait un goût de mort !
367
There was an old man of Des Moines,
A little thief stole all his coin;
But he cried, 'little thief,
I will give you much grief!'
That oh so poor man of Des Moines.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC