My nightmares of that evening in January
rerun in my mind like an overplayed television series.
rerun in my mind like a broken record.
rerun in my mind like an intrusive thought.
rerun in my mind like an itch that won't go away.
rerun in my mind
rerun in my mind
rerun

I know you hate me
with parts of your heart
you never even knew existed
and i can't deny
that i deserve it and that i was selfish
with your feelings
and careless with your heart
but please don't let your life suffer
because of my mistakes
don't fall into the trap of sadness
because you deserve better than me
and the only way you'll get it
is by taking yourself seriously
dont ***** it up
you don't get a rerun

I look back at all the things that I've done,
For a girl that i never won.

All the trinkets that sparkled
Under the moonlit sky.
Accompanied by a silence
As i waited for a reply.

All the smiles i created,
Just to see you elated
For a moment
That lasts forever in mine eyes.

All the poems writ and read
But never read.
The longing for you to understand the words,
Yet at the same time, not .


And after all the sorrows,
After all the pain,
I'm still where I started.
Standing in-front of a girl,
Trying to make her smile.

If you haven’t noticed this town is a very small place,
And it makes me wonder about the type of people that live here.
Now there is diversity of origin with every kind of race,
But there’s a type of race that is starting to disappear.

That race is an economic one called the working class,
It is heavily getting replaced by what we normal folk call the wealthy.
These people drive their shiny Mercedes like their whole life was a free pass,
And they flaunt their money around to the point where it’s unhealthy.

They buy their cookie cutter mansions up like they’re buying Taco Bell,
Spending a million dollars on a house for four surely isn’t ridiculous.
And maybe it wouldn’t be if the other 99% of America could do it as well,
But we have a lack of money that makes us a bit more meticulous.

We aren’t able to buy a new house or a new car just because we want to,
And we sure as hell can’t afford a Porsche or a Corvette.
Unlike you we have our sad little low paying jobs to do,
Yes, I’m totally sure sitting in your office chair really makes you break a sweat.

But the worst part of it all is these rich people will have a daughter or a son!
And they’re gonna grow up to be just like their mother and father.
It’ll be like watching a reality tv show rerun,
They’ll be wasting the same money and being the same bother.

My children will be working just to buy enough gas for their car,
While these kids will ask mommy or daddy for a new watch or phone.
But I guarantee you the working class kids will go twice as far,
As the little rich kids who will grow up always expecting a loan.

Today’s episode
of America
is uninspired.

Like the writers
just retired
and rewired
repeats.

Meshing in
Old school hate
McCarthyism’s
patriotic rhetoric
Of division
through worshiping
things of symbolism,
leading to discriminating
and lynching.

KKK, and white hate is
making their guest appearance
just when we thought
we had retired them.

It is a schism
of ******.

What a
white privilege
you have to
not understand
what others
have been through,
not even believing
when they tell you
the truth,
just repeating
the talking points
of Bret Bart
and Fox New.

Well, I’ve got news for you
I am not watching
this ****** rerun
it’s time to
change the channel son.

An overwhelming sense of bewilderment.
My eyes are masked with the lies.
The hurt,
The betrayal,
Again, I have to become this person
All the anguish left in disguise.

Distortion.
My views so utterly coiled.
I try to smile,
I attempt to forget,
But this pit of a wound continues to boil.

Battered and bruised,
My heart has become.
The verbal beating,
The memories constantly repeating,
A never-ending rerun.

I used to cook for her all the time.
I wonder if she remembers. Can she?
Ramen noodles and toast
at 3:30 in the morning, churros at 8:15.
Sometimes in the middle of the night
she’d cat call my name and I’d always
run to her wondering- Is she hurt? and then
She better not have hurt herself.
I knew better though after the first few times,
yet I always went willingly enough through her
open bedroom door because she wanted me to.
But mostly chicken noodle soup on Sundays
and rice and jambalaya on Wednesday.
mmmmmmmmm.... Carminolas with a kick.
Pop pop pop and her buttons would fly across the room
and other times she’d be under the sheets, already
ready to press my hands against her caramelized skin.
And if we add a pinch of saffron, a dash a sumac,
and a teaspoon full of ajwain she will taste like
heaven and for those cherry lovers add a bit of mahlebi.
But I remember. She tasted like homemade chocolate and
marshmallows. Go make Mama something tasty.
She’d say afterwards and send me from the warmth of
her bed, a Saturday Night Live rerun echoing after me.
I’d bring her dumplings and udon and watch her while she ate,
wondering- Can she taste the arsenic?

Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
He started with her head
Fiddled with her like finger food
Putty in his hands

Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
Slapped her hard upside the face
Now she likes it *****
So this poets been replaced

I'd like to say so long Charlie
As far as I'm concerned
You can hit the literary highway
Never to return

Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
And showed her a good time
As I'm watching from the shallow end
Of my kiddie pool of simple rhyme

Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
Chewed her up then spit her out
Now that good for nothing Charlie
Is all she talks about

How many times and on how many screens has JFK been assassinated? she asks a few minutes into the commute.

Someone has said that to me before, I say.

And I notice, now for the first time, even she is a rerun or a ghost
or an unfortunate reminder of the one who came before her,
from the artfully mismatched polish on her toenails to the way her wrists wrap around each other as she talks her quiet talk, her fingertips balancing her iPhone, which streams Jackie Then Kennedy scrambling toward the back of the Cadillac. Its the Zapruder footage in slow motion and somehow in HD, and she touches the thumbs up icon when the footage comes to a close.

Across from me sits a dead man. I'm sure of it—his death. He lounges in himself, his belly fat imperialistic in its expanse, moving beyond beltline and claiming a space all its own on the torn, blue cushioned seat. The dead man looks a bit like Marlon Brando, post-Tango in Paris, when the depression set in and with it the weight, but like Brando, there's still a cool magic in the deep lines of the dead man's forehead, something forlorn and knowing in the drag of his eyelids.

It's here that I remember I'm a writer. And moments like these, I'm supposed to render in belabored yet fragmented ways.

That's ego, she says, not looking up from her phone.

What's that? I say.

The way you pigeonhole me. Rerun, ghost, et cetera, she says. Maybe I've made love to a sad man like you before. Maybe you're a trigger for me. Maybe I know everyone you're going to be, everything you're going to say.  Like I was going to tell you these pants, these pants are lenin pants and I got them from Bali. And I didn't say it because I already knew your response.

Are they ethically made? we say smugly and simultaneously.

And the subway car does that screeching sound you hear in movies and the tunnels outside do that motion blur you see in movies and I try to kiss her but she says that uh-uh cowboy line you know from movies.

Brando had affairs, I say.

Kennedy had affairs, she says.

Have you ever had an affair?

It was exhausting, she says, the performance required. All the effort in your vocal affectations, those terrible 3 p.m. lunches, the pet names, your obligatory passion and one-liners, the secrecy for the sake of secrecy, the purchase and disposal of lingerie. If I could get the time back—

I'd spend it alone with a glass of red wine and a good book, we say.

I was sitting at my computer
All intelligent and nonchalant
When a personality profile test popped up
In the most interesting of fonts

I decided this might be fun
So I clicked onto the site
And right away started answering questions
On what I did and didn't like

As soon as the test was over
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I hit the button enter
There was immediately a knock upon the door

What appeared to be three business men
All in matching suits and ties
With darkened sunglasses all around
Like Hollywood Movie Stars in disguise

Before I knew what was happening
They threw a hood over my head
And carted me off without the slightest word
Not a single Howdy-Do was said

My new found friends threw me into the trunk
Of a waiting limousine
Where just as quickly as they arrived
We all left the scene

We came to a run down abandoned  Army base
In the middle of the desert
I had the feeling that what it was that was to come
Most certainly wouldn't be pleasant

They set me in the middle of a room
As men circled all around
I knew this had to do with the test
And wondered at it was they found

When in walked "The Bossarooni"
And said don't worry son we're not here to mistreat cha
We're just curious as to why
You like anchovies instead of pepperoni on your pizza

live a life that would make a great movie, one that makes happy tears, it will be your only rerun in the end

Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........

Yes, you...fool..... tiny Earthling!
Wake up, you intractable iota of pulp
I watch you on your little planet, with relish
Playing depraved games on your spiritless  ilk.

I inhabit a moon much larger than your scrap of sand
You already appear so infinitesimally  small
When seen with a magnifier, from this innocuous distance
But now, you're even less than a speck of dust.

Seemingly important, you prance and preen and strut
Your feathers ruffling so easily, I do note
Look how you fret your heartstrings and gnaw away
And I didn't get to say that much....yet!

But fear not: collide with each other, we will not
For conversing amiably with my solar sibling, I've pled
To wield its forte and rein out all magnetic fields
So's we never make acquaintance of regret.

See how bloated and full of yourselves you have all become
Feeding on yourselves, sick with bilious envy
Scurrying like ants, at least THEY know better
For when you reach inside you, there ain't too much of note!

You try aimlessly to prove your dull existence
By crawling all wild-like and filling up the gaps meant for silence
Instead, you leave gruesome tracts of rotating noise
I constantly quake at the revolting  mess on Earth.

Scamper along now, as you are wont to do, brain-scooper
You can hardly hold still a thought in mind
You seek and ferret out answers not meant for your likes
Soon you will sever and break up into little pieces insects love!

You think that what you do, is so gripping
But don't you know we're all varying on the same theme
Roll up the deified curtain and you might find
Everything's an inflated rerun of what passed before.

So, even here on this jaunty moon where I live
I'd rather you not join me in my solitary abode
This lunatic prefers the osculating of kind craters
And communing in the solace of orchestral stones.

You delude yourself with ludicrous ideas
That you have the swell of sultry oceans at your disposal
All tied to deceptive spider-like strings, kited fraudulently in your hand
Hoping to catch that salty surge and drift away.....

My scathing  job perchance, is to spot that pattern of power
And when Eros comes rolling in on that mighty tide
I plan and do my best to make you fail spectacularly
Oh, to climb on and ride that sweet wave for all it's worth!

There is nothing to lose, cos you have nothing!
But your acquisitive nature lets you think you do
Yes, go and ape your latest hobby: quickly run to your house
Check that  no-one has stolen the dust from your gate!

Temporary custodians of that rock, is all you are.
But you......You're absurdly afraid to lose what isn't.
Tiers of neglect show how little you learn of what's around you
Hello, look up.......please. Do you see me? Oh, you do.

Well, well now ! Grand planes and happy steaks to you!
Two swell ticks bestowed on you......for neatness.
But even as I study and decimate your paltry existence
Turning, I'm growing painfully aware of three eyes on me.......

Hey, hang on.....wait, wait, WAIT........help!
Earthling.....please!!
Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........
Somebodyyyyyyy....?

Lunatic calling......dear Earthling.........



Star Toucher,  10 March 2013

I'm not 100 percent positive
But I think my girlfriend is a spy
You might be wondering where I got this idea from
Sit back and I'll explain to you why

She gets calls on her cell phone at the oddest of hours
Tells me she must take this call because it is urgent
Whispers into the receiver, then walks out of the room
So I'm pretty sure she's a secret agent

I ask her out for dinner on the weekends
She tells me there's no way, she just can't
I figure she must be going on a secret mission
Perhaps somewhere in the South of France

I've had plenty of friends tell me they've seen her
Out at different times with different guys
She'd better be careful or she'll blow her cover
As a top notch international spy

Out of curiosity one day I did follow her
When I called and she didn't call back
I saw her at the mall with another man
Whom I assume is her main contact

They were at a corner table in the food court
Sitting together up close face to face
They didn't want any other spy's hearing their secrets
As they make for us this world a safer place

Now that you've heard all the evidence
You now know the reason why
I've come to the only conclusion
That my girlfriend is a spy

Rest these weary thoughts away
The ones that knock
The ones that stay
The ones that lurk until it's night
Creep and crawl until it's bright
The sun, it shatters the reverie
Of sleepless dreams that never flee
They wait at bay, inching, itching
Etching, scratching,
clawing, stitching
When at night and all alone
They hit the ball, run it home
Leaving bags under your eyes
Thoughts annoy, like summer flies
No sleep, again
A rerun that will never end.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

She's your favorite pillow on a double wide recliner
or your front porch Adirondack with your early evening stogie
peace and quiet is the theme of your real life day-dream
the only noise you want to hear is from your 60 inch flat screen
with surround sound and remote, watching oldies you old goat,
Twilight Zone and Walking Dead, you've got Stooges in your head, and all the talkshows and the news  is in between

you're not hangry, you're not mean, Freedom understands your bean
with your crockpot full of chili you've been full since you've left Philly
and don't really need a maid around in fact the thought seems silly
you can cook and you can clean, you can work from home and preen
occupied  with daily orders and you like to clean your quarters
you've got all the latest gadgets you're not wanting for a house guest
since deliveries come daily  thank the UPS guy, Bailey
and by now you're feeling quite blessed
'cause the shipping on your stuff is mostly free.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

On those days you're feeling needy, there's that lady at the counter
who knows you by your first name and the waitress with her smile
and the few words back and forth let's you know she recognizes you
remembers how you like your coffee since you come for breakfast weekly
and it's so nice to chat with Kathy for a while.

Who could blame you, loving freedom since she doesn't seem to take
but will fill your heart with pleasure never make your head to ache
never needing any comfort, never waiting at the table
after cookingup your favorite, never asking you to come home
from wherever else you're hanging never asking any questions
always free from expectations who could measure up to Freedom's wit and charm?

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

So called friends there on your Facebook clinging to your every word
as if coming from a guru when you're feeling like a nerd.
they applaud your sense of humor, all the items you are SHARING
and they LIKE the way you're looking and the way you that you respond
for your intellect is hooking and you're forming a close bond
over politics and reason, like your thoughts on this election
and the president and treason or the stuff that you've been cookin'
yeah, you've got a wife named freedom and I know, if you can't beat 'em
I'd be wise to choose my freedom over you.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

Now you've filled up all your neediness without a real lover
hey there now but that's your business between you and Freedom's cover
as for women, you don't need 'em cause you've sworn off love for living
and for sure you love your Freedom and to these ends you watch your giving.
Now you're turning up the music and then you're surfing through your favorites
and flipping through the channels and those periodic moments
gotta catch up on your reading,organize your book collection
get your Ebay up and running you can do without direction
or distraction or attention

do the laundry
mow the lawn
fix what's broken
nothings wrong

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

maybe you go and take a shower and then shave for like an hour
don't forget to flush the toilet, boil an egg and eat some yogurt
top if off with some granola plan your week out, date with Lola
watch the leaves fall and then scatter,
rake 'em up
'cause these things matter,
crack a beer and catch a rerun
never mind the stuff that's undone...

Somewhere deep inside you, you are still the same old lonely
as you were the other year, never mind that second beer
think you realize you miss me, bet sometimes you'd like to kiss me
holding hands while watching TV, maybe someone just to talk to
and to laugh at all your old jokes and to share a little something
that you whipped up in your crockpot, glass of wine, latte or mocha
never mind, let's dance the polka, right that tightness in your shoulder
like John Lennon and his Yoko...

You decide to dial my number  
I usually don't usually like to answer
on the first ring  but by chance, you're
  saying something, wait a second
'cause I gotta turn my sound down
oh you're singing something funny,
and I like your phone voice honey
it's this old familiar tune I wrote for you

"Come closer to me, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hangin'
on the fringe of my heart
with your white knuckled fear
for our freedom stands near
and we dare not even tell her we're afraid"

For my dear old friend, a confirmed bachelor, who goes by Poppy, or Bubba.

That's it I've had it
Tired of being ignored with a wink on the side
I'm tired of being told what old men should do
Going to start taking life on the flea..or is that the fly

I'm going to hit the streets of the city
And be known as that cool guy that raps
After I add a tad bit more Poligrip
So my dentures can get down with that

I'll get me a ball cap and turn it sideways
My pants already hang down past my crack
I'll even learn the latest catch phrase
Like, Hey dude..what's up wit dat?!

Think I'll even rhinestone my walker
For that little extra bling, bling
They'll say check out that crazy rapper daddy-o
Man that cat can really swing

I'll keep the lyrics clean like I do my diaper
That's why I bring my nursie with me
After all she's a wonderful wiper
Don't worry I pay the extra wiping fee

I'll also get her to hold up the cue cards
Since my memory over the years has waned
No longer to be known as that old white *******
Beating JZ at his own game

I'll get jiggy with it every chance I get
As I fizizzile my way to the top
I'll be bigger than that guy with the candy name
That young whipper snapper will melt in the hands of this rapping GrandPop

As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. ******* limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, "***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, "****, guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild ****, as tool is to you as to yo *****." Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ******?" Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a ****. "What you want, *****? You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.

Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ******, flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Perpetual sadness
That's all this is
Just a melancholy mind
And a black soul
Twisting together  
To create a darkness
That envelops every
Happy emotion I have
Until they become
Nothing more than
Neutral, dull, nothingness
I can't feel exitement
My laughter is always forced
My smile never stays
My heart always breaks
Perpetual sadness
That's all my life has become
A rerun
Of nothingness

I went to church the other day
Freud's last joke it led my way
We sang the songs of id and ego
We prayed for Jung's supreme clear windows
A dollar lighter
Yet a level higher
I went out

And became an architect

I broke again today.
The earth shattering at my feet
became a mountain beneath my toes
of all the things I should try to hold back.
Hold it back.
Deny yourself the freedom of expression
because it will linger upon your wrists.
Stop yourself here.
I try to stop myself in my tracks
but I end up getting stuck in the mud
and there's no one here to help me out
so I end up sinking again.
As the waste reaches my mouth
I am silenced.
The will I had to bring myself out of this mold
has vanished and I am a sinking ship once again.
No one ever tells you how to cope.
How to trace your fingers across scares you've made for yourself-
how to turn this madness into something so beautiful.
No one knows what it's like.

I was 17 when I discovered I had manic depression-
the words left my therapists lips like they were an execution notice.
"This isn't a diagnosis" she muttered
"This is who you are, who you've always been
it's not a death sentence".
But why did I feel as if I was being sent to death row-
to be hung by the noose I had made myself
out of tragedy and molestation and abuse.
There were no flowers at this burial.
Just a long awaited sigh of relief.
I always knew I wasn't like everyone else.
She drew me a picture of what it was like-
there were five stages of the imbalance living in my bones.
Major depression, dysthymia, normalcy, hypomania and mania-
she drew me a picture like she was trying to map me out
like she was drawing a Ned's declassified Bipolar Survival guide-
She explained it well.
How the days of normalcy tend to come and go again and again
but the mania and the major depression
pack their bags and stay awhile.
The major depression is like
a visit from a mentally abusive family member
that makes a point to tell you what the **** is wrong with you
when you already know, you tell yourself the same things everyday.
But the mania is like you're fun aunt that buys you beer
and tells you it's okay to **** whoever you want.
Get that piercing, dye your hair, who gives a ****?
The world is yours and the endorphin high you're on-
yeah that's your best ******* friend.
That's the aunt you wish you could be-
and sometimes they take you out on dinner dates-
they'll tell you how horrible you are and remind you
of all the things you have to be worried about.
They fill your head with nonsense and anxiety-
they convince you life would be better without you.
But then you remember what the mania feels like
when it's just the both of you bonding over ice cream
and spending too much money on thing you don't need-
you don't ever want her to leave..
"The mania is why most people don't get help" she said.

Mental illnesses are like actual illnesses-
they're a chemical imbalance in your brain
and you don't tell someone with diabetes
"Oh hey, just think that you're insulin is fine and it will be"
It doesn't ******* work like that.
See the Norepinephrine ran away when I was young
and the lack their of decided to hangout with serotonin.
They became best friends-
so I became the third wheel
and suddenly they both just stopped coming around.
I found a journal from when I was seven-
It said, "I don't want to be here anymore."
Most seven year old were taking care of furby's
or watching saturday morning cartoons-
But me? I wanted to end my life
like it was another ******* rerun
of the same episode you ******* hated
and all you want to do is turn it the *******
but there's really nothing else on TV
so you watch anyway.
Idly sitting there as you're hating every second-
But I'm still alive.
And these hands have dealt with more than just cuts
and pills bottles that became empty with mania that became worse-
I'm staring blankly at this page she drew for me.
Mapping out my mania like it's roller coaster tycoon
I think I'll call it Avalanche because ever since
I was labeled as having "Manic Depression",
I've been climbing my battles ever since-
even though some days, they try to fight back.  
There was a word to the way I was feeling
and a map to express it.
I felt like when I was young and I led Dora to the correct place-
all because of the map guiding her to her destination.
My therapist gave me the map-
she drew my way into understanding.
I haven't found my way home quite yet-
but at least I now know where I'm going.

I’ve now seen this rerun some obscene sum.
Gone, I’m off staring at the sun a tad too long.
The part that focuses the fun was last seen wrong.
Worn, like the cliches you so casually parade.
Me? I got cataracts to the hate.
I’m dodging them cats,
while you’re stuck stalking their tracks.
Once again I’m late, but this time I think I’ll stay.

I could cut you with a blade of grass.
I’m nice.
Brigade both sides of The Crusades with a laugh.
I’m tight.
It’s all in the way you read the light,
but sometimes that sun be too bright.
Got drive though,
won’t stop 'til they say DeadBeat can write.

Sleeps a myth.
Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets
I’m there just because their open
Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea
I’m not any thing.
The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces
Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses
Three phone calls and I answer everyone
He pleads desperately for words I don’t have
And for word I have no way of knowing
Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days
Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort
Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing
I go home
It is 4’Oclock
A good and godless hour
But I want faith
Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today
Make that four phone calls, a rerun
Make that five phone calls, a rerun
Casablanca and a warm blanket
Problem is it’s hot out
“play it again Sam“.  The phone rings.

First off let's make it clear I ain't funny
And I don't start conversations out with bonjour
But there comes a time in every mans life
Where he needs a good Man-icure

When you hit the age of me on the same feet
It's time to give the old dogs a break
Empty out your calendar this will take all day for sure
And you don't want distractions in the way

Cause when the hair on your toes could keep an Eskimo clothed
And carpet his whole family's igloo
That's when you know it's time to call up your Bro's
And go visit a Asian or two

A pedicure for a man to remove the toe jam
Like they would weapons of mass destruction
But let's not call it a date cause that just sounds gay
Let's say outing or a manly luncheon

Like a kid in a candy store given chocolate galore
With no earthly thoughts of calories
Signed up for the 5 gold star plan soon to be a new man
Where you're bound to not recognize me

From hot wax to cream to all things in between
Why they even buffed my buff
From bottom to top they did the whole lot
And yes I liked it...thank you very much

As we went through the day the new me being made
Rolling me from dock to dock
Then came to the time we stopped short of a dime
When they wanted to give me a bikini WHAT?!?

That's where I drew the line there's just some things I find
That a Manly Man would never stand
We went back to the front, that's enough of this lunch!
THAT gold star wasn't in my plan

Would I do it again? All you gotta do is say when...
But next time round believe me
When it comes to the stars I'll stop at the 4
Which I believe is the boxer instead of bikini

There are railroad tracks
That run through my town
And at night when I finally receive
The silence I wished for during the day
I can hear the faint whistle
And hum against my bedroom windows
I hear the whistle now.

All my life I have heard the trains
And I find beauty in the fact that even when I'm not listening, they are there
The trains carrying coal, chemicals, lumber, and the better parts of my childhood
As a child I loved the idea of the caboose
Allowing any stretch of rail
Any length of land
To be your home
Your bed
And it was probably through this my wanderer spirit grew.

All my life these trains meant something
Escape
But not without possibility of return
I romanticized the long web of rails connecting all the land and Souls in the American night
I have always loved such pieces of antiquity

So in the latter years of my childhood in high school it's no suprise the love I had for Steinbeck, Sandburg, and Woody Guthrie
I would lament to friends that the trains became too fast to hop, but I never tried
I always sat back and watched
Or listened on quiet nights

Now my childhood has passed
I am nearly 20 but wrapped in my head is the idea that the young boy who had train posters and pictures covering his walls was nothing but a stranger or a character in just another awful coming of age rerun
But deep down that child turned to Ginsberg who wrote of boxcars boxcars boxcars
And Kerouac who followed the long stretches of road to the western edge of America
And it was through Kerouac I found
Thomas Wolfe

I feel I have Thomas Wolfe in my bones
Thomas Wolfe who left home rejoicing train rides to the North
Then realized he couldn't go home again
Thomas Wolfe who never wrote a bad train scene
Not all of Wolfe is in me
Not the 1900s Southern prejudice
Or the raving accusing of friends of great treasons, only to have to apologize the morning after
But I can feel his need
To write all I can
To never take away
To add add
To never reduce because who tells Van Gogh "yes yer paintings alright but I need you to reduce the amount of stars by 30 and I expect it on my desk Monday"
I won't take anything away from myself
Only add
So at nights
When I hear the train whistle
And soft rattling on my window
Thomas Wolfe is with me
And he loves the sound too

Sleeps a myth.
Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets
I’m there just because their open
Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea
I’m not any thing.
The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces
Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses
Three phone calls and I answer everyone
He pleads desperately for words I don’t have
And for word I have no way of knowing
Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days
Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort
Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing
I go home
It is 4’Oclock
A good and godless hour
But I want faith
Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today
Make that four phone calls, a rerun
Make that five phone calls, a rerun
Casablanca and a warm blanket
Problem is it’s hot out
“play it again Sam“.  The phone rings.

Synaptic explosion.
Unigue and bright..burns and crosses the chasm.
A new existence in the universe.

Like a fistfull of ligtening.

Never to be again.
No rerun. A salmon upsream. A creative anchor. A fitfull dream.

The stream washes both sides of the shore.
Draws inward and onward and downward and more.
Silt and bramble...a preamble

A fistfull of lightening and nothing more.

you have entered the realm of life after separation.
gone are the daisies she tucked behind your ears. it’s autumn now.
you are getting older. your boots are heavy and your chest is heavier.
you were given something gleaming, but it isn’t yours,
anymore. you seethe in your own ache.
this is your first silver october. the blushing leaves have gone greyscale,
like an i love lucy rerun. they evoke a stab of grief between your lungs.
you have to rewrite the story of your life now,
go forward knowing that everything after will be somehow
lesser than her. no person will reach into you the way she did.
you are a lost girl. resignation is all you have left,
resignation and streets bitter with dead leaves, streets where you run and shout
a silent prayer of loss.

but then:
but then.

you are reciting a poem for a room of people and your words
belong to your body now. a deep glow has fallen over everything,
right onto a girl you’ve only seen once before.
front row. face open. taking in what you are saying,
your retrospective sorrow, with a particular kind of attentiveness
you have needed all along.
everyone is listening, but she is hearing you.
in that moment, when you are raw and earnest,
you think that perhaps there’s something different about
this one. how even when you are done, she still seems to be
hearing all the words you cannot say.

and then:
and then.

spring is thrusting its way out of cold dirt
and you are twisting and breathing and this girl,
this girl, she is one million ******* shades of red. all you can do is
look at her without turning away, as if you could do such a thing
even if you tried. maybe this is how rembrandt felt
when painting night watch.
full of thick, rich burning too immense for language to hold.
this girl, this girl in the midst of life after. this girl so good
she’s put meaning back into the messy coming of spring.

you have learned not to trust. not to believe.
to love with a window open, a hand on the door,
in case of incineration, ready to run.
but this girl, says your heart,
says the peachy light bleeding onto her lips and nose,
this girl is not like those who came before her.
you’ve been a stranger to yourself for so long, but this girl
is reintroducing the two of you, rubbing you raw with longing.
do you understand, you want to say to her,
how stunning you are.
standing there like that. in your sincerity and laughter, as it weren’t
breath snatching to witness. as if it were commonplace,
unexceptional. as if you weren’t the tenderest work of art.

do you.

Part I

One of my God's
non-eternal enemies
whom i refer to as "little b"
(i try not to lend it the dignity
of having its name spoken by my lips
when i write
i will not grace
its improper noun with the
upper casing of its first letter)

Translated into English it becomes
"the lord of the flies"
this bi-dimensional vermin
expands its influence by keeping
its existence as hidden as possible
from its unsuspecting hosts

The uni-dimensional plague that
"little b" took its name from
the common fly
is fond of the open wounds in
the hides of animals
it lays its eggs in the wound
which soon hatch and begin to feed
on the surrounding rotted flesh
"little b" and its gang
act in a similar way
but they are not satisfied
with rotted flesh . . . .
they thrive on the growth of fear
the expansion of hatred and distrust.
they grow fat in the putrid pus
of pride and discrimination

beelzebub

Part II

When a lie
any manner of falsehood
is accepted as Truth
and allowed to reside
unopposed in the mind
its presence begins to radiate
emanations of itself
throughout the whole system

The lie soils everything it touches
and being "sin"
left in place long enough
it produces the "fruit" of death

The entrance of sin into a human life
provides a beacon for "little b"
it rushes in to lay its eggs
in the midst of the pain
created by the emotional or psychological wound

Once hatched, "little b" maggots
frolic through the host searching out new areas
of anguish, bitterness, fear and pain to feed on

As the parasites continue feeding
they multiply
driving the host to
deeper depths of depression
anger confusion and sorrow
which in turn
create even larger areas for
the invaders to occupy

If this activity is left unchecked
Eventually all that is left of the host
is a dried and useless husk
ready to be dumped
into a hole in the ground
and seemingly
forgotten about

for awhile

Curtis Delk Rose 2/13-2/22/98

Part III

The Fruit Of bitterness
(another aspect of “little-b”)

'bitterness' does not arrive all at once
like a rogue-refugee relative
with its cluttered baggage and sickly children
barging around, breaking rare ornaments
and willfully refusing to learn the new tongue

It arrives slowly
almost too slowly to notice
seeping into the brain's house
a thin vapor trickling down into unprotected crevices
coating chair legs, vinyl floors and other hard surfaces

Sometimes you notice
what appears to be a stain of some kind
and you occasionally make a half-hearted attempt to wipe it off
But what the heck
you so seldom have company here
and the body's house needs so much attention.

The preacher in the new stone church yells from the pulpit
"And if you're gonna drive that rattle-trap truck to church
at least you could park it in the back
where every Tom, **** and Harry that drives by can't see it."

Every time that searing dart
passes through your mind
the soul cries out
"Oh! Why did he say that?!"

So softly you think it is you speaking to yourself
the ugly gray shadow of 'bitterness' whispers
"Because you are too stupid to afford a new car
You'll always be too stupid to get ahead
Look at who you married, stupid!
A loser who can't even get a job where he works indoors in the winter time
No wonder god killed your baby!
You're too stupid to be a mother!"

This goes on for years
'bitterness' grows more and more at home
it leaves the lights on all over the house
every night, all night
and plays the hateful reruns so loud you can't sleep
You wonder why your digestion is getting worse and worse
"Arthur Itis"* moves in and sets up his angry shop
Unaccountable pains squeeze from one place to another
and finally
your fingers are as stiff and useless
as all the money you sank into that big stone pit

When the old preacher finally died and
left the big stone church as an inheritance
to his skirt-chasing, cigar-smoking son
'bitterness' thought it was time for
it to try the recliner for the first time
it picked up the remote and
began playing one painful rerun after another

My daddy should never have done that to me!"
(But he is years dead now and who would ever believe you?)

"But it still hurts!"      

("And remember the time at the beach when
Henry wondered out loud if maybe it was your fault that Chucky died?")

"How could he do that?"

And . . .    And . . .    And . . .

Years pass
the old heart and lungs are approaching the point
where they can't handle the pressure anymore

'little b' leans back
in the brain's broken, worn-out recliner
puts its hands behind its head and
daydreams
about trying your granddaughter on for size


Curtis Delk Rose

81101 & 112515 & 12818

Many Thanks to Brad Watson for the time he mentioned that the
archaic word "beelzebub" translates into the “lord of the flies”

**arthritis

i  met a man who answer
"i dont know"
when watching rerun tapes
of his  love kissing under mistletoe
surrogate the times being drunk at home
petrified
as if he became a ghost
cause these days find us
when we track down truth
not the processed kind
capitalized behind a golden tooth
i mean the genuine taste of something real
Things untouched, kissed and sealed
oh in this world its too pure to find
one who holds such a beautiful mind
with schizophrenic intellect
words, colors and space combined
all would then been seen clearly
When i met
this man who answered
"i don't know"
He was suiting up for his daily show
staring at the screen
wishing it was real
pressing  play
whispering
"We meet again my needle  in a hey"
But as the tape rolls to an end
Reality never seems to bend
So instead of searching for somthing real
He waits till his love rewinds backwards on a  wheel.