MY HOPE
When I’m dead and gone
I hope they tell stories about me
over pathetic campfires
and broken stoves,
and most of all I hope that the stories
they tell are goddamn lies.
Monday, April 28, 2008
A POEM - THE SADDEST MAN IN THE WORLD
THE SADDEST MAN IN THE WORLD
He stood up on the train
and looked around,
collecting everybody’s attention.
After a few moments he shouted,
“I might just be
the saddest person
on the planet right now.”
We all stared at him,
wondering about his next move.
Nothing happened for a minute
but then some other guy
a few seats down stood up,
looked at the first man and yelled,
“that’s bullshit!
I’m the saddest man in the world right now.
I’m so down,
I’m underneath the earth!”
“no, no!” screamed the woman next to him.
“your sadness is a speck of sand
compared to mine.
My sadness is a whole ocean’s beaches!”
I didn’t know how long it would go on
but I knew it had gone on long enough.
So I took my stand
and looked ‘em all over.
“well,” I said,
“I don’t know much,
but from the sound of it
you’re all pretty fuckin’ miserable.”
He stood up on the train
and looked around,
collecting everybody’s attention.
After a few moments he shouted,
“I might just be
the saddest person
on the planet right now.”
We all stared at him,
wondering about his next move.
Nothing happened for a minute
but then some other guy
a few seats down stood up,
looked at the first man and yelled,
“that’s bullshit!
I’m the saddest man in the world right now.
I’m so down,
I’m underneath the earth!”
“no, no!” screamed the woman next to him.
“your sadness is a speck of sand
compared to mine.
My sadness is a whole ocean’s beaches!”
I didn’t know how long it would go on
but I knew it had gone on long enough.
So I took my stand
and looked ‘em all over.
“well,” I said,
“I don’t know much,
but from the sound of it
you’re all pretty fuckin’ miserable.”
A POEM - HARD GOING
HARD GOING
With the thumb,
It was hard to make headway
out there sometimes.
There were some places you ended up
where nobody was driving by,
and with roads that went no where.
With the thumb,
It was hard to make headway
out there sometimes.
There were some places you ended up
where nobody was driving by,
and with roads that went no where.
A POEM - THE LITTLE QUESTION
THE LITTLE QUESTION
It seemed that everywhere I went,
that everybody I met was broke.
You began to wonder sometimes,
“who the fuck has all the money?”
It seemed that everywhere I went,
that everybody I met was broke.
You began to wonder sometimes,
“who the fuck has all the money?”
A POEM - IT WASN'T MUCH BUT IT WAS SOMETHING
IT WASN’T MUCH BUT IT WAS SOMETHING
There was this one spot
I waited for five hours
and only got a few laughs
and a few thumbs ups.
Those always pissed me off,
getting those thumbs ups.
Finally this guy pulled over
and rolled down the window.
“where ya headed, mate?” he asked me.
“as far north as you can take me,” I said.
“well, I’m just going a k up the road,
but I’ll take you that far.”
I gave it some thought.
That would be just over half a mile
in five hours.
And I had a whole, entire continent
to cover,
maybe four or five thousand kilometers.
The guy squinted his eyes and said,
“it ain’t much, but it’s something.”
That was true.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
There was this one spot
I waited for five hours
and only got a few laughs
and a few thumbs ups.
Those always pissed me off,
getting those thumbs ups.
Finally this guy pulled over
and rolled down the window.
“where ya headed, mate?” he asked me.
“as far north as you can take me,” I said.
“well, I’m just going a k up the road,
but I’ll take you that far.”
I gave it some thought.
That would be just over half a mile
in five hours.
And I had a whole, entire continent
to cover,
maybe four or five thousand kilometers.
The guy squinted his eyes and said,
“it ain’t much, but it’s something.”
That was true.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
A POEM - MORE THOUGHTS FROM THE SIDES OF THE ROADS
MORE THOUGHTS FROM THE SIDES OF THE ROADS
Sitting there,
on the sides of those roads,
my filthy clothes
and my unshaven face
and just a general look
of being abused by life,
I had the feeling
that when people drove by me,
the thoughts that came into their heads
would be something along the lines of,
“oh, that would suck.”
Sitting there,
on the sides of those roads,
my filthy clothes
and my unshaven face
and just a general look
of being abused by life,
I had the feeling
that when people drove by me,
the thoughts that came into their heads
would be something along the lines of,
“oh, that would suck.”
A POEM - IT WASN'T THE AVERAGE RIDE FROM THE AVERAGE MAN
IT WASN'T THE AVERAGE RIDE FROM THE AVERAGE MAN
As we drove along north from Perth,
Through the desert in the dark,
With no houses or towns around,
he told me about
his very extensive criminal history.
He’d stolen over a thousand cars,
(including the one we were driving in),
pushed millions and millions
of dollars worth of meth,
shot two men,
one to death,
had beaten and tortured countless others,
and he was currently wanted
in Australia and New Zealand.
But the best thing he’d done,
In his point of view,
was burning down the house
of a cop who’d roughed him up
when he’d gotten arrested once.
He had used Malatov cocktails
and right after doing that,
he’d jumped on a plane and had flown
over to Australia,
where he’d been living on the lam ever since.
He said to me, regarding the the cop’s house,
“I really, really enjoyed doing that.”
I turned over and looked at him,
and just had that feeling
that he was a very bad human being.
As we drove along north from Perth,
Through the desert in the dark,
With no houses or towns around,
he told me about
his very extensive criminal history.
He’d stolen over a thousand cars,
(including the one we were driving in),
pushed millions and millions
of dollars worth of meth,
shot two men,
one to death,
had beaten and tortured countless others,
and he was currently wanted
in Australia and New Zealand.
But the best thing he’d done,
In his point of view,
was burning down the house
of a cop who’d roughed him up
when he’d gotten arrested once.
He had used Malatov cocktails
and right after doing that,
he’d jumped on a plane and had flown
over to Australia,
where he’d been living on the lam ever since.
He said to me, regarding the the cop’s house,
“I really, really enjoyed doing that.”
I turned over and looked at him,
and just had that feeling
that he was a very bad human being.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A POEM - FATHER TO SON
FATHER TO SON
That man over there, with the baseball hat.
He leaned down, close to his kid’s ear.
“listen, son. You weren’t completely an accident.
Your mother doesn’t know it, but I wanted you.”
That man over there, with the baseball hat.
He leaned down, close to his kid’s ear.
“listen, son. You weren’t completely an accident.
Your mother doesn’t know it, but I wanted you.”
A POEM - DECISIONS
DECISIONS
There are a lot of decisions in life,
that’s for goddamn sure.
One that comes up a little too often for me
happens when I’m rushing into a public bathroom.
I always have a hard time deciding
whether to put toilet paper on the seat
or risk shitting my pants.
There are a lot of decisions in life,
that’s for goddamn sure.
One that comes up a little too often for me
happens when I’m rushing into a public bathroom.
I always have a hard time deciding
whether to put toilet paper on the seat
or risk shitting my pants.
A POEM - INTERPRETING SLANG
INTERPRETING SLANG
He put his drink down onto the bar,
looked over at me,
right into my eyes, and he said,
“I’ve had birds before.”
“nice,” I said,
wondering whether he meant women or actual birds.
“one died, and the other four got away.”
“oh,” I replied,
secretly still wondering.
He put his drink down onto the bar,
looked over at me,
right into my eyes, and he said,
“I’ve had birds before.”
“nice,” I said,
wondering whether he meant women or actual birds.
“one died, and the other four got away.”
“oh,” I replied,
secretly still wondering.
A POEM - HE WAS HOOKIE
HE WAS HOOKIE
It was just past two in the afternoon.
He came up to me and put his hand out and said,
“I’m Hookie.”
I knew he was.
He’d already told me twice that morning.
Then he leaned in and whispered to me,
“I’m not a racist. I hate everybody the same.”
It was just past two in the afternoon.
He came up to me and put his hand out and said,
“I’m Hookie.”
I knew he was.
He’d already told me twice that morning.
Then he leaned in and whispered to me,
“I’m not a racist. I hate everybody the same.”
A POEM - HE TOLD ME WHAT WAS ON HIS MIND
HE TOLD ME WHAT WAS ON HIS MIND
I’d met Hookie earlier that morning,
in the bar.
We’d been nipping at pints of beer.
After a big gulp he turned to me
and said, very seriously,
“now Jack, at some point
later on today
I’m probably gonna try to kill you.”
I gazed back at him a few moments.
His gray hair, skinny arms, missing teeth.
I raised my glass and said,
“I figured you would.”
I’d met Hookie earlier that morning,
in the bar.
We’d been nipping at pints of beer.
After a big gulp he turned to me
and said, very seriously,
“now Jack, at some point
later on today
I’m probably gonna try to kill you.”
I gazed back at him a few moments.
His gray hair, skinny arms, missing teeth.
I raised my glass and said,
“I figured you would.”
A POEM - THE STRANGE QUESTION
THE STRANGE QUESTION
I’d been sitting there maybe an hour,
enjoying a few beers
and letting the time go by.
Minding my own business,
Doing my thing.
A man at the other end of the bar got up,
put on his coat and looked over at me.
“you’re not gonna commit suicide, are you?”
I gave it some thought.
It was a weird way to start a conversation,
Especially since he seemed to be on his way out.
Finally I glanced back to him and said,
“what’s it to you?”
I’d been sitting there maybe an hour,
enjoying a few beers
and letting the time go by.
Minding my own business,
Doing my thing.
A man at the other end of the bar got up,
put on his coat and looked over at me.
“you’re not gonna commit suicide, are you?”
I gave it some thought.
It was a weird way to start a conversation,
Especially since he seemed to be on his way out.
Finally I glanced back to him and said,
“what’s it to you?”
A POEM - FULL MOON
FULL MOON
I was walking down the street,
smoking a cigarette and whistling Dixie,
having a good feeling
about where the night might go.
But then I had this other feeling,
like somebody was spying on me,
watching my every move.
Very cautiously and very slowly
I glanced up into the sky.
There was the full moon, boring down.
I quickly averted my eyes,
ducked into some shadows and said, “oh shit. Here we go again.”
I was walking down the street,
smoking a cigarette and whistling Dixie,
having a good feeling
about where the night might go.
But then I had this other feeling,
like somebody was spying on me,
watching my every move.
Very cautiously and very slowly
I glanced up into the sky.
There was the full moon, boring down.
I quickly averted my eyes,
ducked into some shadows and said, “oh shit. Here we go again.”
A POEM - ANGELO VELLA
ANGELO VELLA
It was nice to think about Angelo.
Very comforting to me,
to know that he was out there,
smoking his brains out every night,
waking in the morning,
filling his thermos with wine,
and going off to his welding job.
Somehow it seemed that his little life,
his effort, made the world a better place.
It was nice to think about Angelo.
Very comforting to me,
to know that he was out there,
smoking his brains out every night,
waking in the morning,
filling his thermos with wine,
and going off to his welding job.
Somehow it seemed that his little life,
his effort, made the world a better place.
A POEM - DAY SLEEPERS
DAY SLEEPERS
Anytime I saw somebody sleeping during the day,
or napping as you people call it,
I’d stop and glare at them a while,
try to get right in there,
right into their dreams and say,
“you fuckin’ bastard.”
It always pissed me off
to see people sleeping during the day,
because I had such a hard time at it.
Anytime I saw somebody sleeping during the day,
or napping as you people call it,
I’d stop and glare at them a while,
try to get right in there,
right into their dreams and say,
“you fuckin’ bastard.”
It always pissed me off
to see people sleeping during the day,
because I had such a hard time at it.
A POEM - THEY BEAT HIS ASS AND STOLE HIS SHOES
THEY BEAT HIS ASS AND STOLE HIS SHOES
I was riding in her car,
north, up to Perth.
We’d talked about this and that,
bullshit mostly.
Then she turned to me and said,
“I have a friend.
A really, really big guy.
The abbos beat the shit out of him.”
“yeah?” I asked.
“yeah, and they stole his shoes.
Like, size seventeen,
but they stole them anyway.”
She turned over to me for a few moments,
as though the part about the shoes
was of the utmost importance.
I looked away for a minute,
then looked back and said, “hmm.”
I was riding in her car,
north, up to Perth.
We’d talked about this and that,
bullshit mostly.
Then she turned to me and said,
“I have a friend.
A really, really big guy.
The abbos beat the shit out of him.”
“yeah?” I asked.
“yeah, and they stole his shoes.
Like, size seventeen,
but they stole them anyway.”
She turned over to me for a few moments,
as though the part about the shoes
was of the utmost importance.
I looked away for a minute,
then looked back and said, “hmm.”
A POEM - SAFETY IN WORDS
SAFETY IN WORDS
The best thing about writing
was that when you were doing it,
when you were hunched over some pad of paper,
stabbing at lines with the ink,
for the most part,
nobody fuckin’ bothered you.
The best thing about writing
was that when you were doing it,
when you were hunched over some pad of paper,
stabbing at lines with the ink,
for the most part,
nobody fuckin’ bothered you.
A POEM - OH NO
OH NO
When I woke up
I couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.
I looked around the room for clues,
but everything seemed to be normal.
No chairs through windows,
no televisions cut in half
no open, bleeding wounds.
Then I looked down and shuddered,
reading this dreadful chicken scratch
on my arm that spelled out,
“John Whiskeytoe.”
When I woke up
I couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.
I looked around the room for clues,
but everything seemed to be normal.
No chairs through windows,
no televisions cut in half
no open, bleeding wounds.
Then I looked down and shuddered,
reading this dreadful chicken scratch
on my arm that spelled out,
“John Whiskeytoe.”
A POEM - BUSTED
BUSTED
“now,” she said,
a very stern look on her face.
“what I’m gonna do is save you
from paying a fifty dollar fine.”
I looked back at her,
at her badge
and her leather face
and that long nose.
Then I looked around for a way out
but soon decided I was too tired to run.
I’d been nabbed,
no way around it.
I turned away for a moment,
then back.
“all right,” I sighed,
taking out my cardboard wallet
to pay for the train fare.
After giving her a good, hard look I said,
“let’s do this.”
“now,” she said,
a very stern look on her face.
“what I’m gonna do is save you
from paying a fifty dollar fine.”
I looked back at her,
at her badge
and her leather face
and that long nose.
Then I looked around for a way out
but soon decided I was too tired to run.
I’d been nabbed,
no way around it.
I turned away for a moment,
then back.
“all right,” I sighed,
taking out my cardboard wallet
to pay for the train fare.
After giving her a good, hard look I said,
“let’s do this.”
A POEM - WITH HOPE IN ONE HAND AND A BOTTLE IN THE OTHER
WITH HOPE IN ONE HAND AND A BOTTLE IN THE OTHER
There I was, on the beach.
Nipping at some whiskey and taking it easy.
This woman walked up,
looked me over,
maybe checking out my tattoos.
She had on a pair of khaki shorts
and a golf shirt and a pair of tennis shoes.
She was the western world’s patron mother.
After giving me a good long look
she frowned and said to me,
“I hope you have on sunblock.”
I squinted back at her,
sand in my eyes, and said,
“well, I don’t.”
There I was, on the beach.
Nipping at some whiskey and taking it easy.
This woman walked up,
looked me over,
maybe checking out my tattoos.
She had on a pair of khaki shorts
and a golf shirt and a pair of tennis shoes.
She was the western world’s patron mother.
After giving me a good long look
she frowned and said to me,
“I hope you have on sunblock.”
I squinted back at her,
sand in my eyes, and said,
“well, I don’t.”
A POEM - HERE WE GO AGAIN, AGAIN
HERE WE GO AGAIN, AGAIN
I woke up on the beach again,
the water tickling at my toes.
Sand in my pockets, snot in my nose.
“aw, fuck. here we go again.”
I woke up on the beach again,
the water tickling at my toes.
Sand in my pockets, snot in my nose.
“aw, fuck. here we go again.”
A POEM - I WAS ALWAYS TERRIBLE WITH WOMEN
I WAS ALWAYS TERRIBLE WITH WOMEN
There weren’t many girls at the beach.
None at all, actually.
I was lying there in the sand,
in my filthy jeans and stained, burned t shirt.
Finally this older chick came walking by.
She didn’t look too bad.
I was desperate for some action,
would kill for even a kiss.
I thought I’d give it a try with that broad.
As she got near I caught her eye and said,
“hey, how’s it goin’?”
She smiled at me and kept walking.
That was it.
I watched her walk a little ways down,
then laughed to myself, at myself,
saying, “dude, you’re such a fuckin’ loser.”
There weren’t many girls at the beach.
None at all, actually.
I was lying there in the sand,
in my filthy jeans and stained, burned t shirt.
Finally this older chick came walking by.
She didn’t look too bad.
I was desperate for some action,
would kill for even a kiss.
I thought I’d give it a try with that broad.
As she got near I caught her eye and said,
“hey, how’s it goin’?”
She smiled at me and kept walking.
That was it.
I watched her walk a little ways down,
then laughed to myself, at myself,
saying, “dude, you’re such a fuckin’ loser.”
A POEM - CHOOSING MY WORDS WISELY
CHOOSING MY WORDS WISELY
I’d been sitting out there in that chair
for a while. I mean a fuckin’ while.
Maybe fifteen hours
with the odd trip to the pisser.
I was nearly finished with a bottle of Jim Beam
and was beginning to wonder what I’d do
when it ran out.
People came and went.
Some stuck around,
smoked cigarettes
and talked and laughed.
But this one guy,
he kept popping his head through the door,
looking around the courtyard,
sneaking glances at me,
then disappearing again.
After some time
I realized that he worked there,
at that hostel,
and that he was maybe worried
that I’d get out of hand.
I guess he’d heard some stories
about the great American bourbon drinker.
That was me.
What they called me, anyway.
Finally he popped his head through that door
another time and he looked over at me.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye,
then turned over to him and roared,
“that’s a goddamn lie!”
This scared and confused expression came to his face, like he didn’t know what I was talking about.
I waited a moment and then shouted,
“no! YOU’RE a goddamn lie!”
Everyone in the courtyard quieted down
and stared at me with worried eyes.
Those were the only words I’d spoken all day.
I’d been sitting out there in that chair
for a while. I mean a fuckin’ while.
Maybe fifteen hours
with the odd trip to the pisser.
I was nearly finished with a bottle of Jim Beam
and was beginning to wonder what I’d do
when it ran out.
People came and went.
Some stuck around,
smoked cigarettes
and talked and laughed.
But this one guy,
he kept popping his head through the door,
looking around the courtyard,
sneaking glances at me,
then disappearing again.
After some time
I realized that he worked there,
at that hostel,
and that he was maybe worried
that I’d get out of hand.
I guess he’d heard some stories
about the great American bourbon drinker.
That was me.
What they called me, anyway.
Finally he popped his head through that door
another time and he looked over at me.
I saw him out of the corner of my eye,
then turned over to him and roared,
“that’s a goddamn lie!”
This scared and confused expression came to his face, like he didn’t know what I was talking about.
I waited a moment and then shouted,
“no! YOU’RE a goddamn lie!”
Everyone in the courtyard quieted down
and stared at me with worried eyes.
Those were the only words I’d spoken all day.
A POEM - SENTIMENTS OF THE MISERABLE
SENTIMENTS OF THE MISERABLE
It was hard to not feel
like you were constantly being pushed around.
Everywhere you went,
every step took,
somebody was telling you what to do,
what not to do,
when to walk,
where to go.
At times it really pissed me off.
It was hard to not feel
like you were constantly being pushed around.
Everywhere you went,
every step took,
somebody was telling you what to do,
what not to do,
when to walk,
where to go.
At times it really pissed me off.
A POEM - MORE HOBBIES OF THE DOOMED
MORE HOBBIES OF THE DOOMED
I liked that,
going into the girl’s bathroom,
taking a piss and leaving the seat up.
I wasn’t quite sure
why I found so much enjoyment from it,
but I did.
It just seemed like a pretty cool thing to do.
I liked that,
going into the girl’s bathroom,
taking a piss and leaving the seat up.
I wasn’t quite sure
why I found so much enjoyment from it,
but I did.
It just seemed like a pretty cool thing to do.
A POEM - ALONE
ALONE
For some reason it made them uncomfortable,
when I’d sit out there for hours,
jesus, days at a time.
Drinking that bourbon and scribbling little poems,
always alone at my own table,
always away from them.
“why don’t you come join us?” they’d ask.
“Come sit with us!”
I’d stare back at them and finally say,
“listen, you fuckers.
I was in that womb alone
and I’m gonna go to that coffin alone, all right?
Why the fuck should I do it any differently out here?”
For some reason it made them uncomfortable,
when I’d sit out there for hours,
jesus, days at a time.
Drinking that bourbon and scribbling little poems,
always alone at my own table,
always away from them.
“why don’t you come join us?” they’d ask.
“Come sit with us!”
I’d stare back at them and finally say,
“listen, you fuckers.
I was in that womb alone
and I’m gonna go to that coffin alone, all right?
Why the fuck should I do it any differently out here?”
A POEM - NOT IT
NOT IT
I wondered how I’d gotten there,
how it had come down to that.
I played over her words in my head.
She’d said to me,
“I found you over there
behind the motorcycle.
You were hugging a propane tank
and every few moments you’d whisper,
‘I swear to god it wasn’t me.’”
I wondered how I’d gotten there,
how it had come down to that.
I played over her words in my head.
She’d said to me,
“I found you over there
behind the motorcycle.
You were hugging a propane tank
and every few moments you’d whisper,
‘I swear to god it wasn’t me.’”
A POEM - EVERY DRINK WAS A LIE
EVERY DRINK WAS A LIE
It was nice because
she didn’t ask us if we wanted another round.
She just brought one over.
If we didn’t want another round
then we’d tell her.
That was how it worked.
The man I drank with,
Peter, was seventy four.
He’d been at the drinking game for six decades.
We didn’t speak much,
just sipped at our drinks.
He was on the vodka
and I was a whiskey man.
I didn’t trust Peter because of that,
because he drank that vodka.
I never trusted vodka drinkers.
But there was another reason
I didn’t trust him, too.
And that was because
in the two years I’d been sitting next to him
on that barstool,
he’d turn to me just before
finishing every single drink and say,
“after this one I’m gonna kill myself.”
But then the barmaid would bring over another
and he’d start in on it,
like he’d said nothing.
It was for that reason
I knew he was a lying bastard.
It was nice because
she didn’t ask us if we wanted another round.
She just brought one over.
If we didn’t want another round
then we’d tell her.
That was how it worked.
The man I drank with,
Peter, was seventy four.
He’d been at the drinking game for six decades.
We didn’t speak much,
just sipped at our drinks.
He was on the vodka
and I was a whiskey man.
I didn’t trust Peter because of that,
because he drank that vodka.
I never trusted vodka drinkers.
But there was another reason
I didn’t trust him, too.
And that was because
in the two years I’d been sitting next to him
on that barstool,
he’d turn to me just before
finishing every single drink and say,
“after this one I’m gonna kill myself.”
But then the barmaid would bring over another
and he’d start in on it,
like he’d said nothing.
It was for that reason
I knew he was a lying bastard.
A POEM - THE PRAYER BEFORE THE MEAL
THE PRAYER BEFORE THE MEAL
After frying up some food
I sat down
and took a deep breath
and then a bite,
thinking to myself,
“you really are a fuckin’ hero.”
After frying up some food
I sat down
and took a deep breath
and then a bite,
thinking to myself,
“you really are a fuckin’ hero.”
A POEM - THE SURPRISE
THE SURPRISE
At one point there,
I woke up and had to take a shit.
I pulled on some pants,
thinking maybe I’d go out for a smoke afterwards.
But what was weird
was that while walking down the hallway
I smelled smoke, fire smoke.
I sniffed away at it
but couldn’t figure out
where that smell was coming from.
Then I passed a man in the hallway,
this dutch man I’d seen around.
He said to me,
“hey! Man! You’re on fire!”
I stared back at him, confused.
“no, really?”
“yes, yes! Look at your legs!”
And true enough,
I looked down at my pants
and they were on fire,
the flames licking at my knees.
“jesus,” I said, jogging to the shower,
“I didn’t see that one coming.”
At one point there,
I woke up and had to take a shit.
I pulled on some pants,
thinking maybe I’d go out for a smoke afterwards.
But what was weird
was that while walking down the hallway
I smelled smoke, fire smoke.
I sniffed away at it
but couldn’t figure out
where that smell was coming from.
Then I passed a man in the hallway,
this dutch man I’d seen around.
He said to me,
“hey! Man! You’re on fire!”
I stared back at him, confused.
“no, really?”
“yes, yes! Look at your legs!”
And true enough,
I looked down at my pants
and they were on fire,
the flames licking at my knees.
“jesus,” I said, jogging to the shower,
“I didn’t see that one coming.”
A POEM - WE SAT AROUND DOING NOTHING AND MAKING RANDOM THREATS
WE SAT AROUND DOING NOTHING AND MAKING RANDOM THREATS
“I’ll outdrink you,” he said to me,
a mean look in his eyes.
“so?”
“well, I will.”
“whatever.”
“no, I WILL outdrink you!” he shouted,
mad now.
I swallowed a big pull of whiskey
and yelled back,
“I’ll drink your fuckin’ face!”
“I’ll outdrink you,” he said to me,
a mean look in his eyes.
“so?”
“well, I will.”
“whatever.”
“no, I WILL outdrink you!” he shouted,
mad now.
I swallowed a big pull of whiskey
and yelled back,
“I’ll drink your fuckin’ face!”
Friday, April 18, 2008
A POEM - IT WASN'T EASY
IT WASN’T EASY
Each morning I’d wake up,
Let the dog out to pee,
Make some toast and coffee,
Maybe slice up an orange.
Then I’d bring my dishes to the sink
Turn on the water to wash them and shout,
“GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKIN’ PIECE OF SHIT!!”
The water would come out in a small spurt,
Then immediately the pressure would die off,
And after a minute there would just be a trickle.
So with soapy hands I’d spin the knobs again,
Opening the valves further.
This would happen again
Until somewhere down in the depths of the pump,
The pressure decided to wake its ass up and turn on,
And then water would just spray out of the faucet,
Splashing off the dishes and onto me.
“OH!! YOU FUCKIN’ MOTHERFUCKER!!”
By the time the pressure had evened out,
The hot water would have warmed up to scalding,
And soon it’d burn my hands to touch it.
“OW!! GODDAMN IT!! WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Afterwards, sitting on the sofa,
My shirt soaked and my hands burnt, I’d grumble,
“why does everything have to be so fuckin’ hard?”
Each morning I’d wake up,
Let the dog out to pee,
Make some toast and coffee,
Maybe slice up an orange.
Then I’d bring my dishes to the sink
Turn on the water to wash them and shout,
“GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKIN’ PIECE OF SHIT!!”
The water would come out in a small spurt,
Then immediately the pressure would die off,
And after a minute there would just be a trickle.
So with soapy hands I’d spin the knobs again,
Opening the valves further.
This would happen again
Until somewhere down in the depths of the pump,
The pressure decided to wake its ass up and turn on,
And then water would just spray out of the faucet,
Splashing off the dishes and onto me.
“OH!! YOU FUCKIN’ MOTHERFUCKER!!”
By the time the pressure had evened out,
The hot water would have warmed up to scalding,
And soon it’d burn my hands to touch it.
“OW!! GODDAMN IT!! WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Afterwards, sitting on the sofa,
My shirt soaked and my hands burnt, I’d grumble,
“why does everything have to be so fuckin’ hard?”
A POEM - A CALL FROM SEBBE
A CALL FROM SEBBE
He called me up late one night,
and I was damn glad to hear from him.
“hey!” he shouted. “what’s up, MANNN?”
“ah, nothin’. I’m in western Australia.
Where are you these days?”
“I’m in Brisbane. Two more weeks to get to,
CANNNNS! I’m just drinking Jaeger nowadays.
Jaeger all the time,
but now I can’t afford the Red Bull,
so I just drink Jaeger!!”
“oh, nice-“
“how’d you get out there, to WESTern Australia?”
“I hitch hiked. Spent ten dollars on transportation!”
“oh! I spent ten dollars at Subway for dinner!”
We both laughed.
“so, what are you doing there, in WESTern Australia?”
“I’m house sitting. It’s boring as hell,
but I’ve got some wine to drink, so it’s okay.”
“oh! Okay, okay!”
“hey, did Zandra get the job as a lab rat?”
“no, no! She used some face cream that had,
I don’t know. Had something in it...”
“ah, those fuckers. They didn’t like her face cream?!
Ho ho! They didn’t like my sleeping pills, either.
Ha! Those fuckers!”
“yes, those fuckers!”
“so, you’ll be in Cairns in a few weeks?”
“yes, yes! Will you join me on the Jaeger train?”
“I don’t know, man. If I don’t get work here,
within a week, I’m goin’ to Perth.
If I don’t get work there,
then I’m going to start making my way east again.”
“okay, okay, so I’ll see you in CANNNS?”
“ah, you fucker. I hope so. I need work so bad,
but, fuck! I’d much rather meet up with you
and drink Jaeger all day and night.”
“ah, ha ha. I know, I know. Okay, well...”
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”
“yes. I’ll see you then?”
“see you then. Stay crazy!”
“you too, MANNN!”
“see you later, Sebbe.”
“ahhhh hahahaha. Bye!”
He called me up late one night,
and I was damn glad to hear from him.
“hey!” he shouted. “what’s up, MANNN?”
“ah, nothin’. I’m in western Australia.
Where are you these days?”
“I’m in Brisbane. Two more weeks to get to,
CANNNNS! I’m just drinking Jaeger nowadays.
Jaeger all the time,
but now I can’t afford the Red Bull,
so I just drink Jaeger!!”
“oh, nice-“
“how’d you get out there, to WESTern Australia?”
“I hitch hiked. Spent ten dollars on transportation!”
“oh! I spent ten dollars at Subway for dinner!”
We both laughed.
“so, what are you doing there, in WESTern Australia?”
“I’m house sitting. It’s boring as hell,
but I’ve got some wine to drink, so it’s okay.”
“oh! Okay, okay!”
“hey, did Zandra get the job as a lab rat?”
“no, no! She used some face cream that had,
I don’t know. Had something in it...”
“ah, those fuckers. They didn’t like her face cream?!
Ho ho! They didn’t like my sleeping pills, either.
Ha! Those fuckers!”
“yes, those fuckers!”
“so, you’ll be in Cairns in a few weeks?”
“yes, yes! Will you join me on the Jaeger train?”
“I don’t know, man. If I don’t get work here,
within a week, I’m goin’ to Perth.
If I don’t get work there,
then I’m going to start making my way east again.”
“okay, okay, so I’ll see you in CANNNS?”
“ah, you fucker. I hope so. I need work so bad,
but, fuck! I’d much rather meet up with you
and drink Jaeger all day and night.”
“ah, ha ha. I know, I know. Okay, well...”
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”
“yes. I’ll see you then?”
“see you then. Stay crazy!”
“you too, MANNN!”
“see you later, Sebbe.”
“ahhhh hahahaha. Bye!”
A POEM - ROUTINES OF THE DAMNED
ROUTINES OF THE DOOMED
I’m just so sick of the normal.
So sick of the routine.
What I’ve been doing
Isn’t all that routine,
For people who haven’t been doing it,
But I’m sick of this, too.
I want some excitement.
I want to be out there
On the battlefields,
Taking lives, or saving them-
It doesn’t really matter to me,
In the long, long, long run.
We’re all just coming and going,
Back and forth,
Over and over and over again,
To and from this earth, this world.
So what does it matter to me?
I know we’ll never be here forever,
And we’ll never be gone for good.
I’m just so sick of the normal.
So sick of the routine.
What I’ve been doing
Isn’t all that routine,
For people who haven’t been doing it,
But I’m sick of this, too.
I want some excitement.
I want to be out there
On the battlefields,
Taking lives, or saving them-
It doesn’t really matter to me,
In the long, long, long run.
We’re all just coming and going,
Back and forth,
Over and over and over again,
To and from this earth, this world.
So what does it matter to me?
I know we’ll never be here forever,
And we’ll never be gone for good.
A POEM - DOWN TIMES
DOWN TIMES
There were so many let-downs,
So many disappointments along the way.
You wanted to collect them all,
Harvest them, even.
Sell them like novelty gifts
To the people out there
who didn’t know
What sadness really was.
There were so many let-downs,
So many disappointments along the way.
You wanted to collect them all,
Harvest them, even.
Sell them like novelty gifts
To the people out there
who didn’t know
What sadness really was.
A POEM - THE HEAVEN THAT BECAME A HELL
THE HEAVEN THAT BECAME A HELL
There was a red brick patio.
It stretched out into a lawn,
And below was this splendid view of the vineyards
Which surrounded the house on three sides.
Rose bushes grew out of large wooden pots,
Pink and yellow and red.
That’s where I’d sit each evening,
Watching the sun fall behind a distant sheep field.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, I had a bottle.
Other times I had a box.
I’d look around and sniff the pure air,
Listen to the chirps of the birds.
Everything was perfectly peaceful,
And I considered that place to be a heaven.
The days went by.
And so did the nights.
And soon enough I got tired of that place.
I got bored of that heaven,
And when you get bored of heaven
It soon becomes hell.
I began to count down the days.
I began to make plans to move on,
To get outta there.
“oh, what the hell will I do about this?”
I kept asking myself.
“will I keep rushing around this world forever,
east and west, north and south?
Will nothing stop me but death?”
I took another hit from the red,
And supposed that it was true.
There was a red brick patio.
It stretched out into a lawn,
And below was this splendid view of the vineyards
Which surrounded the house on three sides.
Rose bushes grew out of large wooden pots,
Pink and yellow and red.
That’s where I’d sit each evening,
Watching the sun fall behind a distant sheep field.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, I had a bottle.
Other times I had a box.
I’d look around and sniff the pure air,
Listen to the chirps of the birds.
Everything was perfectly peaceful,
And I considered that place to be a heaven.
The days went by.
And so did the nights.
And soon enough I got tired of that place.
I got bored of that heaven,
And when you get bored of heaven
It soon becomes hell.
I began to count down the days.
I began to make plans to move on,
To get outta there.
“oh, what the hell will I do about this?”
I kept asking myself.
“will I keep rushing around this world forever,
east and west, north and south?
Will nothing stop me but death?”
I took another hit from the red,
And supposed that it was true.
A POEM - THE FIRST QUESTION OF THE DAY
THE FIRST QUESTION OF THE DAY
It was the morning
And I’d already eaten breakfast.
I went outside to twist a few knobs,
On the irrigation hoses,
As I was instructed to do by the owners.
While sneaking carefully
through the dew-wet bushes
on one of the garden terraces,
the wine cellar man saw me and said,
“do you have a problem?”
I stopped for a moment,
considering the question.
He’d said it like he’d asked for a pencil,
Like he hoped I would.
“what kinda problem do you mean?
I’m sure I’ve got one somewhere in here,”
I said, reaching into my pockets.
He stood there, eyeing me suspiciously,
Maybe wondering why
I was creeping around in the garden like that.
“why,” I asked him.
“do I look like I have a problem?”
He gave it a moment.
“you look like you might.”
I glimpsed down at myself.
Nothing seemed too out of order.
But there it was.
And there I was,
having that look about me,
not for the first time.
I had that look
Like a carpenter would have a hammer.
I shrugged and moved along,
Spun the knobs on the hoses.
It was the beginning of just another day
In the strange thing that was my life.
It was the morning
And I’d already eaten breakfast.
I went outside to twist a few knobs,
On the irrigation hoses,
As I was instructed to do by the owners.
While sneaking carefully
through the dew-wet bushes
on one of the garden terraces,
the wine cellar man saw me and said,
“do you have a problem?”
I stopped for a moment,
considering the question.
He’d said it like he’d asked for a pencil,
Like he hoped I would.
“what kinda problem do you mean?
I’m sure I’ve got one somewhere in here,”
I said, reaching into my pockets.
He stood there, eyeing me suspiciously,
Maybe wondering why
I was creeping around in the garden like that.
“why,” I asked him.
“do I look like I have a problem?”
He gave it a moment.
“you look like you might.”
I glimpsed down at myself.
Nothing seemed too out of order.
But there it was.
And there I was,
having that look about me,
not for the first time.
I had that look
Like a carpenter would have a hammer.
I shrugged and moved along,
Spun the knobs on the hoses.
It was the beginning of just another day
In the strange thing that was my life.
A POEM - THOUGHTS ON STRING CHEESE
THOUGHTS ON STRING CHEESE
Each night I’d sit down at the kitchen table,
Maybe around nine or ten o’clock.
I’d start in with the wine
And start in with the words.
After a little while I’d get hungry,
And root around in the fridge or pantry
For something to eat.
One night I came out with some rice crackers,
A bottle of some burrito simmering sauce
And a big ball of mozzarella cheese.
I made little sandwiches,
Popped them into my mouth
And washed them down with gulps of rotgut.
After I’d eaten a few,
I stared at the mozzarella and wondered,
“what the hell ever happened to string cheese?”
I gave it some thought
And figured it was probably still being sold.
I probably just hadn’t noticed it
In the past twenty years.
“but,” I wondered, “what spurred the idea?”
I was very bored at that time,
And I’d mentally dissect the stupidest things.
“was it accidental? Were the strings of cheese,
Like, actually byproducts of balls like this?”
I looked over at Monty,
This Jack Russell Terrier
Who mainly slept all day,
Taking a couple shits here and there.
She was snoozing, her ears twitching gently.
“HEY!” I shouted, startling her,
Causing her to pin her ears back and worry.
“you’ve never considered that, have you?”
I asked her, speaking lower and slower.
“you’ve never really thought about
who invented string cheese, have you, Monty?”
She stared at me for a few moments,
then ducked her head back onto her paws.
“oh!” I shouted, closing my eyes,
putting my head back and roaring,
“what the hell do you know, anyway?”
Each night I’d sit down at the kitchen table,
Maybe around nine or ten o’clock.
I’d start in with the wine
And start in with the words.
After a little while I’d get hungry,
And root around in the fridge or pantry
For something to eat.
One night I came out with some rice crackers,
A bottle of some burrito simmering sauce
And a big ball of mozzarella cheese.
I made little sandwiches,
Popped them into my mouth
And washed them down with gulps of rotgut.
After I’d eaten a few,
I stared at the mozzarella and wondered,
“what the hell ever happened to string cheese?”
I gave it some thought
And figured it was probably still being sold.
I probably just hadn’t noticed it
In the past twenty years.
“but,” I wondered, “what spurred the idea?”
I was very bored at that time,
And I’d mentally dissect the stupidest things.
“was it accidental? Were the strings of cheese,
Like, actually byproducts of balls like this?”
I looked over at Monty,
This Jack Russell Terrier
Who mainly slept all day,
Taking a couple shits here and there.
She was snoozing, her ears twitching gently.
“HEY!” I shouted, startling her,
Causing her to pin her ears back and worry.
“you’ve never considered that, have you?”
I asked her, speaking lower and slower.
“you’ve never really thought about
who invented string cheese, have you, Monty?”
She stared at me for a few moments,
then ducked her head back onto her paws.
“oh!” I shouted, closing my eyes,
putting my head back and roaring,
“what the hell do you know, anyway?”
A POEM - EVEN A LITTLE COULD BE TOO MUCH
EVEN A LITTLE COULD BE TOO MUCH
The waiter came out with my vegetable casserole,
Put it down in front of me.
I’d just walked nearly two miles
In the rain from the train station,
With a huge pack on my back.
I’d only eaten a few bites of bread
Since the day before.
“oh, boy. This looks good,” I said,
Examining the dish.
“yess. It’s very goodd,” he said,
Staring dumbly at me for a moment, then leaving.
I took a few bites and it was very good.
There were all sorts of vegetables,
In some delicious sauce,
And a sprinkling of cheese melted on top.
But it needed more cheese.
“excuse me,” I said, waving down the waiter.
“yess? Iss everything, all rightt?”
“yeah, yeah. It’s great. Very good,
but could I get some more cheese?”
“OH!” he shouted, completely disgusted,
Or like a bee had snuck into his pants,
And stung him on the ass.
“OH! More cheese?! I...I...let me seee!”
He stormed off, shaking his head,
muttering, “more cheese? MORE cheese?”
In a minute he came back with another pinch,
sprinkled it on the casserole.
After he’d done that he looked down at me,
still shaking his head.
“more cheese?” he scoffed, before stomping away.
“more cheese?! Oh!”
I turned and saw a man at another table,
A mysterious little smirk on his face.
“hmm,” I thought, starting back in on the casserole.
“I better watch my ass here.”
The waiter came out with my vegetable casserole,
Put it down in front of me.
I’d just walked nearly two miles
In the rain from the train station,
With a huge pack on my back.
I’d only eaten a few bites of bread
Since the day before.
“oh, boy. This looks good,” I said,
Examining the dish.
“yess. It’s very goodd,” he said,
Staring dumbly at me for a moment, then leaving.
I took a few bites and it was very good.
There were all sorts of vegetables,
In some delicious sauce,
And a sprinkling of cheese melted on top.
But it needed more cheese.
“excuse me,” I said, waving down the waiter.
“yess? Iss everything, all rightt?”
“yeah, yeah. It’s great. Very good,
but could I get some more cheese?”
“OH!” he shouted, completely disgusted,
Or like a bee had snuck into his pants,
And stung him on the ass.
“OH! More cheese?! I...I...let me seee!”
He stormed off, shaking his head,
muttering, “more cheese? MORE cheese?”
In a minute he came back with another pinch,
sprinkled it on the casserole.
After he’d done that he looked down at me,
still shaking his head.
“more cheese?” he scoffed, before stomping away.
“more cheese?! Oh!”
I turned and saw a man at another table,
A mysterious little smirk on his face.
“hmm,” I thought, starting back in on the casserole.
“I better watch my ass here.”
A POEM - HOBBIES OF THE DAMNED
HOBBIES OF THE DAMNED
When you spent a lot of time alone,
like I did,
you found little tricks to keep busy.
Some people picked up hobbies,
reading books or smoking cigarettes or drinking wine.
I did all of those, too,
but not exclusively.
One of my favorite hobbies,
Especially when house-sitting in Western Australia,
was to take long pisses on the lawn,
waving my dick around wildly,
so that it mimicked the sound
of the sprinkler system,
which used to water the big playing field
at my high school.
TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT!
When you spent a lot of time alone,
like I did,
you found little tricks to keep busy.
Some people picked up hobbies,
reading books or smoking cigarettes or drinking wine.
I did all of those, too,
but not exclusively.
One of my favorite hobbies,
Especially when house-sitting in Western Australia,
was to take long pisses on the lawn,
waving my dick around wildly,
so that it mimicked the sound
of the sprinkler system,
which used to water the big playing field
at my high school.
TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT...TSHHT-TSHHT!
A POEM - I SURE SHOWED HIM
I SURE SHOWED HIM
There was this time in my early twenties,
I was working for this shitty painting company
Who sold franchises to college students.
I’d done all right, made some good money,
But that’s only because
I worked my fuckin’ ass off.
Most other kids ended up
ten or fifteen grand in the hole.
But since I was a ‘solid performer,’
I got hired on as a General Manager.
I’d start in the fall and begin recruiting my men.
“whatever,” I said.
“I just wanna finish this season strong,
Have some money in the bank.”
“yeah, yeah,” the VP nodded, that snake bastard.
I should have known he had his own plans.
The end of the summer came
And there was one weekend left.
They called it the manager’s weekend.
All the franchisees went up to Montreal
And got drunk and blew the little money they’d made,
If they’d made any at all.
Most guys weren’t informed of their outstanding bills
Until they’d gone on this trip and posed for pictures.
Well, I said to hell with that.
I’d calculated that if I went,
I’d spent a couple hundred bucks on booze,
And another couple hundred on bullshit.
Whereas if I stayed,
I could spray out my last house myself,
Save maybe five hundred dollars on labor costs,
And be nearly a grand richer.
“no, no, no,” said the VP.
“you have to go.
I mean, I can’t force you to do anything,
You’re not a full time employee until next week,
But if you didn’t go, it would...not be good.”
We argued back and forth a bit,
Him telling me how important it was for me to go,
How important it was
for me to make myself known and respected,
As an up and coming General Manager,
Especially since some of the rookie managers
Would be under my guidance in the following year.
Finally I said,
“to hell with it! I’ll go. But you’ll see.
I’m sure we’ll both regret it!”
Well, I went up there to Montreal,
To ‘make myself known and respected’
By the younger franchisees.
But what really happened was this:
A good friend of mine came along,
(he was another franchisee)
And on the first night he dared me
To drink a 144 ounce pitcher of beer at the Peels Pub.
Midway through I ran across the dance floor,
Puking on franchisees and strangers alike.
Later that night I lost my wallet,
After spending three hundred dollars
On who the hell knew what.
By the second night I’d made a name for myself,
That was for damn sure.
My boss called me in during a few quiet moments,
To remind me that guys were looking up to me.
“oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s cool. I know.”
Later on that night I got pissed off.
Some chick had stolen my cowboy hat,
So I smashed my phone on the sidewalk
And kicked it into the street,
Cheering at cars that ran it over.
A few of the younger franchisees looked on,
Wondering how I’d gotten a position
as a General Mananger
At last I went back to the hotel,
Dragged my friend out of bed
And commenced a forty minute wrestling bout,
Overturning furniture,
Smashing picture frames
And putting big holes in the walls.
On the long drive home I did some more calculations.
By going up there to Montreal for two nights
I’d come out eight or nine hundred dollars down,
From where I would have been if I stayed home,
And sprayed out my last house.
Never mind the name I’d made for myself.
The following week
when I had to report in to work as a General Manager,
I said to my boss, “I told you.”
There was this time in my early twenties,
I was working for this shitty painting company
Who sold franchises to college students.
I’d done all right, made some good money,
But that’s only because
I worked my fuckin’ ass off.
Most other kids ended up
ten or fifteen grand in the hole.
But since I was a ‘solid performer,’
I got hired on as a General Manager.
I’d start in the fall and begin recruiting my men.
“whatever,” I said.
“I just wanna finish this season strong,
Have some money in the bank.”
“yeah, yeah,” the VP nodded, that snake bastard.
I should have known he had his own plans.
The end of the summer came
And there was one weekend left.
They called it the manager’s weekend.
All the franchisees went up to Montreal
And got drunk and blew the little money they’d made,
If they’d made any at all.
Most guys weren’t informed of their outstanding bills
Until they’d gone on this trip and posed for pictures.
Well, I said to hell with that.
I’d calculated that if I went,
I’d spent a couple hundred bucks on booze,
And another couple hundred on bullshit.
Whereas if I stayed,
I could spray out my last house myself,
Save maybe five hundred dollars on labor costs,
And be nearly a grand richer.
“no, no, no,” said the VP.
“you have to go.
I mean, I can’t force you to do anything,
You’re not a full time employee until next week,
But if you didn’t go, it would...not be good.”
We argued back and forth a bit,
Him telling me how important it was for me to go,
How important it was
for me to make myself known and respected,
As an up and coming General Manager,
Especially since some of the rookie managers
Would be under my guidance in the following year.
Finally I said,
“to hell with it! I’ll go. But you’ll see.
I’m sure we’ll both regret it!”
Well, I went up there to Montreal,
To ‘make myself known and respected’
By the younger franchisees.
But what really happened was this:
A good friend of mine came along,
(he was another franchisee)
And on the first night he dared me
To drink a 144 ounce pitcher of beer at the Peels Pub.
Midway through I ran across the dance floor,
Puking on franchisees and strangers alike.
Later that night I lost my wallet,
After spending three hundred dollars
On who the hell knew what.
By the second night I’d made a name for myself,
That was for damn sure.
My boss called me in during a few quiet moments,
To remind me that guys were looking up to me.
“oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s cool. I know.”
Later on that night I got pissed off.
Some chick had stolen my cowboy hat,
So I smashed my phone on the sidewalk
And kicked it into the street,
Cheering at cars that ran it over.
A few of the younger franchisees looked on,
Wondering how I’d gotten a position
as a General Mananger
At last I went back to the hotel,
Dragged my friend out of bed
And commenced a forty minute wrestling bout,
Overturning furniture,
Smashing picture frames
And putting big holes in the walls.
On the long drive home I did some more calculations.
By going up there to Montreal for two nights
I’d come out eight or nine hundred dollars down,
From where I would have been if I stayed home,
And sprayed out my last house.
Never mind the name I’d made for myself.
The following week
when I had to report in to work as a General Manager,
I said to my boss, “I told you.”
A POEM - THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT
THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT
There had been this fierce wind blowing,
All night long.
Whipping through the trees,
Rattling the doors,
Making the house go, “creek, creek!”
The dog was whimpering,
And the lights flickered.
Then, all of the sudden,
it stopped.
I looked around, out the windows.
No bushes swayed back and forth,
No sound of air whooshed through the leaves.
I looked up at the clock on the wall.
It was exactly midnight, to the second.
“oh, shit,” I gasped. “this might get weird.”
There had been this fierce wind blowing,
All night long.
Whipping through the trees,
Rattling the doors,
Making the house go, “creek, creek!”
The dog was whimpering,
And the lights flickered.
Then, all of the sudden,
it stopped.
I looked around, out the windows.
No bushes swayed back and forth,
No sound of air whooshed through the leaves.
I looked up at the clock on the wall.
It was exactly midnight, to the second.
“oh, shit,” I gasped. “this might get weird.”
A POEM - CONCERNING MY WRITING
"I decided early on,
With the writing,
To just put it all on the line.
Because whatever I had,
That could be lost,
I didn’t care about losing."
With the writing,
To just put it all on the line.
Because whatever I had,
That could be lost,
I didn’t care about losing."
A POEM - WITH THE IRON BLANKET DRAPED OVER MY BODY
WITH THE IRON BLANKET DRAPED OVER MY BODY
I filled up the bath tub,
Tip toed in.
With baths,
The water was always too hot or too cold.
There was no just right.
As I settled in,
Letting my body steep,
I figured I hadn’t taken a bath
In seven years.
I let the scalding water
Suffocate my tired body.
I’d begun exercising again,
Push-ups and sit-ups and so on,
But the tiredness was from more than that.
I was tired from everything,
Tired of it all.
Not only from travel,
Not from endless wild nights,
Not from endless nothing nights,
But everything.
Tired of breathing,
Tired of eating.
Sleeping just made me yawn.
So there in the bath tub,
Exhaustion hitting hard,
Like an iron blanket being draped over me.
I leaned back my head,
Stretched out my legs,
And said, “well, I’m fuckin’ beat.”
I filled up the bath tub,
Tip toed in.
With baths,
The water was always too hot or too cold.
There was no just right.
As I settled in,
Letting my body steep,
I figured I hadn’t taken a bath
In seven years.
I let the scalding water
Suffocate my tired body.
I’d begun exercising again,
Push-ups and sit-ups and so on,
But the tiredness was from more than that.
I was tired from everything,
Tired of it all.
Not only from travel,
Not from endless wild nights,
Not from endless nothing nights,
But everything.
Tired of breathing,
Tired of eating.
Sleeping just made me yawn.
So there in the bath tub,
Exhaustion hitting hard,
Like an iron blanket being draped over me.
I leaned back my head,
Stretched out my legs,
And said, “well, I’m fuckin’ beat.”
A POEM - THE HOUSE SITTER
THE HOUSESITTER
The phone rang and I picked it up.
As soon as I did I thought,
“oh, you fuckin idiot! I told you not to!”
But I said, “hello?”
“hello,” said a mature voice,
Far out there in another world.
A world of business and money,
Of meetings and important things.
Very far away from my world.
“is Jenny there?”
“uh, no!” I shouted, too loud.
“oh. She already left?”
I did some thinking,
Made some deductions.
If this person knew she was going,
He must know it all.
He must know that Jenny,
One of the owners of the house I was sitting,
Was taking a trip up to Bali with Craig,
The other owner of the house,
To elope and have a discreet wedding
amongst close friends..
“uh, yeah. She left two days ago- no! yesterday!”
“do you know how long she was planning on being gone?”
“uh, like two weeks- no! a week.
Hmm, I don’t really know. I’m not really clued in.”
I thought about how bad that sounded.
I was this house sitter guy who didn’t really know
Who it was I was house sitting for,
When they’d left,
Or how long they’d be away.
I was most likely a burglar,
For all this poor bastard knew.
“oh, hmm. She told me she’d give me a call
before she left.”
I waited a few moments, hoping he’d continue,
But he didn’t.
“uh...yeah...well, you know, women.
They say they’ll do things,
Then they get caught up with picking out shoes,
Dresses, that kinda stuff. All that bullsh-tuff...”
“shtuff?” I thought to myself. “bull shtuff?”
“you must be the person taking care of the house?”
I thought about it for a moment.
I’d been tearing through a box of cheap wine,
And my brain was feeling the rotgut repercussions.
“uh, yeah. I am. I’m taking care of...
Monty...too. The dog.”
I could feel the conversation heading south.
It occurred to me I had no idea who this man was,
He had no idea who I was,
And nothing important was getting exchanged.
I was about to hang up,
Blame it on a bad connection,
But then I remembered I was speaking on a land line.
“all right, well, can you take a message?” he asked.
I looked around for a pen and paper.
Then a pen or paper.
A pen to write a message on my arm,
Paper to scratch a note into with my fingernail.
Neither presented themselves.
“um...”
“just tell her this,” he said.
“okay.”
I closed my eyes,
as though the memory system worked
better with closed eyes.
“tell her to call her father when she gets back.”
“oh, jesus!” I blurted,
Trying to recover with a fake cough.
“excuse me?”
“uh, what was that? call her dad? When she gets back?”
If you’re not sure about something,
always answer a question with a question.
“yes,” he said, very slowly. “you got that?”
I couldn’t help it.
I began to laugh.
The wine, the conversation, no!
It was the fact that some schmuck like me,
Some fool who’d lucked his way
into a house-sitting gig,
In the middle of paradise,
Knew that this Jen chick was up in Bali,
About to get married in a few days,
While her poor father,
The man who’d probably worked his ass off
his whole life to put bread on the table,
was being kept completely in the dark,
on what was supposed to be the brightest day
of his daughter’s life.
“um,” I gasped. “yeah. Yeah, I got that. yeah,
I’ll leave a message. Have her call you,
When she gets back.”
We hung up and I sighed,
vowing to never again answer the phone
in a house I was taking care of,
especially when the owners were in the middle
of some grand eloping scheme.
It just wasn’t worthwhile.
The phone rang and I picked it up.
As soon as I did I thought,
“oh, you fuckin idiot! I told you not to!”
But I said, “hello?”
“hello,” said a mature voice,
Far out there in another world.
A world of business and money,
Of meetings and important things.
Very far away from my world.
“is Jenny there?”
“uh, no!” I shouted, too loud.
“oh. She already left?”
I did some thinking,
Made some deductions.
If this person knew she was going,
He must know it all.
He must know that Jenny,
One of the owners of the house I was sitting,
Was taking a trip up to Bali with Craig,
The other owner of the house,
To elope and have a discreet wedding
amongst close friends..
“uh, yeah. She left two days ago- no! yesterday!”
“do you know how long she was planning on being gone?”
“uh, like two weeks- no! a week.
Hmm, I don’t really know. I’m not really clued in.”
I thought about how bad that sounded.
I was this house sitter guy who didn’t really know
Who it was I was house sitting for,
When they’d left,
Or how long they’d be away.
I was most likely a burglar,
For all this poor bastard knew.
“oh, hmm. She told me she’d give me a call
before she left.”
I waited a few moments, hoping he’d continue,
But he didn’t.
“uh...yeah...well, you know, women.
They say they’ll do things,
Then they get caught up with picking out shoes,
Dresses, that kinda stuff. All that bullsh-tuff...”
“shtuff?” I thought to myself. “bull shtuff?”
“you must be the person taking care of the house?”
I thought about it for a moment.
I’d been tearing through a box of cheap wine,
And my brain was feeling the rotgut repercussions.
“uh, yeah. I am. I’m taking care of...
Monty...too. The dog.”
I could feel the conversation heading south.
It occurred to me I had no idea who this man was,
He had no idea who I was,
And nothing important was getting exchanged.
I was about to hang up,
Blame it on a bad connection,
But then I remembered I was speaking on a land line.
“all right, well, can you take a message?” he asked.
I looked around for a pen and paper.
Then a pen or paper.
A pen to write a message on my arm,
Paper to scratch a note into with my fingernail.
Neither presented themselves.
“um...”
“just tell her this,” he said.
“okay.”
I closed my eyes,
as though the memory system worked
better with closed eyes.
“tell her to call her father when she gets back.”
“oh, jesus!” I blurted,
Trying to recover with a fake cough.
“excuse me?”
“uh, what was that? call her dad? When she gets back?”
If you’re not sure about something,
always answer a question with a question.
“yes,” he said, very slowly. “you got that?”
I couldn’t help it.
I began to laugh.
The wine, the conversation, no!
It was the fact that some schmuck like me,
Some fool who’d lucked his way
into a house-sitting gig,
In the middle of paradise,
Knew that this Jen chick was up in Bali,
About to get married in a few days,
While her poor father,
The man who’d probably worked his ass off
his whole life to put bread on the table,
was being kept completely in the dark,
on what was supposed to be the brightest day
of his daughter’s life.
“um,” I gasped. “yeah. Yeah, I got that. yeah,
I’ll leave a message. Have her call you,
When she gets back.”
We hung up and I sighed,
vowing to never again answer the phone
in a house I was taking care of,
especially when the owners were in the middle
of some grand eloping scheme.
It just wasn’t worthwhile.
A POEM - THE PEARLS WON'T FILL MY STOMACH
THE PEARLS WOULDN’T FILL MY STOMACH
I was sitting at their kitchen table.
They were leaving for their wedding,
A two week eloping jaunt up to Bali.
I would be watching over their house,
Feeding their dog, that sort of thing.
Before leaving the man, an old sea captain,
Brought out his soon to be wife’s jewelry box.
He opened it up and held this pearl necklace
In front of my face.
“hold this.”
I reached out and held it.
“oh, that’s heavy.”
“that’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,”
He said.
I nearly puked on their kitchen table.
I had maybe fifty bucks in my bank account,
Fifty in my wallet,
And a few bucks in change in pants’ pockets.
“oh, and look at this one,” he said,
Opening another little case.
“black pearls?”
“yeah, these are nice, huh?”
I wondered what the hell was up,
Why he was showing those to me.
After exhibiting a few more,
He shut the jewelry box and said,
“these are coming with us.”
I sat their at the table,
Nodding and waiting for them to leave.
I didn’t give a damn about their jewelry.
I wouldn’t have stolen it, anyway.
I was just interested as to what was in the pantry,
Because I was very hungry.
And then maybe I’d raid the liquor cabinet.
That was about it.
I was sitting at their kitchen table.
They were leaving for their wedding,
A two week eloping jaunt up to Bali.
I would be watching over their house,
Feeding their dog, that sort of thing.
Before leaving the man, an old sea captain,
Brought out his soon to be wife’s jewelry box.
He opened it up and held this pearl necklace
In front of my face.
“hold this.”
I reached out and held it.
“oh, that’s heavy.”
“that’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,”
He said.
I nearly puked on their kitchen table.
I had maybe fifty bucks in my bank account,
Fifty in my wallet,
And a few bucks in change in pants’ pockets.
“oh, and look at this one,” he said,
Opening another little case.
“black pearls?”
“yeah, these are nice, huh?”
I wondered what the hell was up,
Why he was showing those to me.
After exhibiting a few more,
He shut the jewelry box and said,
“these are coming with us.”
I sat their at the table,
Nodding and waiting for them to leave.
I didn’t give a damn about their jewelry.
I wouldn’t have stolen it, anyway.
I was just interested as to what was in the pantry,
Because I was very hungry.
And then maybe I’d raid the liquor cabinet.
That was about it.
A POEM - HOUSE SITTING FOR MILLIONARES
HOUSE – SITTING FOR MILLIONARES
I shut the fridge door
And walked back to the sofa, laughing.
Earlier in the day
I’d been lying on the floor
Of the surf shed I’d been living in.
And I’d been damn happy there.
But now in the evening
I was making ice cream sundaes
With strawberries and vodka and Irish cream,
lounging around a beautiful house
In a silk robe.
There were vineyards all around me,
And Monty the dog was lying in her bed,
Surrounded by pink fleece blankets,
Getting ready for her steak dinner.
“ha!” I shouted. “what a joke it all is!”
I shut the fridge door
And walked back to the sofa, laughing.
Earlier in the day
I’d been lying on the floor
Of the surf shed I’d been living in.
And I’d been damn happy there.
But now in the evening
I was making ice cream sundaes
With strawberries and vodka and Irish cream,
lounging around a beautiful house
In a silk robe.
There were vineyards all around me,
And Monty the dog was lying in her bed,
Surrounded by pink fleece blankets,
Getting ready for her steak dinner.
“ha!” I shouted. “what a joke it all is!”
A POEM - THE BEST PLACE YET
THE BEST PLACE YET
I spent a week there,
On the floor of the surf shed.
I wrote nearly seventy pages,
Finished my book,
And spent barely a dime,
As I’d done some work for
Food and board.
Packing up my things,
For a short move up north,
I looked around the place,
Always gauging my stay,
Based on how much I’d written.
“now,” I said out loud,
In a farewell sorta way,
“this has been the best place yet!”
I spent a week there,
On the floor of the surf shed.
I wrote nearly seventy pages,
Finished my book,
And spent barely a dime,
As I’d done some work for
Food and board.
Packing up my things,
For a short move up north,
I looked around the place,
Always gauging my stay,
Based on how much I’d written.
“now,” I said out loud,
In a farewell sorta way,
“this has been the best place yet!”
A POEM - A SUCKY LITTLE TOWN CALLED BUNBURY
A SUCKY LITTLE TOWN CALLED BUNBURY
There wasn’t much going on in the bar.
A few death metal bands setting up,
Playing a few songs,
and then taking down their equipment.
It wasn’t really my scene,
Circle pits and ear-bleeding music.
So I went outside and wandered down the street,
In search of some late night food.
I was always hungry in those days.
I walked along the sidewalks of Bunbury,
Passing groups of young, Aussie punk scenesters.
“hey, a fuckin’ communist!” one girl shouted,
As she passed me by.
I wondered what the hell,
Then remembered I was wearing my Vietnam shirt,
Red with a bright yellow star in the middle.
Some people didn’t get out that much.
I walked further and a few guys yelled something at me.
I nodded and raised my eyebrows and said, “sure.”
A few feet away one turned and said,
“oi, ya fuck! Ya don’t have to be antisocial!”
I ducked into a Chinese place,
Ordered a massive take away container of fried rice,
Drowning it in soy sauce
and eating it along the walk back.
Back in the bar, the bands were still at it,
And kids walked around booted each other in the ass,
Or pretended to punch each other in the face.
I looked around, chewed some more rice and thought,
“well, this is Bunbury. Hmm. This place really sucks.”
There wasn’t much going on in the bar.
A few death metal bands setting up,
Playing a few songs,
and then taking down their equipment.
It wasn’t really my scene,
Circle pits and ear-bleeding music.
So I went outside and wandered down the street,
In search of some late night food.
I was always hungry in those days.
I walked along the sidewalks of Bunbury,
Passing groups of young, Aussie punk scenesters.
“hey, a fuckin’ communist!” one girl shouted,
As she passed me by.
I wondered what the hell,
Then remembered I was wearing my Vietnam shirt,
Red with a bright yellow star in the middle.
Some people didn’t get out that much.
I walked further and a few guys yelled something at me.
I nodded and raised my eyebrows and said, “sure.”
A few feet away one turned and said,
“oi, ya fuck! Ya don’t have to be antisocial!”
I ducked into a Chinese place,
Ordered a massive take away container of fried rice,
Drowning it in soy sauce
and eating it along the walk back.
Back in the bar, the bands were still at it,
And kids walked around booted each other in the ass,
Or pretended to punch each other in the face.
I looked around, chewed some more rice and thought,
“well, this is Bunbury. Hmm. This place really sucks.”
A POEM - HER WORLD OF FRIENDS
HER WORLD OF FRIENDS
We were sitting out on a curb,
Across the street from some club.
Nothin’ else to do,
When you didn’t have money for beers.
Or as in their cases,
Either didn’t drink,
Or weren’t drinking because of the long drive home.
So there we sat,
Watching people walk past,
Duck into alleys to puke or piss,
Then come spinning out again,
Sometimes just falling onto the sidewalks,
And staying there.
We were hoping to see a fight,
Or something of any interest.
Plenty of cute girls were going into the club,
But then there’d be a cover charge,
And a bunch of rules and regulations.
No sandals, no hats, no t shirts, bullshit!
Finally two girls approached us,
One skinnier than the other.
The skinnier one had black hair and braces,
With an otherwise pretty face.
“jesus,” I wondered. “how old are these girls?”
The skinnier girl, Maxine, she asked us,
“oh my god. Have you seen Hayden?”
She looked from one of us to the other,
Down the line.
We all shook her heads.
“well, he’s my ex. And he’s being a total cunt!”
“well, all right then.”
She looked at us incredulously.
“no, he really is. wait-
do you guys even know who I am?”
We all shook our heads again.
“oh my god! You don’t know me from MySpace?
I have like, twenty three thousand friends!”
“well,” I said. “it’s a big world out there.
Lots of people. Even more than there are on MySpace.”
We were sitting out on a curb,
Across the street from some club.
Nothin’ else to do,
When you didn’t have money for beers.
Or as in their cases,
Either didn’t drink,
Or weren’t drinking because of the long drive home.
So there we sat,
Watching people walk past,
Duck into alleys to puke or piss,
Then come spinning out again,
Sometimes just falling onto the sidewalks,
And staying there.
We were hoping to see a fight,
Or something of any interest.
Plenty of cute girls were going into the club,
But then there’d be a cover charge,
And a bunch of rules and regulations.
No sandals, no hats, no t shirts, bullshit!
Finally two girls approached us,
One skinnier than the other.
The skinnier one had black hair and braces,
With an otherwise pretty face.
“jesus,” I wondered. “how old are these girls?”
The skinnier girl, Maxine, she asked us,
“oh my god. Have you seen Hayden?”
She looked from one of us to the other,
Down the line.
We all shook her heads.
“well, he’s my ex. And he’s being a total cunt!”
“well, all right then.”
She looked at us incredulously.
“no, he really is. wait-
do you guys even know who I am?”
We all shook our heads again.
“oh my god! You don’t know me from MySpace?
I have like, twenty three thousand friends!”
“well,” I said. “it’s a big world out there.
Lots of people. Even more than there are on MySpace.”
A POEM - HE USED TO WORK FOR ME
HE USED TO WORK FOR ME
Vinny was this guy
who used to work for me
Back in college
when I ran a franchise painting company.
He was a real meat head,
all the way.
But I liked him
because he was so big and stupid
That he scared the customers
into signing off on the jobs,
and giving me good ratings.
(they’d be deathly afraid that if they didn’t,
Vinny might come back to their house,
and none of them wanted that).
A few years later I ran into him at a bar.
He was there with this decent looking blonde,
Who stood next to him like a dumb animal
Waiting for instruction.
“hey, fuckface,” he said to me.
“still painting houses
and exploiting college kids?”
I liked his sense of humor.
We’d always more or less gotten along.
“naw,” I said. “I gave that up.
What about yourself?
I thought you’d be in jail by now.”
His face became serious.
He frowned his Neanderthal eyebrows
and lowered his voice and said,
“hey, shut the fuck up. I just got out.”
Vinny was this guy
who used to work for me
Back in college
when I ran a franchise painting company.
He was a real meat head,
all the way.
But I liked him
because he was so big and stupid
That he scared the customers
into signing off on the jobs,
and giving me good ratings.
(they’d be deathly afraid that if they didn’t,
Vinny might come back to their house,
and none of them wanted that).
A few years later I ran into him at a bar.
He was there with this decent looking blonde,
Who stood next to him like a dumb animal
Waiting for instruction.
“hey, fuckface,” he said to me.
“still painting houses
and exploiting college kids?”
I liked his sense of humor.
We’d always more or less gotten along.
“naw,” I said. “I gave that up.
What about yourself?
I thought you’d be in jail by now.”
His face became serious.
He frowned his Neanderthal eyebrows
and lowered his voice and said,
“hey, shut the fuck up. I just got out.”
A POEM - SOFT KICKS IN THE STOMACH
SOFT KICKS IN THE STOMACH
I was sitting there on a park bench,
Pissing away the day.
A short, brunette approached me,
Jogging down the path.
She looked damn good,
In these tight shorts and a t shirt.
“hey,” she said, passing by.
I nodded to her and after she’d gone,
I hissed, “jesus CHRIST!”
Ten minutes later,
This tall blonde came up.
She was on roller blades.
“hiya,” she squeaked, fading off.
“oh, fuck!” I growled,
socking one fist into the palm of the other.
I was so lonesome for a girl at the time,
That even the kind words
from beautiful strangers
felt like soft kicks in the stomach.
I was sitting there on a park bench,
Pissing away the day.
A short, brunette approached me,
Jogging down the path.
She looked damn good,
In these tight shorts and a t shirt.
“hey,” she said, passing by.
I nodded to her and after she’d gone,
I hissed, “jesus CHRIST!”
Ten minutes later,
This tall blonde came up.
She was on roller blades.
“hiya,” she squeaked, fading off.
“oh, fuck!” I growled,
socking one fist into the palm of the other.
I was so lonesome for a girl at the time,
That even the kind words
from beautiful strangers
felt like soft kicks in the stomach.
A POEM - ADDICTED TO THE ROAD
ADDICTED TO THE ROAD
My goddamn feet just wouldn’t stop.
They couldn’t stop wandering.
I’d go to one place, look around,
Then want to move onto another.
And since nothing was keeping me,
Not a girl or a job or a lease,
It was too easy not to just take off again.
Boom!
Pack up the bags and hit the road.
Get on a bus or a train,
or hitch hike across a country!
The road was always there,
Stretching out in front of me,
Always an open invitation.
I feared I’d never be able to settle down.
I’d forever be this nomadic scribbler of words,
Tapper of keys, composer of lines.
But how long could I go?
I’d run out of money,
But was living comfortably on credit.
My distaste for debt had diminished,
In the shadow of my distaste for stillness.
I had to be moving.
I was addicted to the road.
I felt most comfortable
Sitting on my pack
On the side of the road
Out in the middle of no where,
Thumb in the air,
Waiting to go somewhere, anywhere.
My goddamn feet just wouldn’t stop.
They couldn’t stop wandering.
I’d go to one place, look around,
Then want to move onto another.
And since nothing was keeping me,
Not a girl or a job or a lease,
It was too easy not to just take off again.
Boom!
Pack up the bags and hit the road.
Get on a bus or a train,
or hitch hike across a country!
The road was always there,
Stretching out in front of me,
Always an open invitation.
I feared I’d never be able to settle down.
I’d forever be this nomadic scribbler of words,
Tapper of keys, composer of lines.
But how long could I go?
I’d run out of money,
But was living comfortably on credit.
My distaste for debt had diminished,
In the shadow of my distaste for stillness.
I had to be moving.
I was addicted to the road.
I felt most comfortable
Sitting on my pack
On the side of the road
Out in the middle of no where,
Thumb in the air,
Waiting to go somewhere, anywhere.
A POEM - LIFE IS A TALE THAT MUST BE TOLD
LIFE IS A TALE THAT MUST BE TOLD
Writing used to be this ritual for me.
I had a routine,
When I was treating it like a full time job.
Wake in the morning,
Eat breakfast, walk the dog,
Get settled at the desk,
check the emails, read the news online,
and finally hit the keys.
But now I don’t have a dog,
I don’t have a desk,
I eat whenever I’m hungry,
When there’s food around.
Get online to check the emails when I can,
And write wherever I am.
On buses or trains,
by the side of the road,
Sitting cross-legged in surf sheds,
In beds or chairs or on the ground.
It doesn’t fucking matter
where or how or when,
it just matters
that the words go to the page.
The words are like prisoners,
released from the penitentiary of my mind.
To form the story that has to be written.
Life is a tale that must be told.
Writing used to be this ritual for me.
I had a routine,
When I was treating it like a full time job.
Wake in the morning,
Eat breakfast, walk the dog,
Get settled at the desk,
check the emails, read the news online,
and finally hit the keys.
But now I don’t have a dog,
I don’t have a desk,
I eat whenever I’m hungry,
When there’s food around.
Get online to check the emails when I can,
And write wherever I am.
On buses or trains,
by the side of the road,
Sitting cross-legged in surf sheds,
In beds or chairs or on the ground.
It doesn’t fucking matter
where or how or when,
it just matters
that the words go to the page.
The words are like prisoners,
released from the penitentiary of my mind.
To form the story that has to be written.
Life is a tale that must be told.
A POEM - THE GREAT IDIOT DRINKER
THE GREAT IDIOT DRINKER
My friend called me up on the phone
At ten o’clock one morning.
I was outside, working on my truck.
“hey, man,” he said.
“hey, what’s up?”
“not much.”
“what are you up to?”
“ah, just drivin’ around.
I’ve got a thirty rack of beer,
and I’m just seein’ how far I make it.”
“nice. Anyplace you’re headed?”
“naw. Just all around North Carolina.”
“well, that’s cool.
Beautiful country down there, right?”
“yeah, it’s nice.”
There was a little silence,
Then I heard him crack another beer.
“okay,” he said. “I’ll keep ya posted.”
“all right then. Take it easy.”
“you know me.”
I did know him.
And I fuckin’ loved him.
It brought a smile to my face,
To know that he was out there,
Just doing whatever he wanted,
Letting nobody tell him what to do,
Being his own man.
Hours passed and I went on with my day,
Working on my truck,
Forgetting about his little journey.
Then he called me up again
at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“still at it?” I asked, chuckling.
He voice had changed a bit
It was rougher and louder and happier.
“obviously! I’m over the halfway point!”
“oh, nice. Where ya at now?”
“I’m headed towards the beach.
It’s about five hours in the other direction,
But I decided I want to see the ocean.
I’m in that ocean mood.”
“that a good ocean mood or a bad one?”
“I don’t know. Hup! Gotta go!”
He hung up the phone
and I went back to grinding down
a huge patch of rust above the left wheel well.
I knocked off around five,
Cleaned up and showered off.
Later that night I went out to the bar,
Met up with some friends.
We were splashing back drinks, doing shots,
Having a great time of it all.
Somehow we got to talking about my friend,
Wild stories of the past,
Stealing delivery vans, police chases,
That sorta thing.
Then my phone rang.
“oh! Look at this!” I shouted, over the music.
“guess who, ha ha! It’s him!”
I snuck outside the bar to a quieter spot,
Answered the phone.
“hey, hey! Still goin’ strong?”
There were police sirens in the background,
his voice was muffled by something,
and he was slurring his speech.
God bless him.
“aw, man. ahmmin trouble. Bihh trouble.”
“oh, shit, buddy. Anything I can do?”
“not unleshher down heerin-“
“hey! Hey!” I heard a voice shout in the background.
“put that phone down.”
“aw shitsh, c’mon! I’m just calllin’ m’frenn!”
“you can’t do that. you’re under arrest!
Hang up that phone right now,
Or you’ll be in more trouble.”
I waited for a moment, cringing.
It wasn’t a wise threat for the cop to make,
But then he didn’t know my friend.
He was drunk enough that it could go both ways.
Either there would be a big altercation,
Or maybe he’d already drank himself into submission.
“allll rightttttt,” he moaned back to the cop.
Then to me, “thuhh cop says I gotta, ummm,
I gotta hanggg up the phone, or all, haha,
Be in trubbbllle. Like omm nallready.”
“all right, man. good times!
gimme a call later and keep me posted.”
I hung up my phone, skipped back to the bar,
And ordered a round of shots.
“here’s to my friend,” I cheered,
“the great idiot drinker!”
My friend called me up on the phone
At ten o’clock one morning.
I was outside, working on my truck.
“hey, man,” he said.
“hey, what’s up?”
“not much.”
“what are you up to?”
“ah, just drivin’ around.
I’ve got a thirty rack of beer,
and I’m just seein’ how far I make it.”
“nice. Anyplace you’re headed?”
“naw. Just all around North Carolina.”
“well, that’s cool.
Beautiful country down there, right?”
“yeah, it’s nice.”
There was a little silence,
Then I heard him crack another beer.
“okay,” he said. “I’ll keep ya posted.”
“all right then. Take it easy.”
“you know me.”
I did know him.
And I fuckin’ loved him.
It brought a smile to my face,
To know that he was out there,
Just doing whatever he wanted,
Letting nobody tell him what to do,
Being his own man.
Hours passed and I went on with my day,
Working on my truck,
Forgetting about his little journey.
Then he called me up again
at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“still at it?” I asked, chuckling.
He voice had changed a bit
It was rougher and louder and happier.
“obviously! I’m over the halfway point!”
“oh, nice. Where ya at now?”
“I’m headed towards the beach.
It’s about five hours in the other direction,
But I decided I want to see the ocean.
I’m in that ocean mood.”
“that a good ocean mood or a bad one?”
“I don’t know. Hup! Gotta go!”
He hung up the phone
and I went back to grinding down
a huge patch of rust above the left wheel well.
I knocked off around five,
Cleaned up and showered off.
Later that night I went out to the bar,
Met up with some friends.
We were splashing back drinks, doing shots,
Having a great time of it all.
Somehow we got to talking about my friend,
Wild stories of the past,
Stealing delivery vans, police chases,
That sorta thing.
Then my phone rang.
“oh! Look at this!” I shouted, over the music.
“guess who, ha ha! It’s him!”
I snuck outside the bar to a quieter spot,
Answered the phone.
“hey, hey! Still goin’ strong?”
There were police sirens in the background,
his voice was muffled by something,
and he was slurring his speech.
God bless him.
“aw, man. ahmmin trouble. Bihh trouble.”
“oh, shit, buddy. Anything I can do?”
“not unleshher down heerin-“
“hey! Hey!” I heard a voice shout in the background.
“put that phone down.”
“aw shitsh, c’mon! I’m just calllin’ m’frenn!”
“you can’t do that. you’re under arrest!
Hang up that phone right now,
Or you’ll be in more trouble.”
I waited for a moment, cringing.
It wasn’t a wise threat for the cop to make,
But then he didn’t know my friend.
He was drunk enough that it could go both ways.
Either there would be a big altercation,
Or maybe he’d already drank himself into submission.
“allll rightttttt,” he moaned back to the cop.
Then to me, “thuhh cop says I gotta, ummm,
I gotta hanggg up the phone, or all, haha,
Be in trubbbllle. Like omm nallready.”
“all right, man. good times!
gimme a call later and keep me posted.”
I hung up my phone, skipped back to the bar,
And ordered a round of shots.
“here’s to my friend,” I cheered,
“the great idiot drinker!”
A POEM - THE ADAPTIVE RACE
THE ADAPTIVE RACE
I found it very hard sometimes,
When living out there in those sheds,
Or sleeping on park benches,
Or in the seats of trucks as they rolled along.
Standing out in the rain, thumb in the air,
Or in the desert sun,
being harassed by flies.
Out there on the road,
I found it very hard,
Not to just give up.
Give up the traveling,
Give up the writing,
Hell, even give up the living.
It all just seemed so goddamn hard at times.
But it really wasn’t.
It really wasn’t that hard at all.
An ex con picked me up outside of Perth.
He snorted a little rock as we drove along,
And told me about robbing banks, shooting cops,
and the many horrors of Fremantle Prison.
“jesus,” I said. “that sounds like hell.”
“it was hell. but man is highly adaptive, see?
being caged in a cell,
shitting in a tin can,
being herded into a tiny courtyard
to pass the days with fifty other guys
in steady 130 degree heat...”
“fuck.”
“see, you hear about something,
and you think you could never handle it,
but then it happens to you
and you do handle it. you get used to it.”
I gave it some thought.
The man had a point.
And that’s how it went with cons and free men alike.
People got used to their cells,
Just like they got used to their day jobs,
Their fifty weeks of work
For their two weeks of vacation.
They got used to their wealth,
And then when it went away,
They got used to their poverty.
They got used to their comfortable lives,
Their kids and their cats and dogs,
Making the money and then paying the bills.
Everything coming and going.
Then they died and got used to death.
Me, I just got used to change.
I found it very hard sometimes,
When living out there in those sheds,
Or sleeping on park benches,
Or in the seats of trucks as they rolled along.
Standing out in the rain, thumb in the air,
Or in the desert sun,
being harassed by flies.
Out there on the road,
I found it very hard,
Not to just give up.
Give up the traveling,
Give up the writing,
Hell, even give up the living.
It all just seemed so goddamn hard at times.
But it really wasn’t.
It really wasn’t that hard at all.
An ex con picked me up outside of Perth.
He snorted a little rock as we drove along,
And told me about robbing banks, shooting cops,
and the many horrors of Fremantle Prison.
“jesus,” I said. “that sounds like hell.”
“it was hell. but man is highly adaptive, see?
being caged in a cell,
shitting in a tin can,
being herded into a tiny courtyard
to pass the days with fifty other guys
in steady 130 degree heat...”
“fuck.”
“see, you hear about something,
and you think you could never handle it,
but then it happens to you
and you do handle it. you get used to it.”
I gave it some thought.
The man had a point.
And that’s how it went with cons and free men alike.
People got used to their cells,
Just like they got used to their day jobs,
Their fifty weeks of work
For their two weeks of vacation.
They got used to their wealth,
And then when it went away,
They got used to their poverty.
They got used to their comfortable lives,
Their kids and their cats and dogs,
Making the money and then paying the bills.
Everything coming and going.
Then they died and got used to death.
Me, I just got used to change.
A POEM - SEEK NOT TO FIND
SEEK NOT TO FIND
“Seek not to find,”
he said to me,
as we drove along out there
in the desert at dusk.
“and in that way,
you’ll find what you do not seek.”
I looked over at him, frowned, and said,
“well, what the fuck does that mean?”
He laughed hard for a few moments,
His body shaking and bouncing the seat.
“I have no clue, ho ho!
I read it somewhere, in some stupid book,
And I’ve been saying it to people ever since.
You’re the first one who’s ever called me out, ho ho!”
“Seek not to find,”
he said to me,
as we drove along out there
in the desert at dusk.
“and in that way,
you’ll find what you do not seek.”
I looked over at him, frowned, and said,
“well, what the fuck does that mean?”
He laughed hard for a few moments,
His body shaking and bouncing the seat.
“I have no clue, ho ho!
I read it somewhere, in some stupid book,
And I’ve been saying it to people ever since.
You’re the first one who’s ever called me out, ho ho!”
A POEM - THE WORDS OF THE TRUCKERS
THE WORDS OF THE TRUCKERS
It was late at night,
Past eleven.
I was in a roadhouse in Ceduna,
And had been there for nearly ten hours.
The truckers came in and out,
Ordering food and mumbling their hellos and goodbyes.
One fat, bald man sat down to a big meal.
He’d been there a while,
Having had to stop for the night,
Due to his load.
Oversized load trucks weren’t allowed to drive
Once the sun went down.
I’d been watching him on and off,
For want of anything else to do.
Then a wiry little bastard hobbled in,
Went up to the food counter and ordered.
The fat man watched him intently.
When the wiry man turned to sit down,
To wait for his food to come up.
He saw the fat man, smiled and said,
“well George! I thought you’s was up north somewheres!”
It was late at night,
Past eleven.
I was in a roadhouse in Ceduna,
And had been there for nearly ten hours.
The truckers came in and out,
Ordering food and mumbling their hellos and goodbyes.
One fat, bald man sat down to a big meal.
He’d been there a while,
Having had to stop for the night,
Due to his load.
Oversized load trucks weren’t allowed to drive
Once the sun went down.
I’d been watching him on and off,
For want of anything else to do.
Then a wiry little bastard hobbled in,
Went up to the food counter and ordered.
The fat man watched him intently.
When the wiry man turned to sit down,
To wait for his food to come up.
He saw the fat man, smiled and said,
“well George! I thought you’s was up north somewheres!”
A POEM - THE MAGIC WORD
THE MAGIC WORD
“are you sure you don’t want any water?”
she asked me, after I’d spent plenty of time,
finding and then ordering
the cheapest thing on the menu.
“naw, I’m all right.”
“are you sure?” she laughed. “it’s free.”
“oh. Really?”
“yeah. The water’s free.”
“well then, yeah. I’d love some water.
Thirsty as hell. Thanks.”
“are you sure you don’t want any water?”
she asked me, after I’d spent plenty of time,
finding and then ordering
the cheapest thing on the menu.
“naw, I’m all right.”
“are you sure?” she laughed. “it’s free.”
“oh. Really?”
“yeah. The water’s free.”
“well then, yeah. I’d love some water.
Thirsty as hell. Thanks.”
A POEM - THE LIAR
THE LIAR
Clayton came in,
Opened up that yapper of his,
Told me that back home,
Which for him was Kansas City,
That he’d go in and out of groups of friends.
It didn’t surprise me.
He was a weird little fucker,
Sweaty and twisted and twitching.
“but this one group,” he said,
“was entirely comprised of liars.
We’d all just come home-
I mean, we all lived together.
But yeah, we’d all just come home,
Sit around the kitchen table
And tell each other lies.”
“oh yeah?” I asked.
“yeah. We’d go in a circle,
Around the table.
We’d just look each other in the eyes and tell lies.”
After saying this, he stood there,
Smiling and blinking.
He was a strange little turd, Clayton.
But I had him figured out.
I knew his kind.
“you know what, Clayton?” I said.
“what?”
“I think you’re full of shit!”
Clayton came in,
Opened up that yapper of his,
Told me that back home,
Which for him was Kansas City,
That he’d go in and out of groups of friends.
It didn’t surprise me.
He was a weird little fucker,
Sweaty and twisted and twitching.
“but this one group,” he said,
“was entirely comprised of liars.
We’d all just come home-
I mean, we all lived together.
But yeah, we’d all just come home,
Sit around the kitchen table
And tell each other lies.”
“oh yeah?” I asked.
“yeah. We’d go in a circle,
Around the table.
We’d just look each other in the eyes and tell lies.”
After saying this, he stood there,
Smiling and blinking.
He was a strange little turd, Clayton.
But I had him figured out.
I knew his kind.
“you know what, Clayton?” I said.
“what?”
“I think you’re full of shit!”
A POEM - THE LONG SLOW ROAD
THE LONG SLOW ROAD
The day was going slow.
I’d gotten two short rides,
And had been soaked by a downpour in the desert.
The rain had just drilled down into me,
The winds cutting through my clothes.
Now I was in Port Wakefield,
Some podunk town of 600 people.
Two gas stations and a bakery.
Car after car, truck after truck rolled past.
The sun passed in between clouds.
I swatted at flies and dried my clothes and my bags.
A touring coach pulled over across the road,
And fifteen little chinamen got out,
Pulled their cocks from their pants
And pissed directly towards me.
“aw, what the hell?” I grumbled.
After some time a little girl road past,
Her mother in the driver’s seat.
The little girl waved, gave me a thumb’s up,
And disappeared down the road.
Finally a car pulled over.
Two guys who looked to be in their thirties,
Sharp beards and sharp sunglasses on their faces.
“where ya headed?”
“Port Augusta.”
“we’re goin’ right at the split.”
“well, thanks anyway guys.”
They rolled off down the road.
“fuckin’ A.”
More trucks passed.
More cars.
I saw a backpacker van approach,
All covered with spray paint,
Sticking out like a sorer thumb than mine.
Two cute blondes,
Their smiling faces following me as they passed by.
“aw, come on!” I snarled,
Watching them fade into the distance,
Hoping I’d see break lights and a u turn.
Nothing.
The wind picked up and I tossed on my sweatshirt.
“well, this is a fuckin’ day. a long, slow day.”
The day was going slow.
I’d gotten two short rides,
And had been soaked by a downpour in the desert.
The rain had just drilled down into me,
The winds cutting through my clothes.
Now I was in Port Wakefield,
Some podunk town of 600 people.
Two gas stations and a bakery.
Car after car, truck after truck rolled past.
The sun passed in between clouds.
I swatted at flies and dried my clothes and my bags.
A touring coach pulled over across the road,
And fifteen little chinamen got out,
Pulled their cocks from their pants
And pissed directly towards me.
“aw, what the hell?” I grumbled.
After some time a little girl road past,
Her mother in the driver’s seat.
The little girl waved, gave me a thumb’s up,
And disappeared down the road.
Finally a car pulled over.
Two guys who looked to be in their thirties,
Sharp beards and sharp sunglasses on their faces.
“where ya headed?”
“Port Augusta.”
“we’re goin’ right at the split.”
“well, thanks anyway guys.”
They rolled off down the road.
“fuckin’ A.”
More trucks passed.
More cars.
I saw a backpacker van approach,
All covered with spray paint,
Sticking out like a sorer thumb than mine.
Two cute blondes,
Their smiling faces following me as they passed by.
“aw, come on!” I snarled,
Watching them fade into the distance,
Hoping I’d see break lights and a u turn.
Nothing.
The wind picked up and I tossed on my sweatshirt.
“well, this is a fuckin’ day. a long, slow day.”
A POEM - FUCK YOU FROM ADELAIDE
“FUCK YOU,” FROM ADELAIDE
I was in Adelaide,
Plotting my way out.
I had to find a bus station,
To get out of the city to a highway,
To throw my thumb in the air.
It was all routine,
All part of the hitching game.
I kept walking.
There was a guy in front of me.
After half a block he stopped,
Turned around and yelled,
“hey! Fuck you, MAN!!”
I blew right past him,
Saying nothing.
But at the same time,
I understood where he was coming from.
And the line had a good ring.
“yeah,” I said to myself.
“yeah! Fuck YOU, man!”
I was in Adelaide,
Plotting my way out.
I had to find a bus station,
To get out of the city to a highway,
To throw my thumb in the air.
It was all routine,
All part of the hitching game.
I kept walking.
There was a guy in front of me.
After half a block he stopped,
Turned around and yelled,
“hey! Fuck you, MAN!!”
I blew right past him,
Saying nothing.
But at the same time,
I understood where he was coming from.
And the line had a good ring.
“yeah,” I said to myself.
“yeah! Fuck YOU, man!”
A POEM - HER NAME WAS NICKY BUT SHE WENT BY SHORTY
HER NAME WAS NICKI BUT SHE WENT BY SHORTY
She pulled over and I hissed,
“it’s about fuckin’ time.”
I hadn’t been waiting all that long,
But sometimes waiting at all could be too long.
“where you goin’?” she asked me.
“west,” I said, a silly grin on my face.
It always made me smile to be going west.
“as far as you’re goin’, if that’s all right.”
“yeah, I saw you standing here before.”
“yeah, I’ve been standing here a while.”
“how long?” she asked, not really caring.
“long enough to see the sights, ha.”
“yeah, the sights. All the sights of Horsham.”
I put my big pack in the back of her ute,
And snuck my little bag in below my legs.
We drove off into the afternoon sun.
“you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
“huh?”
“does smoking bother you?”
“naw, no. of course not.”
“do you smoke?”
“yeah, sure.”
“you wanna cigarette?”
“yeah, okay.”
She passed me a cig and I lit it up.
We drove off towards the west,
Smoke in our lungs, the sun overhead.
She pulled over and I hissed,
“it’s about fuckin’ time.”
I hadn’t been waiting all that long,
But sometimes waiting at all could be too long.
“where you goin’?” she asked me.
“west,” I said, a silly grin on my face.
It always made me smile to be going west.
“as far as you’re goin’, if that’s all right.”
“yeah, I saw you standing here before.”
“yeah, I’ve been standing here a while.”
“how long?” she asked, not really caring.
“long enough to see the sights, ha.”
“yeah, the sights. All the sights of Horsham.”
I put my big pack in the back of her ute,
And snuck my little bag in below my legs.
We drove off into the afternoon sun.
“you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
“huh?”
“does smoking bother you?”
“naw, no. of course not.”
“do you smoke?”
“yeah, sure.”
“you wanna cigarette?”
“yeah, okay.”
She passed me a cig and I lit it up.
We drove off towards the west,
Smoke in our lungs, the sun overhead.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A POEM - THOUGHTS ON THUMBING
With hitch hiking,
you learned after some time
that it wasn't an art.
It wasn't a science, either.
There was nothing to figure out,
no equation to solve,
no technique to master,
even though you sometimes wished there was.
Hitch hiking was just a waiting game.
Putting your thumb in the air,
tossing shit at the wall,
hoping that sooner rather than later,
someone kind enough or bored enough,
would pull over and pick your bum ass up.
you learned after some time
that it wasn't an art.
It wasn't a science, either.
There was nothing to figure out,
no equation to solve,
no technique to master,
even though you sometimes wished there was.
Hitch hiking was just a waiting game.
Putting your thumb in the air,
tossing shit at the wall,
hoping that sooner rather than later,
someone kind enough or bored enough,
would pull over and pick your bum ass up.
A POEM - HOW I FELT BEFORE HITCH HIKING ACROSS AUSTRALIA
It was a beautiful, daunting thing,
to open up that map of Australia,
spread it out on the floor,
and gaze at an entire continent
i was about to cross!
A whole mass of land,
only a few significant cities,
the desert and the salt fields.
"well," I said, eyes burning,
a big smile smeared across my face.
"this might take a few days,
or it might take my life!"
to open up that map of Australia,
spread it out on the floor,
and gaze at an entire continent
i was about to cross!
A whole mass of land,
only a few significant cities,
the desert and the salt fields.
"well," I said, eyes burning,
a big smile smeared across my face.
"this might take a few days,
or it might take my life!"
A POEM - MY WORLD IN THOSE DAYS
There was a lot of sitting on my ass
in those days.
A lot of park benches,
A lot of thinking.
The world,
I couldn't figure the fucker out.
I watched people go by.
Guys banging on store signs
and kicking at windows,
pouring cans of paint into gas tanks,
fighting in the streets.
The girls, crying or laughing,
dressing up like whores
and walking down the sidewalks,
clumsy in their short skirts and their high heels.
And there were always the rats nearby,
rummaging for food,
doing their thing,
just making it.
And the moon was in the sky,
the stars blinking down.
The world was this big,
incomprehensible thing.
But then, it always was.
in those days.
A lot of park benches,
A lot of thinking.
The world,
I couldn't figure the fucker out.
I watched people go by.
Guys banging on store signs
and kicking at windows,
pouring cans of paint into gas tanks,
fighting in the streets.
The girls, crying or laughing,
dressing up like whores
and walking down the sidewalks,
clumsy in their short skirts and their high heels.
And there were always the rats nearby,
rummaging for food,
doing their thing,
just making it.
And the moon was in the sky,
the stars blinking down.
The world was this big,
incomprehensible thing.
But then, it always was.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A POEM - THE BRICK THAT WAS ALWAYS EGGING ME ON
Half a block outside my hostel there was this brick.
It was just lying there on the sidewalk,
every day and every night.
"hell," I grumbled, sweating past it one night,
on my way home from the bars.
"if somebody doesn't move that fuckin' brick,
some drunk fool is gonna stop some night,
pick it up and put it through a window,
right where it belongs."
I walked a few feet further,
looked back, then forced myself to keep going.
"ho ho!" I laughed. "and that drunk fool will probably be me!"
It was just lying there on the sidewalk,
every day and every night.
"hell," I grumbled, sweating past it one night,
on my way home from the bars.
"if somebody doesn't move that fuckin' brick,
some drunk fool is gonna stop some night,
pick it up and put it through a window,
right where it belongs."
I walked a few feet further,
looked back, then forced myself to keep going.
"ho ho!" I laughed. "and that drunk fool will probably be me!"
A POEM - THE ROOM MATE
I was moving my few things
into my new apartment.
A guy I'd met before
on some wild night a few years back,
he was living there too.
He came up to me as I walked along and said,
"listen, I don't like anybody here."
"oh, yeah?"
"yeah, you should know that.
I don't like anybody, anywhere."
"all right."
"and that includes you."
"sure, whatever. I'll keep that in mind."
He watched me as I kept making runs,
back and forth,
between my truck and my room,
moving in a lamp or a book shelf.
I wondered what he was after.
Maybe he thought he was the first person
I'd ever met,
who didn't like other people,
who didn't like me.
I looked at him and laughed.
"oh, it's just a big world of fools!"
into my new apartment.
A guy I'd met before
on some wild night a few years back,
he was living there too.
He came up to me as I walked along and said,
"listen, I don't like anybody here."
"oh, yeah?"
"yeah, you should know that.
I don't like anybody, anywhere."
"all right."
"and that includes you."
"sure, whatever. I'll keep that in mind."
He watched me as I kept making runs,
back and forth,
between my truck and my room,
moving in a lamp or a book shelf.
I wondered what he was after.
Maybe he thought he was the first person
I'd ever met,
who didn't like other people,
who didn't like me.
I looked at him and laughed.
"oh, it's just a big world of fools!"
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