tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28440950963629554792024-03-13T12:59:34.419-04:00JACKSON WARFIELD"it's easy to be a bad writer, but it's hard to wake up each day and devote a chunk of your life to bad writing."Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.comBlogger607125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-85828471963931507012010-10-06T09:26:00.001-04:002010-10-06T09:26:25.319-04:00STORYTELLERSlike most men<br />I find great pleasure<br />in telling stories<br /><br />old stories<br />new stories<br />ones that I’ve borrowed<br />from friends of mine<br />ones that may have never even happened<br />and ones that have changed so much<br />over the course of their <br />story lives<br />that the originals<br />would be unrecognizable<br /><br />for the purpose of storytelling<br />among a handful of other reasons<br />I don’t fear having kids as much <br />as I did before<br />and I especially look forward<br />to having grandkids<br /><br />because I can see myself very clearly<br />sitting in a rocking chair<br />on some back porch<br />a yard full of kids<br />playing amongst each other<br />everyone very content<br />everyone having a good time<br /><br />until I stand up and roar, “all right, kiddies! <br />Get your asses over here! <br />RIGHT now! <br />You may have heard this story <br />a thousand times<br />but you’re all gonna sit down<br />and listen to it again, you hear me?!<br />And by god, you better like it!”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-38586884280632684652010-09-23T19:25:00.000-04:002010-09-23T19:29:31.687-04:00LUCKlet this be known: I have never<br />not once <br />in my whole life<br />found a four leaf clover<br /><br />but this doesn’t bother me<br />not even a little bit<br /><br />not because I haven’t tried<br />not because I haven’t spent<br />plenty of afternoons <br />in my youth<br />searching the ground<br />with the rest of the school children<br /><br />and not because<br />even still<br />when I find myself <br />passing through a patch of clover<br />I keep an eye to the ground<br />and walk through <br />with no success<br /><br />but rather because <br />in many other ways<br /><br />I am one lucky motherfuckerJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-52212275449616342952010-09-22T19:32:00.001-04:002010-09-22T19:32:46.813-04:00PLAYING TOGETHERthey were walking by<br />a gaggle of them<br />maybe in their late thirties<br />and very much upper middle class<br /><br />you could tell<br />they’d been bred for cocktail parties<br />and ordering nannies around<br /><br />long afternoons<br />drinking white wine on porches<br />and talking about their <br />husbands<br /><br />they were not from the area<br />and were therefore<br />trying something new<br />they’d gone to some farm<br />with their children <br />and their children’s nannies<br /><br />and caught up in the moment<br />maybe feeling young<br />like a child again<br />one of them had bent down<br />and goofed around with a goat<br /><br />and afterwards<br />when the goat was slaughtered for them<br />and prepared as a meal<br />the one who had bent down<br />and goofed around with him<br />was not hungry for goat<br /><br />“I had an issue with eating the goat<br />because I was playing <br />with the goat! I was playing with <br />the goat! How could I have eaten him<br />after playing with him?”<br /><br />I smiled and snorted<br />as I sat there drinking my tea<br /><br />how many animals <br />would be saved from slaughter<br />how many people saved from murder<br />if we could just learn to play <br />with one another?<br /><br />but it seems the way of the world<br />has other plansJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-5247976815685975612010-09-20T19:29:00.001-04:002010-09-20T19:29:51.773-04:00BAILING HEYit was another <br />five dollar an hour job<br />but this time<br />it was bailing hey<br /><br />the farmer told me <br />to show up<br />on a Saturday at 1 PM sharp<br /><br />I showed up early<br />by ten minutes<br />and earned a quiet nod<br />the highest form of flattery<br />known to a farmer<br /><br />in a gruff voice<br />coming through a mouth<br />which never opened<br />the farmer <br />explained the work: follow behind<br />the dump truck<br />and throw bails up onto <br />the back<br /><br />he motioned for me to get to it<br />so I jogged off<br />to where a few other boys<br />were grabbing bails <br />and tossing them<br />up onto the back of the truck<br /><br />with two virgin hands<br />I grabbed my first bail of hey<br />by the two pieces of twine<br />that held it together<br />and swung it up towards the truck<br />it fell back to the ground<br />and while the others laughed<br />I picked it up<br />and tossed it again<br />this time just barely making it<br /><br />after a few attempts<br />I got the hang of it<br />and after a few more bails<br />blisters began to grow on my hands<br /><br />hours later<br />my hands raw and cut open<br />my clothes invaded<br />by stray pieces of hey and dirt<br />itching in places I never knew could itch<br />we finished the field<br />and stood around the truck<br />slugging water<br />and smiling the tired<br />worn out smile<br />of the good ol’ boy<br /><br />the farmer pulled out a wad of cash<br />doled us each a twenty<br />nodded a thanks<br />and told us to come back<br /><br />next SaturdayJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-35629525285470416572010-09-17T11:18:00.000-04:002010-09-17T11:38:50.697-04:00NOTE TO A FRIEND AT THE BETTY FORD CLINICwhen I send you a text <br />asking you how you’re doing out there<br />in the desert<br />and you respond four days later<br />with, “huh?”<br />I don’t get the impression<br />that you have been rehabilitated<br /><br />instead, I picture you running <br />terrified and strung out<br />through a cemetery<br />where all the headstones<br />are empty bottles of Jim Beam<br />and each is wearing a pink <br />and green sweater-vest<br /><br />(like the kind that you wore <br />that used to make me beat you<br />back here in Port City)<br /><br />and you’re back on the phone<br />with the cops<br />telling them I won’t leave your house<br />because you drugged me good<br />that I won’t even move<br />at all<br />because <br />with every single twitch<br />you spray pellets all over me<br />with your goddamn Airsoft gun<br /><br />like that time at your dad’s place<br />when we were all fucked up<br />on everything<br /><br />ah, the good old days<br /><br />buddy, I’m not gonna lie<br />I miss you<br />and the times we had<br />but you do what you have to<br />to make it through <br />this world<br />intact<br />out of the hospital<br />and far away from jail<br /><br />I hope the water’s wet out there for you, KidJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-15806379266380660292010-09-16T09:51:00.000-04:002010-09-16T09:56:20.276-04:00FACTORY JOBwe were teenagers<br />in high school<br />and it was the wintertime<br />in New Hampshire<br /><br />two days a week<br />as the sun set over fields covered<br />with snow<br />my friend and I would drive<br />back roads to Tilton<br />where we worked as packers<br />at a veggie burger manufacturing plant<br /><br />our first order of business<br />was to unfold the boxes in which they were <br />to be packaged in<br />and glue the tabs of one end together<br />with piping hot glue<br />on which we often burned <br />our hands<br /><br />then, after the burgers came out <br />from the kitchen<br />and cooled<br />our task was to set two <br />side by side<br />place a sheet of wax paper on top<br />set another two burgers<br />side by side on top of them<br />then shove the four into the cardboard boxes<br />and seal the second end with glue<br /><br />this was our job<br />and that was our life<br />from 5 to 10 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays<br /><br />to make the job more terrible<br />there was a CD player with a radio<br />which didn’t work<br />and there were only two CDs from which<br />to choose: Neil Young’s Harvest Moon<br />and some other classic rock album<br />which I cannot remember<br />even though I probably listened to it<br />hundreds of times<br /><br />as the winter went on<br />and we got more sick and tired<br />of our job<br />packaging burgers<br />burning our fingers on the glue<br />listening to the same two cds<br />over and over again<br />making five bucks an hour<br />and having to beg to actually get paid<br />we lost interest in remaining good employees<br />and started in with adolescent shenanigans<br /><br />soon there were burgers being tossed around<br />arguments with other employees<br />and to amuse ourselves<br />we’d write swears with the glue<br />before closing up the tabs on the package<br />so you might open either side <br />of the box<br />to find FUCK U or SHIT or BITCH or CUNT<br />or occasionally a small, messy ASSHOLE<br /><br />not long after <br />we began showing up late<br />we stopped showing up at all<br /><br />I mean<br />we were teenagers<br />in high school<br />and it was the wintertime<br />in New Hampshire<br /><br />what more could a person expect?Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-4856080980810633912010-09-12T19:40:00.000-04:002010-09-12T19:41:15.258-04:00DOING MY BESTI called Whit at 3 AM from the ledge <br />of a building in New York City<br /><br />“don’t jump!” she screamed <br />into the phone<br /><br />“no, no. Of course I’m not going <br />to jump.”<br /><br />“well, what the hell <br />are you doing up there? <br />Get down!”<br /><br />“I can’t. I’m stuck. I shimmied up a drainpipe<br />for some reason, and now I’m stuck<br />on top of this stupid building!”<br /><br />I heard her laugh <br />and say in the background, “my friend <br />is stuck on the roof of a building<br />in New York City!”<br /><br />there was more laughter on her end<br />while I circled the building<br />looking for a way down<br /><br />how or why I’d climbed up that drainpipe<br />was a total mystery<br />and was fast becoming<br />a total pain in the ass<br /><br />“isn’t there a door or something you can <br />go down through? There must be<br />a fire exit, like in the movies.”<br /><br />“oh, shit.” I growled. “this is another on of those<br />times where it feels like I’m in the movies<br />except it’s the fucking movie<br />of my life.”<br /><br />I looked over the edge again<br />it was maybe four or five floors to the ground<br />there was a steel doorway in the center<br />of the roof<br /><br />“I see a door. I’m going to go through it. Stay on the <br />phone with me, will you?”<br /><br />“of course I will. I wanna hear what happens!”<br /><br />I took one last look <br />over the side of the building<br />and moved towards the doorway<br /><br />in the movies and in real life<br />a character has to sometimes choose between<br />a visit to the hospital <br />or to jail<br />and for some reason I wasn’t any longer<br />feeling invincible<br />like I was back at the wedding<br />when I had stripped down and jumped in the pool<br />in front of hundreds of people I didn’t know<br />and to the supreme annoyance<br />of the security guards<br /><br />“I’m about to open the door<br />if it’s not locked.”<br /><br />the door opened smoothly and silently<br />and I stepped quietly <br />down the stairs<br /><br />“I’m only going to speak if something awful<br />happens, okay? Otherwise I’m going<br />to try and be as quiet and sneaky<br />as possible.”<br /><br />Whit laughed in acknowledgment<br />as I reached the bottom of the stairs<br />and began moving through large rooms<br />filled with piles of old chairs <br />you would find in a cinema<br />bolted to the floor<br /><br />although there were dim lights on<br />I heard no movement as I ghosted through<br />the rooms and descended<br />flight after flight<br />of stairs<br /><br />on the first floor <br />I took a deep breath and whispered, “this is it. I’m <br />going for it. If I hear an alarm I’m just going<br />to run as fast as I can, so I might have to hang up<br />the phone.”<br /><br />with that I shoved open the door<br />and burst out into the silent, foggy darkness<br />of 3 AM <br />in some suburb<br />of what I hoped was Brooklyn<br /><br />“I’m out!” I hissed into the phone, looking<br />in each direction and skipping off towards the street<br />lit with yellow streetlights<br /><br />“oh, god. I’m so glad you’re safe! What the hell<br />did you climb up a drainpipe for?”<br /><br />“I don’t know, dear. I never know why <br />I do these things.”<br /><br />“do you know where you are?”<br /><br />“no.”<br /><br />“do you know what you’re gonna do?”<br /><br />“nope. But I think I should walk for a while,<br />get away from here.”<br /><br />then there was the silence<br />of somebody <br />trying to help from a thousand miles away<br /><br />“well, be safe, ok? And no more climbing up onto<br />building, all right?”<br /><br />I smiled at the night<br />at my life<br />and my luck<br />and said, “I will do my best.”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-81302419319134235932010-09-12T14:33:00.000-04:002010-09-12T14:38:28.171-04:00TAKING TURNSthey lived four blocks<br />from downtown<br />Wilmington, North Carolina<br /><br />and almost every night<br />one of them would get so drunk<br />out at the bars<br />that he would not be able<br />to make it <br />the last block home<br />to their apartment on Market St.<br /><br />instead<br />whichever one it was<br />would jump a wrought iron fence<br />and go to sleep <br />in the graveyard next to<br />the church<br /><br />when I would talk to them<br />on the phone<br />while I was living out<br />my own joke life<br />800 or so miles north<br />on a godforsaken island off the Cape<br />they would not sound bothered<br />by the near nightly event<br />both seemed to have accepted it<br />as a simple fact of life<br /><br />of living the way we were all living<br />drinking lots and caring little<br /><br />finally, one of them<br />the one who wasn’t the Marine<br />packed off to rehab in the fall<br />and I moved down<br />to take his place<br /><br />I arrived late in the morning<br />with fresh bourbon on my breath<br />and after waking up the Marine<br />we went strolling<br />out to the bars<br />laughing about how much fun<br />we would have<br />living together once again<br /><br />the following morning<br />after waking on a patch of soft grass<br />surrounded by tombstones<br />I jumped the wrought iron fence<br />back onto the sidewalk<br />and stumbled home<br /><br />when my friend came to the door<br />to let me in<br />he asked where I’d been<br />and whether I’d gone home with a girl<br /><br />walking past him<br />towards the bathroom<br />I said, “I woke up in that graveyard<br />down the street from here. So that must mean<br />that tonight is your turn.”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-50235515655390675202010-09-08T19:17:00.000-04:002010-09-08T19:18:16.454-04:00WHAT SHE SAW IN THE MIRROR AT THE GYMafter every set of exercises<br />she completes <br />on her purple exercise mat<br />she stands up and views herself<br />in the wall mirror <br />of the gym<br /><br />she looks at herself first <br />from the front<br />then from each side<br />and finally over her shoulder<br />she surveys her backside<br /><br />oh, pretty girl<br />in tight blue shorts<br />and your pink spandex top<br /><br />with every set of exercises<br />do you think you look even better<br />or still not good enough?Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-57077045945441184352010-09-05T13:07:00.001-04:002010-09-05T13:07:57.337-04:00THE LINGO OF MR. BROWNSTONEwhen he contacts me<br />he says , ‘I have some green pepper pizza<br />and my cousin Molly is with me<br />and if you want <br />we could also get mushrooms<br />on that pizza, and if you’re looking <br />to party, I could help you out with that, too.<br />Just calling, because I’m in<br />your neck of the woods.”<br /><br />but what he is saying <br />is that he is outside my house<br />and he has a bag with him <br />and in that bag <br />he has probably a few ounces of grass<br />a few grams of pure MDMA<br />probably an ounce of mushrooms<br />and more cocaine than I could do in a week<br /><br />but I’ve gotten pretty good at telling him, ‘sorry, man.<br />I just ate dinner and I’m gonna take it easy tonight.’Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-26991075145513041442010-09-04T19:12:00.001-04:002010-09-04T19:14:57.906-04:00WARthe rule of the house<br />is that<br />you put your dirty dishes<br />in the dishwasher<br />after you<br />are finished using them<br /><br />but there is a single spoon<br />in the sink <br />this morning<br /><br />and I have no doubt<br />that soon there will be another<br />then a plate<br />and a drinking glass<br /><br />and nobody will put them<br />in the dishwasher<br />because doing <br />that<br />would be a sign of weakness<br />and defeat<br /><br />so the dishes <br />will go on <br />piling up<br />like dominoes fall down<br /><br />oh god<br />the battle has just begun!Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-83086029576680053262010-09-03T09:12:00.000-04:002010-09-03T09:15:28.466-04:00CARELESSin Market Square<br />there are people picketing<br />and all of them<br />are elderly<br />or at least baby boomers<br />now retired<br /><br />they wave and hold signs<br />and smile<br />and they shout at you<br />to honk your horn for their causes<br /><br />they are against <br />bailouts<br />corporate greed<br />and never-ending wars<br /><br />sometimes I wonder if <br />they really care<br />or if maybe<br />they are just bored<br />looking for a reason<br />to get out of the house<br />or even out of bed<br />on a Monday morning<br />or Friday afternoon<br /><br />but when I see their faces<br />when I get up close<br />it seems they have true concern<br />for the fate of this country<br />this world<br /><br />like they still believe <br />in hope<br />or something<br /><br />but when I see them later<br />sitting around a table<br />at a coffee shop<br />mingling and having fun<br />content with their day’s work<br /><br />I wonder if I should tell these people<br />about this younger generation<br />how we just don’t careJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-35213015309440615822010-09-02T12:55:00.002-04:002010-09-04T01:38:33.219-04:00WEIRDO DOORMANat the bar<br />when I am working the door<br />if it is very slow<br />I get so bored sometimes<br />that <br />to pass the hours<br />and the minutes<br />I stand <br />uncomfortably close<br />to a couple<br />who appears to be out<br />on a date<br /><br />and I watch<br />with much greed<br />as they eat their food<br />and drink their beers<br />and try to ignore my presence<br /><br />and when it gets too awkward<br />for them to go on<br />with their date<br />their lives<br /><br />I clear my throat and ask,<br />“is everything ok?”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-1085444644537897112010-09-02T12:48:00.000-04:002010-09-02T12:53:03.026-04:00NOT FROM AROUND HEREthese cabbies stand around<br />outside the bar<br />all night long<br />occasionally getting fares<br />but mainly smoking <br />cigarettes<br />and drinking coffee<br /><br />talking about how well <br />their little venture<br />is going<br />and how <br />come summer<br />they will be rolling in money<br />just carting it off<br />in their Crown Vics<br />to the bank<br />or the casino<br />or the after hours nightclub<br />they want to start<br /><br />these cabbies <br />are not from around here<br />they don’t share the typical cynicism<br />that one develops<br />spending long winters alone<br />freezing your ass off<br />just trying to make it through<br />without swallowing<br />a bullet<br />or a bottle of pills<br /><br />no, these cabbies <br />are definitely<br />not from around here<br />and for that<br />I think they might surviveJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-6440583690871054482010-08-31T20:52:00.000-04:002010-09-01T09:40:06.990-04:00MORNING SICKNESSthere are some mornings<br />you lean over<br />in your bed <br /><br />wrapped in dirty sheets<br />and you puke<br />right on the floor <br /><br />there are also mornings<br />you get up<br />and piss<br />in the trashcan<br />just for the hell of it<br /><br />then there are <br />those other mornings<br />when you don’t get up at allJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-79148359873206115542010-08-31T09:24:00.001-04:002010-08-31T09:24:46.594-04:00IN COLLEGEafter a few beers<br />we’d look <br />over <br />to one another<br />and use that old <br />alcoholic<br />adage, “finally, <br />I’m starting to feel<br />like myself again.”<br /><br />now<br />about a decade later<br />it takes a few <br />more beers<br />and feeling like <br />old boys<br />we instead <br />growl, “fuckin’ <br />inflation.”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-59550019199646343082010-08-30T21:40:00.001-04:002010-08-30T21:46:11.164-04:00FULL OF ITright now <br />is another time<br />I have to get up from my writing<br />to do something<br />much more necessary <br />while living here on this earth<br /><br />I have to use the bathroom<br /><br />plenty of people <br />alive today<br />and throughout time<br />have gone their whole lives<br />without scribbling a word<br />without putting together a sentence<br />or even a single line of poetry<br />and they have done fine<br /><br />but for some of us<br />poetry is a type of addiction<br />a thing we are hooked on<br />like crack<br />smack<br />or alcohol<br /><br />so my hope is that <br />when I get back from the bathroom<br />when I get back to my addiction<br />my words will have <br />more meaning<br />than they have had <br />all night<br /><br />because right now<br />I can say<br />that in a literal sense<br />I am full of shitJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-58026469206992256172010-04-28T22:52:00.001-04:002010-04-28T22:52:39.438-04:00ON THE SPECIAL OCCASION OF TIME LEFT IN THE PARKING METERwhat a little joy it is<br />when looking for a parking spot<br />to find one<br />with time left on the meter!<br /><br />it’s like receiving a gift<br />from a stranger<br />while at the same time<br />pulling down your pants<br />bending over<br />and saying, “KISS MY ASS!”<br />to the Man.<br /><br />it allows the individual, for once<br />to feel like he’s gotten away <br />with something<br /><br />like he’s finally slipped something past<br />the system, the city, the machine<br /><br />like there’s not always a price to pay<br />for being a human<br /><br />for being aliveJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-23510778657319218122010-04-28T22:47:00.000-04:002010-04-28T22:51:02.126-04:00PATCHOULI MOTHERFUCKERon his way in and out to smoke<br />every time he walked through the doorway<br />where I sat on my stool<br />checking IDs<br /><br />he left behind the smell of a hospital<br />the odor of cleanly doom<br /><br />finally, I said to a friend of mine<br />who was drinking inside<br /><br />“man, come here. Do you smell that?”<br /><br />my friend came in<br />sniffed at the air and scowled<br /><br />“oh, I HATE patchouli! Fuckin’ hippies!”<br /><br />he went back inside<br />and for a while I sat there wondering<br />why this hospital worker<br />maybe a nurse<br />or physical therapist<br />smelled so strongly of patchouli <br /><br />or why the smell of happiness and love<br />so resembled the smell of death<br />sickness<br />and gloomJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-19924640117516614022010-04-28T22:45:00.001-04:002010-04-28T22:45:38.380-04:00THE OLD MAN AND HIS DOGwe were passing each other on the street<br />me and the old man<br />and the sun was beaming down<br />first time in a while<br /><br />the old man smiled at me<br />and said, “what did you do, give an Indian <br />war dance, to get the sun to shine?”<br /><br />I grinned as though I had<br />looked up at the sky<br />and said, “I’ll take it any way it comes.”<br /><br />“I don’t blame you,” he laughed.<br /><br />his dog squatted down and began to shit everywhere<br />all over somebody’s garden<br />then the sidewalk<br />and eventually the street<br /><br />the old man kept smiling <br />looking from the sky to me and down to where<br />his dog was shitting all over <br />it all seemed to matter very little to him<br />when the dog was finished<br />they walked on<br /><br />I thought about all the times I’d stepped in dog shit<br />all the angry mornings <br />I’d staggered through<br />a terrible smell following me<br />with every step<br /><br />I thought about saying something<br />to the old man<br />something like, “hey, what do you think this is?<br />You think your dog can just shit anywhere?<br />Clean that up.”<br /><br />but a moment later I laughed it off<br />and watched the old man continue down the street<br />with his half limp and his dirty, little dog <br />who he probably loved more than anything in the world<br /><br />now, recalling the shit on the sidewalk<br />and on the street and in the garden<br />it doesn’t bother me<br />not at all<br />it’s actually nice to be reminded<br />that there are still careless old bastards out there<br />geezers with one foot in the grave<br />men that will never change<br /><br />that not everyone of us <br />has been completely whipped <br />broken into submission<br />unflinchingly obeying every law <br />that’s been given to us<br /><br />that somewhere out there<br />whether they know it or not<br />there are soldiers <br />whose expertise is experience<br />whose uniforms are graying hair and wrinkles<br />whose fight against change<br />is to the deathJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-78287061984026185772010-04-28T22:34:00.001-04:002010-04-28T22:34:57.465-04:00PSYCHOas I spend many hours each day<br />out walking dogs<br />I frequently run into people who have lost theirs<br /><br />they walk up to me<br />or pull over in their cars<br />and they ask me, “hey, have you <br />seen my dog?”<br /><br />many times<br />I have seen their dog<br />or I end up seeing their dogs<br />and I reunite them with their owners<br /><br />but this one time<br />last Monday<br />while out walking dogs<br /><br />an odd-looking man <br />with thin, graying hair<br />and thick glasses<br />pulled his truck <br />over to the side of the road<br /><br />and he said to me, “excuse me,<br />have you seen my dog? He’s big and black<br />and looks very mean.”<br /><br />I shook my head<br />told him that I hadn’t seen his dog<br />but that I’d keep an eye out<br /><br />and as the man drove off<br />he shouted out his window<br />towards the woods<br />at the side of the road, “Psycho!! Hey, Psycho!! <br />come here, Psycho! come here, boy!”<br /><br />I reeled in the dog I was walking<br />looked all around me<br />and said quietly, “well, buddy, it’s been fun,<br />all the time we’ve spent together<br />and just know, we’re not going out <br />without a fight.”Jackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-72794300142817464742010-04-28T22:33:00.001-04:002010-04-28T22:33:21.909-04:00ROMANTICISMwhen the living gets easy<br />as it sometimes does<br />when there is money in the bank<br />good food in the fridge<br />and a few bottles of wine on the rack<br /><br />those are the times I always think <br />of running away<br /><br />the times when it sounds very romantic<br />to hit the road and wander<br />live out of a backpack<br />and bum it from town to town<br /><br />but I’m quicker to remind myself<br />these days<br />that it’s not all <br />that it’s cracked up to be<br /><br />eating a single meal a day<br />trying to find work that isn’t there<br />ghosting around cities<br />while everyone else sits in restaurants and bars<br />not even noticing you pass by<br /><br />there’s nothing too special<br />about being broke<br />and wondering where you’ll sleep at night<br />plenty of people have been doing it<br />for time immortal<br /><br />most will tell you<br />it’s scary and frustrating<br />humiliating<br /><br />and at it’s best<br />you become used to it<br /><br />at its worst<br />you starve slowly and die<br /><br />but then, there has always been something romantic<br />about deathJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-41110164939187172292010-04-28T22:28:00.000-04:002010-04-28T22:30:20.182-04:00WRONG EVERYTHINGthere were three of them<br />not bad looking<br />in their early forties<br />if I had to guess<br /><br />they stopped in front of me<br />where I was standing on the step<br />outside of the bar<br /><br />and the loudest one asked, “you got dancing<br />in there? We want to dance! Where the <br />hell do you go dancing in this town?”<br /><br />they all looked at each other and laughed<br />and the other two said, “yeah, dancing!”<br /><br />I told them there was a place<br />about a block away<br />with a dance club in the upstairs<br />and that it was the only place in town<br />where they had a dance floor.<br /><br />the louder one said, “why don’t you <br />come with us? Come dancing with us, okay?”<br /><br />“I wish I could, dear, but I’ve got to work.”<br /><br />“oh, screw work! Come dancing <br />with us instead. You’re a good – looking <br />young man.”<br /><br />she looked at the others<br />who nodded<br />and she said, “come on, you young buck! <br />Let’s go dancing!”<br /><br />the three of them were jumping around<br />having a hell of a time<br />and I considered leaving my post<br />my stupid doorman job<br /><br />considered going out dancing<br />with a few older ladies<br />who could probably show me <br />a little bit about dancing<br />and a lot more about other things<br /><br />but I knew it wouldn’t fly with the boss man<br />and I couldn’t stand to lose the job<br /><br />“I really can’t, but I wish I could.”<br /><br />“suit yourself!” the louder one laughed<br /><br />and after they took a few strides<br />she looked back at me<br />then at her friends<br />and said, “shit, I’d hit that!”<br /><br />and that’s how it usually goes for me<br />the wrong place<br />wrong time<br />wrong answer<br /><br />wrong everythingJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-22457281599515767542010-04-28T22:26:00.000-04:002010-04-28T22:28:10.612-04:00ON A DIMEmy jeep turned over<br />on the first try<br />and later that morning<br />an email came in<br />from a small literary mag<br />saying they wanted<br />to publish<br />one of my poems<br /><br />what a day <br />it was shaping up to be!<br /><br />I didn’t call anyone to brag<br />not even to tell<br />it’s important <br />at times<br />to keep things to yourself<br />to suck up all the enjoyment <br />you can<br />before the world<br />gets its rotten teeth clamped around it<br />and breathes its bad breath<br />onto your little windfall<br /><br />I went to a house<br />to take a dog out for a walk<br />because that’s how I make my money<br />to pay the bar tabs<br />and the bills<br /><br />the dog had shit <br />all over the carpeted stairs<br />diarrhea galore<br /><br />after cleaning it up<br />as best I could<br /><br />I drove to a few more houses<br />walked a few more dogs<br />called it a day<br /><br />then, on the way home<br />a man in a big, red pickup truck<br />rear-ended me<br />not bad<br />but bad enough <br /><br />he wasn’t such a terrible fellow<br />he had insurance<br />and after the policeman arrived<br />twenty five minutes later<br />we went our separate ways<br /><br />he, back to his life<br />with his children and his wife<br /><br />me, back to my third floor room<br />with my beer fridge<br />and myself<br /><br />luck can turn on a dime<br />picked out of a beggar’s hand <br />of spare change<br /><br />I’ll try and remember that<br />next time I throw my two cents<br />down the storm drainJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2844095096362955479.post-11052368845273503202010-04-28T22:22:00.002-04:002010-04-28T22:26:07.447-04:00GAMBLING WITH POETRY(published online 4/22/10 @ <a href="http://bijoupoetryreview.blogspot.com">Bijou Poetry Review</a>)<br /><br />dear editor<br />please consider my following poem<br />for your literary magazine<br /><br />thanks so much<br />for putting up with me<br />and my incessant submissions<br /><br />each time I cut and paste a poem<br />into the body of an email<br />and click SEND<br /><br />I feel like a gambler<br />placing a bet on the roulette wheel<br />rubbing his hands together<br />closing his eyes<br />and thinking, ‘hell, maybe<br />this one will hit.’<br /><br />then afterwards<br />I sit back in my chair and smile<br />imagining the day<br /><br />when I finally take down the houseJackson Warfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13769569561783863840noreply@blogger.com0