The way she tells it, Tricks went down like this:
the Boss's man came in, eyes red, aflame
(they called him Hash, but Ed Fink was his name,
the nickname from the weed), and in his fist
the racing form that showed Don't Fail Me Now
had come in third instead of pulling lame.
The Boss had lost a wad, and knew the blame
was Tricks' and Tricks' alone, no matter how.
The gunsel, high as income tax, took aim
(the gat was in the paper, natch), his wrist
supple as surgery, would not allow
last words or prayers. Tricks winked at Betty Dow,
his lips pursed, flirty, one last Judas Kiss,
before the bullet took him off his game.
_
Monday, March 09, 2009
#383: The Way Tricks Went Down
Sunday, March 08, 2009
#382: The Neighbor Dog
Last night at three a.m., the shade of sleep
was ripped in two by brightnesses of sound--
a needle-yelp, that icepick-wielding hound
who haunts the neighbor yard. However deep
in Dreamland's tide you swim, he'll pull you out
with tireless, tooth enamel-wearing noise.
It seems like hours--you'd think he'd lose his voice!
But sadly, no. And when you start to doubt
your moral firmness, picture in your claws
the mongrel's throat, a silver cleaver close
with Silence on its edge, or else a dose
of cyanide to drop in champing jaws--
His owners save him though an open door,
and you lie waking, fuming, until four.
_
was ripped in two by brightnesses of sound--
a needle-yelp, that icepick-wielding hound
who haunts the neighbor yard. However deep
in Dreamland's tide you swim, he'll pull you out
with tireless, tooth enamel-wearing noise.
It seems like hours--you'd think he'd lose his voice!
But sadly, no. And when you start to doubt
your moral firmness, picture in your claws
the mongrel's throat, a silver cleaver close
with Silence on its edge, or else a dose
of cyanide to drop in champing jaws--
His owners save him though an open door,
and you lie waking, fuming, until four.
_
Saturday, March 07, 2009
#381: Just the Same
Though now we're fatter and our hair is thinning,
Though wrinkles line our cheeks and crease our eyes,
Though years have passed us since our last goodbyes,
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
Though clock hands large and small have not stopped spinning,
We've changed zip codes and lovers many times,
The word for "age" and "tongue" no longer rhymes,
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
It's true, our lives are closer to their ends
And glories lie behind us, while before:
A track on which we have no hope of winning;
But never mind--at hand are wine and friends,
And hours till dawn--why would you ask for more?
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
-
Though wrinkles line our cheeks and crease our eyes,
Though years have passed us since our last goodbyes,
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
Though clock hands large and small have not stopped spinning,
We've changed zip codes and lovers many times,
The word for "age" and "tongue" no longer rhymes,
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
It's true, our lives are closer to their ends
And glories lie behind us, while before:
A track on which we have no hope of winning;
But never mind--at hand are wine and friends,
And hours till dawn--why would you ask for more?
It's just the same now as in the beginning.
-
Friday, March 06, 2009
#380: TGIF
It's Friday afternoon--don't watch the clock--
you know about watched pots by now, I'm sure;
Start counting every tick and every tock,
there's no way you'll be able to endure.
Eyes on the screen, keep tapping at the keys,
try not to think about your car outside
just waiting there to give you your release
and speed you on that lovely weekend ride.
Another hour and this will be the past--
the emails, phone calls, crisis of the day,
all dissipated like a cloud of gas
and nothing else to do for love or pay.
Put in the time, just half an hour more...
then let no one between you and the door.
-
you know about watched pots by now, I'm sure;
Start counting every tick and every tock,
there's no way you'll be able to endure.
Eyes on the screen, keep tapping at the keys,
try not to think about your car outside
just waiting there to give you your release
and speed you on that lovely weekend ride.
Another hour and this will be the past--
the emails, phone calls, crisis of the day,
all dissipated like a cloud of gas
and nothing else to do for love or pay.
Put in the time, just half an hour more...
then let no one between you and the door.
-
Thursday, March 05, 2009
#379: The Philosophy of Disappointment
Babe, dig it: everyone will let you down,
you give them time enough. That's in the bank.
The world keeps turnin', leaves go red and brown,
and nothing changes. Got no one to thank
but Nature, babe. That's just the way we're built--
can only keep it steady just so long
before we wreck. Then nothing left but guilt
and shame, and who was right, and who was wrong.
Your friends and relatives, your lovers too
(especially them), whoever gets your trust
betrays it, baby. That's just what we do.
What you expect? We're made from clay and dust.
God could have made us out of stronger stuff--
but then the test would not be hard enough.
you give them time enough. That's in the bank.
The world keeps turnin', leaves go red and brown,
and nothing changes. Got no one to thank
but Nature, babe. That's just the way we're built--
can only keep it steady just so long
before we wreck. Then nothing left but guilt
and shame, and who was right, and who was wrong.
Your friends and relatives, your lovers too
(especially them), whoever gets your trust
betrays it, baby. That's just what we do.
What you expect? We're made from clay and dust.
God could have made us out of stronger stuff--
but then the test would not be hard enough.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
#378: Handler
You know, they're only ugly; they're not mean.
But people still assume the worst--they see
those curling claws, skin cracked (and worse yet green)
and jump to foul conclusions. As for me,
it took some work, and lots of sleepless nights
(and countless liver snacks, of course) but now
I've gained their trust. Sure, I could show you bites
and scratches--but I'd sooner show you how
they purr whenever tickled on their chins
(just mind don't touch the tusks, they're sensitive),
or how they love to nudge you with their fins
(but don't nudge back--not if you want to live).
But folks will hate, with no reason nor rhyme.
Come on, best lock the cage. It's feeding time.
But people still assume the worst--they see
those curling claws, skin cracked (and worse yet green)
and jump to foul conclusions. As for me,
it took some work, and lots of sleepless nights
(and countless liver snacks, of course) but now
I've gained their trust. Sure, I could show you bites
and scratches--but I'd sooner show you how
they purr whenever tickled on their chins
(just mind don't touch the tusks, they're sensitive),
or how they love to nudge you with their fins
(but don't nudge back--not if you want to live).
But folks will hate, with no reason nor rhyme.
Come on, best lock the cage. It's feeding time.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
#377: Cranky, 24/7
"WE NEVER CLOSE!" in letters two feet high
above the drug store halfway down the block.
If that be so, I asked the sign and sky,
Then why does every door here have a lock?
And anyway, what good to anyone
does such insomniacal commerce do?
A snacker desperate for honeybuns
at 3 am, as well as Theraflu?
To open up at six or so, and close
at midnight, even one, will well suffice.
I'll wager there's no cold nor runny nose
can't wait that long; if not, well, pay the price!
And as for those who might well look askance--
They'll learn to buy their condoms in advance!
above the drug store halfway down the block.
If that be so, I asked the sign and sky,
Then why does every door here have a lock?
And anyway, what good to anyone
does such insomniacal commerce do?
A snacker desperate for honeybuns
at 3 am, as well as Theraflu?
To open up at six or so, and close
at midnight, even one, will well suffice.
I'll wager there's no cold nor runny nose
can't wait that long; if not, well, pay the price!
And as for those who might well look askance--
They'll learn to buy their condoms in advance!
Monday, March 02, 2009
#376: Songbird
At first I couldn't find him; branches crossed
each other like the shadowed edge of pen
and ink drawings, the wind would blow, and then
in rattling leaves his music would be lost
till calm returned, and like a ghost he'd take
the melody again--the pipe and trill
and once martial and mournful--thus he'd fill
the woods with music only he could make.
Yet still invisible--I strained my ear
and eye in fruitless search of him, so long
I'd nearly given up; but then he changed
the tune to one of joy, so brave and clear
I picked him out--gray, feathers disarranged,
and barely big enough to hold his song.
each other like the shadowed edge of pen
and ink drawings, the wind would blow, and then
in rattling leaves his music would be lost
till calm returned, and like a ghost he'd take
the melody again--the pipe and trill
and once martial and mournful--thus he'd fill
the woods with music only he could make.
Yet still invisible--I strained my ear
and eye in fruitless search of him, so long
I'd nearly given up; but then he changed
the tune to one of joy, so brave and clear
I picked him out--gray, feathers disarranged,
and barely big enough to hold his song.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
#375: Wherein Sonnet Boy Questions His Motives for the Restart
What for? Not just to show it can be done--
That's proved already, most conclusively.
And so far it's been hardly any fun,
Though one still hopes it will, eventually.
Perhaps like Rumpelstiltskin's lady fair
I hope to spin my straw thoughts into gold;
Discover treasure underneath the hair
I used to have, before I grew so old...
And yet if I did not believe there lay
some secret worth unearthing in my brain,
Some flowers yet ungathered on the way,
then why begin the journey yet again?
It's Patience that I need, that much is clear;
and arrogance enough to persevere.
That's proved already, most conclusively.
And so far it's been hardly any fun,
Though one still hopes it will, eventually.
Perhaps like Rumpelstiltskin's lady fair
I hope to spin my straw thoughts into gold;
Discover treasure underneath the hair
I used to have, before I grew so old...
And yet if I did not believe there lay
some secret worth unearthing in my brain,
Some flowers yet ungathered on the way,
then why begin the journey yet again?
It's Patience that I need, that much is clear;
and arrogance enough to persevere.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
#374: Alexei of the Doorways
Alexei is a cat who can't decide
which side of any doorway is the best;
he simply has to put it to the test
at every opportunity. Inside,
he'll peer through darkened glass, desiring Out.
Outside, of course, he strongly lusts for In--
once that's achieved, the Out looks best again,
and so and forth, around and round about.
At any squeak of hinge or knob he'll come
to gauge the portal's possibilities;
and no experience nor history's
his teacher--God, I swear the cat is dumb!
Or else an optimist who won't despair
of something better waiting Just Out There.
which side of any doorway is the best;
he simply has to put it to the test
at every opportunity. Inside,
he'll peer through darkened glass, desiring Out.
Outside, of course, he strongly lusts for In--
once that's achieved, the Out looks best again,
and so and forth, around and round about.
At any squeak of hinge or knob he'll come
to gauge the portal's possibilities;
and no experience nor history's
his teacher--God, I swear the cat is dumb!
Or else an optimist who won't despair
of something better waiting Just Out There.
Friday, February 27, 2009
#373: The Futility of Valor
I guess it's war between us from now on;
it's no use to pretend it's otherwise--
for every father fights with every son,
viciously, all their lives, till someone dies.
Right now the terms of battle follow thus:
"Clean up your room! Put dishes in the sink!
Don't you talk back to me! No time to fuss--
now brush your teeth! To bed, you little fink!"
They wear me down, these nightly screams and tears,
that face darkened like rainclouds fit to burst,
these silent, hate-filled glares, contempt-full jeers--
I wonder which of us will weaken first?
No matter--I'm the one who writes this poem,
but he's the one who picks the nursing home.
it's no use to pretend it's otherwise--
for every father fights with every son,
viciously, all their lives, till someone dies.
Right now the terms of battle follow thus:
"Clean up your room! Put dishes in the sink!
Don't you talk back to me! No time to fuss--
now brush your teeth! To bed, you little fink!"
They wear me down, these nightly screams and tears,
that face darkened like rainclouds fit to burst,
these silent, hate-filled glares, contempt-full jeers--
I wonder which of us will weaken first?
No matter--I'm the one who writes this poem,
but he's the one who picks the nursing home.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
#372: Witches' Brew
The proper incantation starts like this:
"A pigeon's spleen! The leg of powdered hen!
An eye of newt!" (Of course, for flavor) "Then,
for potency, a turgid serpent's hiss!
"One of the four winds!"--any breeze will do--
"Another pigeon part!" (no sense in waste)
"A tapir's stubby tail, seasoned to taste!"
(If magic fails, you'll 'ave a lovely stew.)
Throw in three pebbles off a chieftain's grave
(He doesn't want them now), then say this spell:
"Ye mournful spirits, Denizens of Hell,
Come forward! Do your damnedest! Rant and rave!"
The dogs will howl, the deadly trumpets blow...
And what will happen then? Christ, I don't know!
"A pigeon's spleen! The leg of powdered hen!
An eye of newt!" (Of course, for flavor) "Then,
for potency, a turgid serpent's hiss!
"One of the four winds!"--any breeze will do--
"Another pigeon part!" (no sense in waste)
"A tapir's stubby tail, seasoned to taste!"
(If magic fails, you'll 'ave a lovely stew.)
Throw in three pebbles off a chieftain's grave
(He doesn't want them now), then say this spell:
"Ye mournful spirits, Denizens of Hell,
Come forward! Do your damnedest! Rant and rave!"
The dogs will howl, the deadly trumpets blow...
And what will happen then? Christ, I don't know!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
#371: Last Call
Another round, bartender, set 'em up!
There's far too many empty glasses here.
You see the money--go on, fill my cup!
It doesn't matter if it's wine or beer,
or whiskey, scotch, fine port, gin with vermouth
or else with tonic--put it in my hand.
The leap is short between old age and youth--
as who among us does not understand?
Some say to drown your troubles thus with booze
is just a coward's act--to them I say
go fuck yourselves! That's nothing I can use.
Either join in, or get out of my way.
Those that remain, please raise your glasses high--
and may you always be more drunk than I.
There's far too many empty glasses here.
You see the money--go on, fill my cup!
It doesn't matter if it's wine or beer,
or whiskey, scotch, fine port, gin with vermouth
or else with tonic--put it in my hand.
The leap is short between old age and youth--
as who among us does not understand?
Some say to drown your troubles thus with booze
is just a coward's act--to them I say
go fuck yourselves! That's nothing I can use.
Either join in, or get out of my way.
Those that remain, please raise your glasses high--
and may you always be more drunk than I.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
#370: Roadkill
Raccoon, dead on the freeway: forelegs splayed
like wishbones drained of magic, and his tail
curled in, a question mark, striped like a jail-
house suit of clothes; his guts all spilled, arrayed
around about him like a proud man's gold
(the chain of intestines, jeweled green with flies,
soon pearled with maggots), then his famous eyes--
ensconced in double bruises--white and cold.
No tell-tale skids--the driver never saw,
or simply cared to little for this one
inconsequential life; only the hiss
of funereal gas, cooked by the sun,
escaping fissured skin rubbed asphalt-raw.
As if there could be poetry in this.
like wishbones drained of magic, and his tail
curled in, a question mark, striped like a jail-
house suit of clothes; his guts all spilled, arrayed
around about him like a proud man's gold
(the chain of intestines, jeweled green with flies,
soon pearled with maggots), then his famous eyes--
ensconced in double bruises--white and cold.
No tell-tale skids--the driver never saw,
or simply cared to little for this one
inconsequential life; only the hiss
of funereal gas, cooked by the sun,
escaping fissured skin rubbed asphalt-raw.
As if there could be poetry in this.
Monday, February 23, 2009
#369: Mulligan
I let it go today, so now you're stuck
with leavings, bits of thought now to be pieced
like lace--a doily at the very least.
But that's no good--ah, shit. What rotten luck.
I've got to train myself again to look
for things beyond myself to write about;
eschew these paralyzing swells of doubt
for confidence enough to fill a book.
What, three days in, and already so strapped
for inspiration that it comes to this?
Fill out the rhymes and syllables--it is
just what it is, no more. Do not get trapped.
Tomorrow, maybe, better words will flow.
Keep going now, or else you'll never know.
with leavings, bits of thought now to be pieced
like lace--a doily at the very least.
But that's no good--ah, shit. What rotten luck.
I've got to train myself again to look
for things beyond myself to write about;
eschew these paralyzing swells of doubt
for confidence enough to fill a book.
What, three days in, and already so strapped
for inspiration that it comes to this?
Fill out the rhymes and syllables--it is
just what it is, no more. Do not get trapped.
Tomorrow, maybe, better words will flow.
Keep going now, or else you'll never know.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
#368: Momentum
Look out ahead--the journey yet is long,
the path uncertain as it's always been;
and whether left is right, and right is wrong
we will not know until we've reached the end.
When darkness edges every cresting hill
and echoes do not answer to our call,
it's better to keep moving than stay still.
Does fortune owe us safety? Not at all.
There may be treasure waiting where we're sped,
or else a yawning tomb. It's all he same.
The movement is the thing--rest when you're dead.
Till then, just run the race and play the game.
Where one succeeds, another always fails.
Let lexicographers sweat the details.
the path uncertain as it's always been;
and whether left is right, and right is wrong
we will not know until we've reached the end.
When darkness edges every cresting hill
and echoes do not answer to our call,
it's better to keep moving than stay still.
Does fortune owe us safety? Not at all.
There may be treasure waiting where we're sped,
or else a yawning tomb. It's all he same.
The movement is the thing--rest when you're dead.
Till then, just run the race and play the game.
Where one succeeds, another always fails.
Let lexicographers sweat the details.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
#367: Eyewitness
It's said, behind the cobweb-colored drapes
and cataract windows, perhaps one night
of twenty, someone in there strikes a light
and walks those halls. The candle-glow escapes
through dusty panes and warping bits of wood
and sometimes through the craters in that roof--
the attic, where she died. If you need proof,
walk by there now--but I don't think you should.
I've been by there when light shone through the pane
that backed her bedroom. I have heard her moan
through that slit throat he gave her years ago.
And once I slept on her bed, when the rain
had chilled me cold as--why? Hell, I don't know.
But some things, kid, are better left alone.
and cataract windows, perhaps one night
of twenty, someone in there strikes a light
and walks those halls. The candle-glow escapes
through dusty panes and warping bits of wood
and sometimes through the craters in that roof--
the attic, where she died. If you need proof,
walk by there now--but I don't think you should.
I've been by there when light shone through the pane
that backed her bedroom. I have heard her moan
through that slit throat he gave her years ago.
And once I slept on her bed, when the rain
had chilled me cold as--why? Hell, I don't know.
But some things, kid, are better left alone.
Friday, February 20, 2009
#366: Prodigal
I'm missing this too much--the way my brain
not long ago would daily search the ground
and sky for inspiration; then, once found,
transform it to a vehicle for pain
or pleasure, memory of wrongs
or little kindnesses, or else just shapes
built to contain odd thoughts and small escapes--
dumb jokes; short stories; benedictions; songs.
The cycle ends, and one day you return
and barely know the place; the hinges rust,
the door swells in its frame. Does that home fire
still smolder under sleeping ash, still burn,
and want only this breath to re-inspire?
I'll get back in and find out now. I must.
not long ago would daily search the ground
and sky for inspiration; then, once found,
transform it to a vehicle for pain
or pleasure, memory of wrongs
or little kindnesses, or else just shapes
built to contain odd thoughts and small escapes--
dumb jokes; short stories; benedictions; songs.
The cycle ends, and one day you return
and barely know the place; the hinges rust,
the door swells in its frame. Does that home fire
still smolder under sleeping ash, still burn,
and want only this breath to re-inspire?
I'll get back in and find out now. I must.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Holy Crap--I've Been TRANSLATED!
Quick, does anyone know German?
http://www.sonett-archiv.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=155
Mine's a little rusty, and Babelfish and Ubiquity only take me so far...but still, I'm really inordinately pleased with this discovery! I mean, I'm always tickled beyond all reason when I learn that someone, somewhere is reading my stuff anyway...but to learn that I'm being read in GERMAN? That's above and beyond!
Like I said, I can't make out very much, but it's fairly clear someone's using some of the Sonnet Project entries for translation exercises...which is a use for my poetry that I whole-heartedly approve! I just wish I knew German so I could tell if they're any good or not... ;)
And Sneaky, my translator, if you're reading this--please contact me! You've made my day!
http://www.sonett-archiv.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=155
Mine's a little rusty, and Babelfish and Ubiquity only take me so far...but still, I'm really inordinately pleased with this discovery! I mean, I'm always tickled beyond all reason when I learn that someone, somewhere is reading my stuff anyway...but to learn that I'm being read in GERMAN? That's above and beyond!
Like I said, I can't make out very much, but it's fairly clear someone's using some of the Sonnet Project entries for translation exercises...which is a use for my poetry that I whole-heartedly approve! I just wish I knew German so I could tell if they're any good or not... ;)
And Sneaky, my translator, if you're reading this--please contact me! You've made my day!
Monday, November 03, 2008
And Yet MORE Poetry News!
Guess who's the Spotlight Poet for November 2008 over at well-respected and awesome poetry site The Hypertexts? That's right--yours truly, baby.
Editor Mike Burch has compiled a wonderful, extensive online poetry journal with a strong bent toward the classic and the formal, and I'm honored to have been noticed by him and invited to submit some of my best work. Not only that, but now I can say I've been anthologized with such poetry giants as Richard Moore, X. J. Kennedy, Rhina P. Espaillat, and Sonnet Boy's all-time poetry hero Jack Butler! So yeah, I'm pretty pleased and proud about the whole thing.
Check out the lovely write-up poet and editor T. Merrill gave me here, along with no fewer than 12 of my sonnets, some of them newly revised and improved. Let me know what you think!
Editor Mike Burch has compiled a wonderful, extensive online poetry journal with a strong bent toward the classic and the formal, and I'm honored to have been noticed by him and invited to submit some of my best work. Not only that, but now I can say I've been anthologized with such poetry giants as Richard Moore, X. J. Kennedy, Rhina P. Espaillat, and Sonnet Boy's all-time poetry hero Jack Butler! So yeah, I'm pretty pleased and proud about the whole thing.
Check out the lovely write-up poet and editor T. Merrill gave me here, along with no fewer than 12 of my sonnets, some of them newly revised and improved. Let me know what you think!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)