"Jesus! I Paid Money For This!"

For Allen Ginsberg - 1980 Recital, Bisbee, AZ

Sitting on a hard-backed folding metal chair
with today's sour lunch roiling
in my intestines,
I can really appreciate you Allen!

Wanting nothing more than a healthy shit
in a reasonably clean toilet,
I sit here squirming in pain,
marveling at the similarity
between my bowels' discomfort
and the sight of an aging faggot
masturbating his senses
with a queer rhythmic rocking
and twitching.

The Port-A-John outside
this deconsecrated church where you vomit
inane repetitious pathos
offers no sanctuary.
It has no lights
and some men don't care where
or on what they piss.
Much like you I'd say, Allen.

Perhaps my gastronomical distress
will produce an appropriate applause.
Perhaps this pain will be worth it
when a thunderous stinko fart claps
its response to your performance.

Now THAT would be a poem, Allen!

OK - I can see the torches being lit and the rope being knotted into a nice noose. Get over it. I wasn't a homophobe then and I'm not now. I was less intimidated to speak my mind back then, nor wasI afraid to use language that only those who were actually what was being named could use. This was written on the back of a paper plate on a Bisbee sidewalk shortly following Ginsberg's recital. After I destroyed the restroom in the Hotel Bisbee, actually, with a stench that probably still lingers today. The black bean burrito lunch consumed in some aging hippie granola-crunching restaurant nearly killed me. They probably never read the warning signs about washing your hands. But back to Ginsberg. Yes, I know how he strode like a giant acress the literary stage. He was the originator of rant as literature. Who am I to argue with the critics? There was a slate of poets that weekend. Two stand out. Ginsberg - who completely disappointed me - some poets just shouldn't be allowed to read their own work! Jared Carter - who blew me away. Then a bunch of others, some of which became famous - or as famous as poets tend to get these days. To be honest - I think Ginsberg himself would have liked this poem. If you are offended - sorry. If you like this poem because you think it bashes gays - you're an idiot and you didn't get it!

a Jigsaw haiku

An ecstatic child
gleeful for a snowy morn,
memory’s treasure.

I have been playing with a poetry challenge suggested by the blog - Poets Who Blog - called Jigsaw Poetry. Looking for a creative kick start I have asked friends and family to suggest words. I ask for 10 total to put in a poem, with everyone suggesting anywhere from one to ten words. One friend from high school who just reacquainted through Facebook suggested 'ecstatic, snowy and treasure. ' here is a little haiku using them. They will reappear later once I have a full ten (actually I have three sets of 10 already!

God's Awful Judgement of Sodom

Perhaps, I am told, it is me
Out of step, out of time,
Lost in a world changing
In increments too large for me
To accept willingly, spiritually,
Increasingly morally.
Call me a dinosaur (if you think it correct),
Anachronistic or reactionary, but please,
Leave me to cling to the values, the beliefs
Lovingly taught by my parents
Yet, I think, appropriate still in this new age.

In the course of time and society's seeming advancing decay
New attitudes and profligate behaviors
Chosen by a burgeoning licentious species
Obsessed with their libido
Rear in assault upon my beliefs, my values,
Reaching even further to my children,
Enjoining them to reject my teaching
Clamoring for me, my progeny, to accept
Tenets repulsive to me, to my ancestors.

Tyranny engendered of this new politic
Heeds little opposition, yet,
Intuitively I know preference is simply choice,
Not justification for parading peccant behavior.
Kindling for a cleansing fire will be found
Inevitable when conduct and rectitude clash!
Now, for my fathers, for my children, I will reveal
God's awful judgment of Sodom.

Read this one carefully. Look at it. See the Gestalt. Understand the argument. This is a specific style of poem but the reader must discover it. It is OK to disagree. In fact, that is the point of the poem! If still confused, contact me and I will give you the key.

Final Dream

The gleam of sunlight on fresh fallen snow
conceals a lone broken syringe
at my frozen feet.
Ironic imagery, I think, for
seven years lost in alternating
pleasure and pain,
eventually numbness.
Even the bite of winter wind
fails to break through
and the blurring world becomes
A fantastic kaleidoscope of color
And light.
Across the park the old woman
feeds bits of burnt toast to the pigeons.
Death, albeit belated, has finally come
I think, for me, and I hope
I do not startle her in her daily
life giving ritual
as I sink into my final dream.

Note: This poem was inspired by Poets Who Blog who had a little challenge called "Jigsaw Poem" in which ten different words were offered up by ten different bloggers with the idea of constructing a poem around them. The words were gleam, lone, broken, syringe, seven, fantastic, toast, belated, snow and bite. Toast proved to be the hardest for me, and at the same time the most inspirational as the image of the old woman feeding pigeons gives a nice counterpoint to the junkies descent into darkness.

Daddy's New Alarm Clock

It's some time around 3 a.m.
when a rustle, soft moan
and sharp cough
sit me bolt upright in bed.

Mom knows these sounds.
She stirs momentarily in her sleep,
then burrows deeper into the pillows.

But I am not connected as well.
I lack the internal psychic bond a mother has
to filter out the transient sounds
a newborn makes at night.

So I listen carefully,
energized with alarm
waiting for another noise,
any noise, to come from the crib.

When I hear my baby's intake of breath
followed by a soft exhalation,
only then can I lie back down
and drift back into peace -
until Daddy's new alarm clock
awakens me again.

In You

In you my dreams teetered
on the edge of the wind
like a fledgling stretching
pinions virgin to use.

In you my hopes nurtured
at the breast of promise.
In you my faith resisted sacrifice
on the alter of fear.

In you my heart drank
at the well head of emotion
like a water-starved fawn
finding moisture in a shaded dell.

In you all things were possible.

In you my soul foundered
tasting the kiss of betrayal.

In you I learned despair.

This was originally a 'heartbreak' poem. Over time I came to understand that it can also be an expression of failed leadership. Consider the headlines that reflect fallen religious leaders, politicians and any of the myriad heroes we prop up on pedestals, only to be disappointed by their behaviour.

Loons And I

As crazy as a loon am I
yet unlike loons, I cannot fly!
And when loons fly it seems they mock me.
Ya-honk! You fool! Until eternity!

O' upward would I sailing swing
and gracefully float high,
the clouds like rugs about my feet,
my room would be the sky.

Or would I swim in mountain streams
beyond the ken of man.
Or would I spiral to the stars
and try to know God's plan.

But no, I can't aspiring fly
to where my heart would play
and loons but mock with silver wings
as they pass by my way.