Just Like Georgie

In Serf City, USA
I live under the shadow
of Palatine Hill.
Oftentimes
I wake up
very Mister Badger
in the wassail ruins
of Toad Hall.
Churchill’s Black Dog
follows me through the frigid streets
begging to be fed.
Old money frowns at my tattered pants
jitterbugging for nickels
in the New World.
Torquemada with a bottle of white-out
erases my footnote
In the Big Book.
It’s O.K.
I didn’t want to be in it anyway.
I’m already in my favorite book
Georgie by Robert Bright.
My mom wrote my name
on the inside cover.
The illustration
on the last page
of the little ghost
running up the steps to his home
always makes me smile,
always makes me feel
understood.
Now that’s a fine How Do You Do!

Tell Me When It's Over

Why don't you
ask me how I feel?
I'm not telling.
The noise I build
in the piss factory basement
dreams to block out
the hammer drone
of insipid discourse
ringing in every constant corner,
draped with bunting,
and troglodyte ideologies.
Your models of rational choice
give me the deep blues.
The obseqious and bellicose
canvas the stale air
with schoolyard recess sloganeering.
You can all go to hell
and I can go deaf
bleeding into the strings
that sing you there.

Cowboy Angel Everlasting

Waycross devil in a Nudie suit,

cowboy angel everlasting,

over sneaky strings I hear your sunset song.

You were right,

this whole town's insane.

When I looked 

into your stoned sad eyes

I saw my devil,

and I saw my deep blue sea,

and I saw america.

Deep and deep blue.

She's Right

We drove south to visit my parents. We slept in the room I used to share with my little sister. Many years ago, my sister and I would stand in the window between our twin beds and watch the neighbor kids playing in the summertime dusk. Our Dad would come in occasionally to remind us we were supposed to be sleeping. Bedtime was 8:30, no exceptions. At the time, I thought this was incredibly unfair. Tony, Douglas, Greg and Victor all got to play right up to 10:00, squeezing every last drop of utility out of the sun before it dove into the meanders of the Columbia. My Dad’s response to my protestations would usually invoke some virtue like moderation and/or discipline. He would always conclude by stating that you can’t have it all. I recounted all of this to her as we lay in bed listening to the sounds of breakfast being built. Nobody gets to have all of it. Lot’s of people aren’t even happy with what they’ve got. I told her that what we have is everything I need. I’m so glad she’s with me. Anyway, it’s a good house and they’re good people. That’s what she told me as we piled into Truck Truck Number 2 on Sunday afternoon and headed north for home. She’s right.

This Is Only The Beginning

One evening, Johnno and I walked into the house I lived at on 7th Ave NE to find Winkie sitting on the couch with a bottle of cheap Mezcal, shot glass, limes, cutting board and kitchen knife. He had already made a considerable dent in the bottle. The stereo was trumpeting Dexy’s Midnight Runners at seismic volume. “Hey Guys! Have a shot,” he bellowed as his head shook side to side. He had a tendency to rock back and forth and shake his head when he got wound up. At the old house on 11th, he would add pacing back and forth to this beehive dance as he gave us status updates on the latest short story or research paper. Winkie was a double major - English Lit and Art History. He was (and still is) sort of an academic Iggy Pop; he’s gonna follow his muse full throttle. “Turn that shit down!” I shouted at him smiling all the while. I produced an identical bottle of shite tequila and sat it next to the half empty vessel on the cutting board. “Let’s do a couple and head up to Johnno’s, he’s got Physical Graffiti on disc!”

“Hijinks! Hijinks, baby!” Winkie shouted as we drained a couple more shots and prepared to journey the 15 odd blocks to Johnno’s apartment in Maple Leaf. Hijinks. Winkie grabbed a hold of that word and made it his incantation, his mantra, his password to the Mansions Of The Sun. “What’s that rotgut pizza smell?” I asked as I turned off the stereo. “My pizza!” Winkie broke his recitation long enough to dash into the kitchen and come out carrying a steaming, Frisbee of cheap frozen pizza. “It’s cool enough to eat,” he said as he folded it in half and took a messy bite, “unh… want some?” I told him never and shoved him out the door towards Johnno’s CRX. “Don’t make a mess in the back and don’t roll around. This car isn’t much bigger than go-cart.”

Winkie’s hijinks mantra had rushed up to the edge of annoyance on the drive to Johnno’s. When we got up to his flat, it broke like a dam and became the central point of everything occurring in the time space continuum. “Is he ever gonna shut up?” Johnno asked keeping a wary eye on Winkie as he pinballed around the living room. “Not if I can help it!” I smiled, egging him on. “This is only the beginning!”

Jack-O-Lantern

I love the autumn.
The setting sun casts
butternut glow on the buildings
backdropped by clouds of angry gray.
October is special.
Bean and H-Towne lost their moms in October.
I lost my grandnanny in October.
They live in the wind
and harvest hued leaves,
and in the smiles
of countless jack-o-lanterns.
Every year,
I pick out
a medium sized pumpkin
and join in the ritual.
I scoop out the stringy insides
and collect the football shaped seeds
to spread on a cookie tray.
I don't start carving
until I can smell them roasting in the oven.
I put all of life's loss
into each gourd.
Like the loss I felt
in fourth grade
when the middle school kids
wrenched the little jack-o-lantern
I made for my mom
and kicked it,
and smashed it,
and shoved me into its entrails.
I put all of the friends I've lost
and will lose
into the crooked smile
or the candle that lights
the design on the front
if I'm feeling artistic.
When it's done,
I put it on the porch
and take my time
passing it
every evening when I come home.
Let it mark the doorpost
like passover lamb's blood.
Let it smile at all of the loss
until it rots.
And let it faintly shine
it's Halloween beacon
to the neighborhood gobblins
making their sugared pilgrimage
from light to light
in the dark.

Loud and Clear

When I was in 

high school

I got my hands

on a copy 

of Funhouse.

When the needle dropped

I threw myself

all around the room

and smashed my head 

on the backrest

of a dining room chair.

I heard the sound

of life

undiluted. 

The Teenage News

had arrived,

loud and clear