ART SAID (POETRY) BY J. BECK (2009)

Art Said

by J. Beck

CONTENTS:

Art Said

First Line

Seed

We Are Not

God, I Am Not

J-ville

Crash

Paper

Fork

Shovel

Puddle

Hag

Hollow

Cars

A Pretty Dead Deer

Sea-Shell Fossils

A Summer Sunday

Sliding Glass Door

Today, Let Us Sit

Clam Chowder

Pretty Dead Cat

Cakey Jo

Off Duty

Landstar Sweetheart

Aunt Susie

Mean Old Man

Junker

This Guy

Allen

Not Joking

What Should Remain?

Denver: R.I.P.

Let Us Go Down

Mother What If?

The Keat Side

Basil Wednesday

Wet-Spraying, White

Sandy Time

My Linda

What is Not

Living Paper

At the Lake

Ashland Cemetery

Whores

Purple Blossom Parade

A Pretty Dead Horse

Sleeping Fishes

Lie, Piling

Art Said

Art said: "Let there be a Point," (and there was.)

Art was pleased with the production of this

Point of reference, from which a perspective

May be derived. Art said: "Let there be

Line," (and there was.) Art was pleased, but the line

Was without Reason nor Purpose to guide

And direct. Art perceived the potential

Of the irrational line's product.

Art leads the random line by a Hand of

Reason to execute deliberate

Expressions of functioning forms of value.

First Line

Why was the first Line produced? What was the

Line made for? Was it drawn as a means of

Expression or of communication

Of rational reason? Was it made to

Inform, to explain, to record? Was the

First Line of Reason produced to count fish?

Or mimic objects and forms landscaping

Their environments? Perhaps a mark as

An X as an identity or a

Witness, an account or testimony

Carved into a tree, painted on cave walls,

A Line drawn in the sand as a boundary,

A stratification, dividing a

Whole. Was the first Line for a map or chart?

Of the land and seas or constellations

Of the world and stars? Couldn’t the first Line made

Be the path aAdam and Eve walked leaving

The Gate of the Garden of Eden?

Seed

I sat and talked to the devil on

A sunny afternoon and he said this:

The Tree of Knowledge and Life caused the

Fall of Mann. Eve took and ate of the forbidden fruit

And passed the curse onto aAdam, who too

Disobeyed, eating the fruit of Doom, and forced

The Hand of God, condemning Mann to die.

The Seed, also fell (from their mouth) unto

The ground and died. And so with this,

The death of Mann, Nature was born again,

Escaping the pruning Hand of God, and the Garden walls.

The tree of Eden needed Eve to sow

The seed of Nature as I needed the fruit

Forbidding Mann to inherit the land.

We Are Not

"We're who we're not." the professor lectured

I am sitting, staring, thinking to my

Self, maybe, I am starting to get this stuff--

We are simply, who we are not, like that.

We are annomyns of our opposite Selves:

Like nice people are kind because they're not mean

The rich aren't poor, the hungry are never fat

Pretty is Beauty as Truth is fact;

Givers aren't takers as the Wise aren't fools

Lovers are not haters nor are friends foes.

The naked have no clothes as Cripples can't

Walk (without a cane). The deaf can't hear (with-

Out sight,) as the blind can't see to read nor the

Dumb talk (without hands). Orphans have no parents

As the Homeless have blankets without beds.

Like that doctor is not a murderer

As a soldier isn't a baby-killer

Bankers aren't thieves nor do lawyers chase cars.

The police that honor, serve and protect

Are not criminals dealing drugs in the streets.

Laws are Order as the Proud are Moral;

Fathers go to work and home to their families

As good mothers aren't trailer-trash crack-whores

Heterosexuals are straight couples, not gay partners

Like Christians aren't suicide-bombers.

God, I Am Not

I am who I am not, to simplify

The Universe. I'm not a Creator

Nor am I a Judge but a captive of

Nature, a being, subject to Science.

I am not eternal, but temporal,

Fleshing out this blue, spinning-planet world.

Yes, I am a temporal being, sent here

As a mudd vessel made of divine spit

And terracotta clay, baptized with fire

To you, to be an Artist, to starve and

Bleed, to paint your eternal God's signs and

Wonders, for you to resist and criticize.

J-ville

At the crossroads of the Universe

The yellow light in our town is long

Sunrises climb slow, sunsets sink fast

A big faded-green Army tank stands guard

Clocks are set by the beer truck’s Monday stops

Young people parade down alleys

Smoking their underage cigarettes

I crowd my paintings in the storefront

Windows with “Steel-life,” sculptures of found

Objects and forms of negative space

Passer-byers stroll the sidewalks peek

Rarely do they stop to look or speak

They don’t understand it, but they like

They will just smile and wave saying they

Are glad I am here making my art there.

Crash

Open books scattering

Open red packs of cigarettes

Butted ash-trays run over

The easel stands alone.

Erect―flanked by lines of

Foam cups of cold coffee

Unfinished paintings hang

Off the plaster cracked walls.

There are narrow winding

Trails through the rooms of pile

One moves deliberate

One wrong move may result in

An irreversible crash

(of falling things)

In such a case one should

Get out of the way and

Turn up the music loud

Fill a new white foam cup

Sit down beside a good

Opened book empty an ash-tray

Fire up a red pack cigarette

To stare at the easel

Until the crash is over.

Paper

Paper bags

Paper wrappers

Paper hearts

Paper flowers

Paper bells

Paper stars

Paper kites

Paper dolls

Paper crosses

Paper crowns

Paper planes

Paper wads

Paper boats

Paper hats

Paper cups

Paper funnels

Paper towels

Paper plates

Paper backs

Paper targets

Paper cuts

Paper boys

Paper routes

Paper trees

Paper mills

Paper rolls

Paper reams

Paper sales

Paper money

Paper chases

Paper trails

Paper litter

Paper trash

Paper waste

Paper shredder

Paper baler.

Fork

I came a million miles to find this

Stainless steel fork Made in Korea

Sticking up out of the stone drive

Waiting for a thin treaded tire to tine

Or punky white side wall to lodge

Of an unsuspecting motorist

Apparently mean in nature and

Spirit-- it isn’t bent nor dull but

Straight and sharp and shiny as I rubbed

The dirt away that half heartily

Disguised the threatening instrument that

Could “Take an eye out” a fork’s greatest

Prize-- Until I came along and arrested

So as I stand apprehending this

Feral fork at large containing it

Inside my jacket for safe-keeping

Before daring to take another

Step I scanned the crime scene to see if

The fork had any accomplices

Like a rusty nail or broken glass.

Shovel

I am going to buy a shovel

And dig a deep hole in the Earth

I don’t believe I have enough

Life left to dig to China but

I think I can reach the crust like

Biting out a hole in a slice

Of bread when I was a child “They”

Said you were wasting food if you

Didn’t eat the pizza crust or ate

The potatoes without their skins

(I’m sure glad we didn’t have to eat

Banana peels or candy wrappers).

Would I be wasting good dirt if

I were to buy that shovel and

Dig that deep hole out of the Earth?

The Earth has plenty of holes in

What will another hole hurt it?

I want to buy a new shovel

For this job of hole-digging

I guess it could be a used shovel?

Old shovels have long hardwood handles

Made of real stamped steel not thin spoon-tin

Yes, I will buy an old shovel

One with character and experience.

Perhaps a famous shovel, one

Polished, bronzed in a glass case display

Used for a ground-breaking event

One photographed, a celebrity

Headlining a local newspaper

There must be many famous shovels

Where would a person locate such?

A shovel with a resume

Of that prestige and stature I could

Use a red wheelbarrow like a poem

To cart away and pile the Earth

From the deep hole of dirt I dug.

Puddle

I crossed paths with a young fellow in

The student parking lot and he asked

“What?” (Was different about me--) had I

Cut my hair? I nodded “Yes, but not

Because I was in any trouble

Or because I had found Jesus (Christ). ”

Then he says, “If you ever find Him,

Let me know.” I told him if he was to

Go sit in that mudd puddle he might

Find Jesus (Christ) there. He only laughed

“Or just end up with a wet ass!”

“Maybe” (but all you need is child-like faith.)

What? (Jesus (Christ) can’t be found in a puddle?)

He is suppose to be everywhere

All at once, all the time; remember

The Almighty said He would confound

Mann’s wisdom with silly stuff (foolish things).

I told the young fellow that I

Might be sitting there in the puddle

When he returns and he said “If you

Are, I will sit with you.” I wonder

Why would he wait for me to sit in

The puddle first if he really wanted

To find Jesus (Christ) for himself. I

Wonder if he would wait for me first

If he thought there was ten pieces of

Silver at the bottom of the puddle?

Hag

Old woman, what have you there in your

Shopping cart? Hag, homeless and hungry

Wearing soiled clothes that don’t match

Tell me lady, when was your last bath?

Please, don’t smile your toothless grin at me

I am not from around here lady

I owe you nothing more than a pat

On the back while politely asking

You to get the hell out of my way.

Hollow

As my oldest cousin Roger says:

“It’s not what you see, but what you don’t

See, that will hurt you.” (So does that mean?

It’s not what you feel, it’s what you don’t

Feel?) It’s the questions of life, not the

Answers that drives the mind and state of

Mann. Answers are the static inventories

The stacked and piled cardboard boxes crowding

And falling over, from the cob-web

Corners where only the old, dry air

Resides and the spider’s hollow fly

Collections are dead on display.

Cars

These old cars burn oil and take grease

Cheap, watery oil pours runny

Thin, as stringy clouds of honey.

Black, burnt dip-sticks tell the smells of

Hot, hard miles ticking a motor.

Hot, oil smells of stale ass and hot

Antifreeze smells like cotton candy.

Leaks, spots lead to knocks in the blocks

The science never fails: the life

Of a motor is in the oil.

I have had some cars in my life:

I’ve had some “Good, Old Girls,” from time

To time. And a lot of “Four-Doors,”

“Ditch-Runners,” “Big-Boats,” and “Loud-Bombs.”

I ran the wheels off an orange

Buick Skylark and crashed a white

Dodge Dart, with crush-velvet seats named

“Old Maid.” My first pick-up truck I

Called “Hope,” (it will start) it back-fired

And would spit and miss, grinding gears.

I’ve had my share of totaled

”Race-Cars,” “Lemons,” (like a Pacer,

With two broke leaf-springs) and “Caddies”

Too. I ‘ve gone through more vehicles

In my life-time then I care to

Count. My grandfathers bought, sold and

Traded horses before the Model

“A’s,” and “T’s,” while I have drove “Junk”

Until it throws a rod, blowing up

The motor or all four wheels fall off!

A Pretty Dead Deer

Winter has a way of making

The shorter days even longer

A smeared urban buck lays bloody

Ran over beside the freeway

With a ten point rack twisted back

Unnaturally the heavy head

Hung, peering over its shoulder

Reflecting the passing traffic

From a dim, blank, void look

Motionless in a crimson pile

I read the scene of the accident

From the skid marks leading to the

Point of impact smashing, dragging

The beautiful fallen creature

Streaking the hard, cold asphalt road

Peeling and rashing coat and hide

The antlers scrapped as ten finger

Nails across a classroom black-board

The urban crows filled the postcard

Orange dusk skies returning home.

Sea-Shell Fossils

I will remember their folded hands

(because they never show their feet)

There is no reason to look at their faces

They are gone―

Leaving their perfectly combed hair behind

Their eyes are closed (without dimes)

And their lips are painted shut

With a waxy make-believe smile.

I never have figured death out

Is it like a door

That opens or shuts?

Does the soul leave because it can?

Because the body is weaken and

Can no longer contain it?

Or does the body force

The soul to leave

Slamming a door shut?

The body is this three dimensional manifestation

Of an abstract soul

A stick in the mudd

With a turning leaf

Flickering in the breeze

When I (my body)

Am dead and gone

And reduced to smoke and ash

By the licking fires of death

Will blood rain down from the heavens

Once the smoke dissipates?

Where will have my essence gone, be found?

Shouldn’t my ashes be scattered into a river

With hopes my remains will have gone

To the seas and reach the eternal beaches

That the oceans lick and build

Compiling the sands of time

And someday be found

A sea-shell fossil

From a long time.

A Summer Sunday

A summer Sunday in June

Crimson, red hollyhocks bloom.

Wearing a kitchen apron

Over an apricot blouse

Weeding plastic flower beds

Trying to find out the truth

In the dirt. Her heart is burst

And her soul has been taken.

This is the first time in her

Entire life she has ever

Felt lost inside w/out God.

Where had the Holy Ghost gone?

Smearing mudd across her cheek

She wipes the tears from her eyes.

Sliding Glass Door

Erect posture, she walks and sits up straight

With an air of confidence that slides smooth

As sliding glass doors on a strict, tight track

A daring barrier allowing in clean light.

Laughing nervously the double pane glass

Door slides slowly open, breaking the seal

A clear, odorless air invades and chokes.

Short of breath, threatening to suffocate

She has to leave the room to wash her hands

Returning armed with a fan, over-sized

Yellow, rubber gloves and buckets of hot

Soapy water to wash the walls and doors.

Once the walls, doors are clean and glass sparkles

Without streaks, the sliding glass doors will close,

Properly seal―and keep the dirty air out

Allowing the clean light to shine in.

She then can go, take a hot, long shower

(behind another set of sliding glass doors)

So she will be clean enough to do it all

Again, the next time the sealed glass doors slide open.

Today, Let Us Sit

Today, would be a grand day to visit the lake

Hot and humid, steamy and hazy, cloud building

Blue skies, undefined, pushing the heat down on the

Wavy, flat-horizon-line, separating the

Fuzzy Rachael breeze and the wispy emerald waves

Silently, piling clouds slowly, train against the

Still cat-tails and pluming sea-oats outlining the

Pale limestone breaker wall shores and extended groins

The lake lazily, half-heartily, laps at the surf, stray sea-gulls

Zig-zig along the foamy wet-line, scratching, pecking for the sandy

Rewards of clam-shell muscles and dead fish eye-balls

The air is easier to breathe, the closer we

Are to the water, let us sit together here

Where the land meets the sea and soak our feet and asses.

I would really like to kiss and touch you right here

Now but, we can wait, let us sit and fill our shorts

with sediments and smoke a red-pack cigarette.

Clam Chowder

I look for you in bowls of soup

Smelling and sipping as I spoon.

I listen for your voice among

The lumps, bobbing in the cream broth.

I spoon to the bottom where the

goodies abode, laying below

The chowder-line, with hopes to find

You swimming beside clams waiting.

Offering your shell to them, begging,

Pleading that they hurry inside.

I look, as I blow, to cool each

Spoon, for fear of swallowing you.

And as I spoon and spoon, blow and look

the bowl of soup slowly down goes.

I can feel the clammys swimming

In my belly and I pray you

Are not there. I would be so glad

to find you standing here on this

Soup-spoon with your hands on your hips,

Asking me, "Where the hell have you

been?" I will only be able

To grin to sigh, smiling to find

You finally yet, I will jump

Into the spoon to be with you.

A Pretty Dead Cat

Empty words

Bounce off my face

A pretty dead cat

Lays ran over

Across the center line.

Smelling lemon water

I taste it in my mind

I hear the birds singing

Morning dirges of the past

I feel my heart jump

That slow choppy way.

I see you for the first time

Again.

You

Sitting on the lawn

In the sun

Tossing your sweaty hair

From your redden shoulders

That hinge your recline.

Grabbing, tugging

At the long green blades

Of tickling grass

With your tiny naked toes

Laughing

As kite tails smile

In the sky.

I mine your eyes,

Not for silver nor gold

That sparkle and reflects,

But the black centers

That hide your heart,

Your love and desires.

And as I peer

Back down

At that pretty dead cat

Smiling

It winks at me

And I

Laugh.

Cakey Jo

(The car license plate reads CAKEY JO)

Cakey Jo can drive while drinking a mug of

Hot Coco and smoking a long, thin

Cigarette, talking to her girl-friend’s

X’s sister’s neighbor’s cousin about

A toy, chocolate poodle with papers

On her styling Berry Black cell phone

Applying make-up, steering with her

Smooth, golden, tanning-booth knees, curling

Her eyelashes in the rear-view mirror

She peels away the white strip bleaching

Her sharp, straight, pearly smiling, teeth she

Smacks make-believe kisses with her puckered

Lip-sticky mouth to herself as the red

Light changes green and she floors her Cakey

Jo car like she has somewhere to go.

I wonder, if she decorates more

Than cakes by the way she can multi-task

Off Duty

Off duty, she goes home to her lover

Telling them, “I had my gun out today.”

The lover asked, “Were you scared about it?”

She replies, “No. I was very excited!”

Her voice trembles” It all makes my panties

All wet, again mentioning it to you.”

Placing her flat dished hat on her lover’s

Head as she slowly unbuttons the front

Of the jet black Sheriff uniform with gold

Cords highlighting a silver five-point star.

She twist her pistol-packing gun holster hips

As she shrugged her squared shoulders with a sigh;

Pushing her feet heel, toe out the backs of

Shiny Patton-leather service shoes as

The shirt falls into a pile behind her

Swaying frame reaching around for the

Velcro fasteners to a dark, tight-fitting

Bullet-proof vest. Slapping her flat protected

Chest she says, “I didn’t need this baby today!’

Sliding her hand down to the nylon pistol

Grip of her blue-steel weapon laughing, “Or

This. But I was ready and willing!” she

Leans over to kiss her lover with an open

Mouth, breathing, “It was a hostage situation

A fugitive from a “Wanted” poster

Off the Post Office wall.” (She should have been

A bounty-hunter called “Bitch-Dog!”) The hunt,

The chase, the kill, the thought of wanted

Suspects, dead or alive; the bullet-holes

The smells of gun powder and blood, the sounds

Of gun-fire and voices yelling, “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Landstar Sweetheart

Landstar Sweetheart, hammer down the road

She drives a big rig over the road

Trucking north and south and coast to coast

She doesn't know where she is going

And tries to forget where she came from

She doesn't have a Daddy and hates

Her whoring Mom. Her sister is a

Stupid bitch and her brother, a bum.

On the CB radio they call

Her Sweetie for short, yelling

Come on around Sweetie, hammer down

The road she drops the clutch shifting down

Roaring funnels of black diesel smoke

As she stomps the fuel-pedal to the

Floor wearing cowboy boots and cut-offs

A sleeveless, rhinestone button up shirt

She catches gears taking the yellow

Line inside Sweetie has somewhere

To be by this time tomorrow night.

Aunt Susie

My Aunt Susie was a real hoot

You never knew what she would pull

From out of her double D bra

If you were to ask her for something

She would carry money and even

Change while digging down in between

To say, “Let me see what I have--”

Aunt Susie would pull out silky

Handkerchiefs and gum wrappers ( laughing

She couldn’t keep chocolate without it

Melting) she carried her car keys

cigarettes and cricket lighters

Hell, I seen her pull a paper

Back book out from under her strap.

Mean Old Man

John was a mean old man

He lived in the same house

In Mansfield most of his life

John was from the old school.

He sat in his big chair

In the corner beside

The front street window

Patrolling the side-walk traffic.

Mean old John would glare out

From under a bent brow

And rigid horn framed glasses

Through bellowing clouds of smoke.

With a clean razor shaved

Face and fine tooth gelled hair

A mouth full of flat yellow teeth

He licked and chewed cigars.

John wore plaid button-up

Shirts with ties pinned and clipped

Under a vest or a sweater

Pleated slacks polished shoes.

John and great grandmother

Marie sat together

Every evening before

Bed she knitted and he smoked.

There was a big standing

Hot smelling tube old style

Radio between them

That hummed snapped and crackled.

At the end of each day

He’d butt out the last blunt

Dig for his pocket watch

To tell Mother bed-time.

John ate a bowl of warm

Milk and crumbled saltines

Before bed each night he

Crossed off another day.

Mean old John lived to be

91 Poppy said

He was so mean that God

Asked when he’d want to die.

The devil of this world

Didn’t want anything to

Do with that mean old man

John gave him a bad name.

Hell wasn’t big enough

For those two together

So John took his leather

Razor strap to Heaven.

And took a seat beside

God Almighty’s holy-throne

As he’d sat here on Earth

Smoking his big cigars.

Junker

Here comes a Junker, steeling away,

With a rusty-piling metal mountain.

The junk-truck rocks, to a stop, late for

A red light. Everyone stares straight,

No one looks, except for the Junker,

Spitting on the cracked, over-sized rear-

View mirror, to clean it with his boney,

Bent elbow. He drops and hangs the thin,

Arm long out the window, laughing loud

Slapping the dented, spray-painted name-

Labeled door-panel, peering, looking

Down, inside, at your soft ringy-hands

Steering the wheel, he points to count the

Pokes, dotting your dress, mumbling, "You

Sure have a pretty, (red lip-stick) mouth,"

And a Special,"Big- beauty-parlor

Hair-do" too. He really wants to say

Something, as he scratches his balding head

Beneath a greasy, "Nascar," ball-cap.

He'd ask for a cigarette, (needing

A light) but doesn't figure You'd smoke,

Seeing your pearly whites, smiling, nervous

Back at his rocking pile. Tipping his

Hat, he grinds the stick-shifter into

Gear, easing out, on the slipping clutch,

Leveling his drooling jaw, with an

Out-stretched, unshaved, aAdam's-apple, neck,

Pushing his rocking, piling load a

Head, as the traffic-light flashes green.

Banging, backfiring, the Junker hops

The truck, pulling his rocking pile behind

He winks back, with a dirty, old-man grin.

This Guy

This guy is always standing there in the

Same place between the front screen door of his

Small paint-chipped house with two chimneys

Built on the side of a steep hill and the

Road-side mailbox. This guy is always standing

There aimlessly staring from behind

A big round pair of glasses as thick as pop

Bottle bottoms He looks like he is lost

In his own front yard he never waves or

Nods he just stands there in the same spot each

Time I drive-by like he is watching and

Waiting for Jesus to return or an

Economic stimulus check in the

Form of a tax refund to arrive in

The road-side mailbox addressed to him

Personally from the President of

The United States of America who

Said he sincerely wanted him to have

It to spend on whatever he wants to.

I wonder what this guy is going to buy?

Allen

"Grease It," Allen grumbles, pointing down,

Squinting his beady-blue eyes, sunken

Deep into his big, thick skull, behind

A smudged pair of over-sized, reading

Glasses. He grabs the grease-gun from you, to

Do it himself, you are too slow and

You don't know what you are doing. So

He is going to show you, the how to,

To do it right. He takes the floppy

Hose in one hand and the pistol-grip

In the other. Allen pushes the end

Down on the insert and violently

Pumps the trigger, swinging his cocking

Arm, holding the hose-end onto the Zerk

Squeezing ,shoving the new, clean pink grease

Inside and out. His eyes grow big, lifting

His mean-lined brow to see how much grease

It took to push out the dry dust, dirt

Crust from the top of rubber bushing.

Cracking a crimson, tooth-missing frown

Allen slowly grins, thumbing off the

Excess, looking away, wiping it

Down the front leg of his stiff work pants

Handing you back the grease-gun, asking

Why are you wearing those work-gloves as

He picks at the bailer for a stem

Of loose hay to taste, to point out the

Next Zerk, pushing up his glasses, "Grease It!"

Mumbling, someone must have been in a

Hurry the last few times, missing that one.

So then, when you attempt to repeat

The demonstration he provided

You with, nothing comes out-- the pump-tube

Is empty and you don't know what to say

Besides you sure hope it doesn't rain.

Not Joking

Get your prostrate checked annually, when

You change the smoke-detector batteries.

(You make an appointment and keep it.)

And you will be glad you had the examine

If it means having early detection

So you don’t have to climb a ladder

Wearing a diaper to change the smoke

Detector batteries next year. Too bad

They couldn't put a cancer detector

Up your ass so it could go off and

Alert you. Only problem with that

Is you would still have to check those batteries

Too. So then I would wonder would you have

To bring your own ladder to examines?

What Should Remain?

How do you,( how should you, how could you)

Die right? May I ask? Who is to say?

Isn’t the true test of Life to die right?

To look Death in the eyes and not to

Look away, but to be brave, steadfast.

Should we welcome and entreat? Or should

We deny and defy, resist and

Fight? Or perhaps “Crash & Burn” instead

Of slowly fading, as old iron rust.

Should we live what days we have as fast

As we can or wait upon each one

To enjoy what moments should remain?

Denver, R.I.P.

Will there be riches? Will there be rewards?

Will there be crowns of gold to be thrown?

For what? A race well run? A face grown

Old? A life of dirt and mold where God

Is the Worm? There's no rest in decay.

There is no peace in desolation.

The brevity of the flesh is measured

In breathes from the first to the last.

People will forget, the mind is weak

But the heart knows, and one's drive is telling.

Although the spirit is willing there's

No prize, only bliss, laughter for

Fool, and sorrow for the living left,

There will be seed for the crow and

The sower to harvest; the electric

Fence is snapping and cracking again.

It never stops raining this time of

Year, the Corn Queen weeps, dark, cold and wet,

I need another red-pack cigarette.

I see all their faces and I have

Pity too, but where is the sorrow?

(It is captured in the joy of an

Innocent child.) Are we still at war?

Let Us Go Down

Let us go down and parade among the warm corpses

With the others, seeking their loved lost ones there among

The newly dead as the war wages on, what violence,

Mann is possible of, what violence, Mann can will to,

What violence Mann can stomach, to bring about their ends

Only the soldiers’ parents, the widows and the orphans

Understand, they have no say, in these grim matters of

War, they’re just grateful to find, to have and take their dead.

Mother What If?

Mother, what if the water stops

And fails to run out of the wall?

Where will the water come from to

Fill our skins and our empty jars?

Mother, the ground is peeling hot

The lakes are white cracked, hard and flat

The canals have been pumped away

Failing crops in the barren fields.

Mother, the river-beds are dry-draws

Even the hidden swamps are gone.

How will we wash our heads and clothes

Or quench the thirst of our parching throats?

Mother, where will the water come

From to fill our skins and empty jars?

Daughter, the water will not stop

Running, the wall will never fail.

The Keat Side

On the other side of the rail-road tracks

On the East side, where the crowded houses are small

With dingy doors open to the pot-hole

Streets plotted by narrow alleys and short

Telephone poles with droopy wires stretched

Between green-glass insulators humming,

Buzzing, snapping, and cracking overhead

As two trains pass, going opposite ways

The engineers’ blast begin, approaching

Each crossing until meeting in the middle

The sound of an opening beverage can

Can be heard, simultaneously a

Clicky Zippo lighter opens, strikes and

Flames before snapping shut with an exhaling sigh

To wipe loose hair away from mouth, with a

Smoking cigarette hand, lifting the can

To gulp, mumbling utterances in

Between swallows of being the last

The clock on the wall is always the same

Time with a dead smoke-detector battery

A staticy AM radio station

Surges in and out of reception as

A severe weather alert interrupts

The regular scheduled programming to

Announce the threat of storms on the Keat Side.

Basil Wednesday

Hot, popping tar bubbles snap beneath my slow, rolling tires

I stop for the sign and look both ways to proceed on when

I see, there laying a beautiful, blue, floral print pillow

Like, it fell down from Heaven and landed on the road as

A gift, just for me. So I put the car in Park, released

The seat-belt to climbed out, leaving the driver’s door open

To retrieve the orphaned pillow, to rescue and safe-guard

It before it gets ran over. I toss it onto the

Seat beside me as I pull off, closing the door, putting

Into gear, latching the seat-belt, simultaneously

I peer over at the sheeny, azure flower pattern

Material with a twisted red and gray cord boarder and

I just have to shake my head, side to side, laughing out loud,

To think you were still able to give me a gift on this

Special Basil (Anniversary) Day without being here.

Wet-Spraying, White

It was the first week of May, in the Spring

Of 2001, Nags-Head, OBX

I was walking the beach with my lover,

When we came upon a fisherman with

Four un-manned over-sized fishing-poles, casted

Into the ocean. Each standing erect,

Alone in the sand inside a white

PVC tubing with the tide carrying

Out the live-bait from inside a white

Foam, red rope cooler, hook, line and sinker.

I stopped to ask him what he was doing

And he laughed, looking out into the wind

At the sea saying, "Fishing, I am fishing,...

It's free." He says, "Anyone can do it,"

Noting, "As long as you have a pole," and then

He digresses, saying he had seen Cuban

Refuges who floated into the Gulf

Coast of Florida on inter-tubes

Landing alive, they collected driftwood

To fuel a fire Then they searched for broken

Fishing lines and hooks the surf washed ashore.

Wrapping it around a plastic 20

Ounce soda bottle from a trash-can

And used it to cast and reel in the line

From the ocean, baited with muscles to

Catch "Free--fish," to feed themselves as they sat

Warm beside their fire while cooking "Free--food!"

Which was the whole point of his exhausting

Fishing tale that, "The ocean is free, it

Doesn't belong to anyone and it

Belongs to all of Us, do you get it?"

I thought "Yea, I get it," shaking my head

"No," as we trailed away with the bursting

Winds, disappearing into the wet, white (sand) spray.

Sandy Time

“Allow us to debate,” says the first man

Lying the hour-glass on its side, “There is Time.”

The second man grabs and sits it back up

“You can not save Time, Time can never be stopped,”

Continuing, “Time must always go on.”

Then the first man takes the hour-glass and turns it

Upside down asking, “Can we borrow Time back?

“No, No, No,” frantic, the second man raves,

”You can not steal back Time or reverse it.”

So the first man picks the hour-glass up,

Over his head smashing it on the floor.

The second man distraught, rebukes, “What have

You done? Time is lost, stopped, there’s no Time

Left.” The first man hands the second man a

Broom to sweep the sands up off the floor, saying,

“On the contrary my good man,” as he

Bends down, taking a handful of grit, to

Sift the grains of Sandy Time left through his

Fingers, smiling down, jesting, “No, here is

All the Time, now, that you will ever need.”

My Linda

When God said, "Let there be Line," He created

Out of white light, my Linda's, beautiful smile.

A Line of horizon for which divides,

Counts, calendaring the days from the nights.

A vertical Line that shafts the pillars

of Glory that columns up the Heavens,

that separates the elements of the Earth,

Water and Fire from the flat lining Sky.

Linda is the straight Line that squares and boxes

A line that bends an angle, turns a corner.

She is the twisting, curling, moving Line

Making circles that enclose and protect.

The unsure shore-Line, parting the beaches

of piling sands from the bottom of oceans.

The tide lines that push and swell only to

recede again, pulling and sucking away.

She determines the length and strength of her Line,

being short to stretching it out long, far.

She is the speed and the force, swift or in

Waiting, fast and thin as hot pouring oil;

Slow and heavy as thick running honey.

She is the edge, the fence, the hedge, that Line

between the Good and Evil, right and wrong,

Give and take, to have and the not to hold.

A Line of Passion, Desire and Want,

The Thrill of the kill drives of the hunt.

A Line of Genius, railing and roading,

arching and bridging, building structures.

A Brilliant Line breaking through the static

zigging and zagging, piercing and crackling.

Linda is a loose and free Line coming

and going, that can and will, do and be.

My Linda's Line defines and gives Light meaning,

She is God's Art rebuking the darkness;

A willing Line that demands and commands

the Angels of Light, serving devils notice.

My Linda is God's Line that will never lie

but reveals Love and Beauty, leading to Truth.

What is Not

Yes is not no, as can't couldn't be maybe

Narrow isn't wide as straight can't be curved

Flat is not round nor a triangle square.

North isn't south as east and west never meet

Summer isn't winter as hot is not cold

Spring isn't Autumn as birth is not death.

Air is not Water, as wind is not rain

Earth isn't fire as dust isn't ash

Mountains aren't valleys as plains aren't the seas.

Feral is not tame as wild is game

Puppies aren't kittens as dogs aren't cats

And stubborn goats aren't bleating sheep,

Billies aren't nannies as kids aren't lambs.

Heifers aren't cows nor are steers, bulls

Fillies aren't mares as gildings aren't studs

Nor are beef-lot cattle race-track horses.

Healthy isn't sick, as illness is disease

Girls are not boys nor are women as men

Children aren't adults nor are fools wise

Humans aren't animals as monkeys aren't apes

Blacks aren't White as Freemen aren't slaves.

Living Paper

Note paper

Ruled paper

Writing paper

Graph paper

Typing paper

Tracing paper

Printer paper

Onion-skin paper

Sketch paper

Drawing paper

Watercolor paper

Canvas paper

Construction paper

Brown paper

Cray paper

Wrapping paper

Christmas paper

Cigarette paper

Toilet paper

News paper

Dog paper

Wet paper

Meat paper

Wall paper

Tar paper

Acid-free paper

Virgin paper

Waste paper

Recycled paper

At the Lake

On a bitter January, sharp blue air day

There are roses on the ice at the lake.

What are they doing there like that?

Who did this, did anyone see?

What were they thinking

What does this mean?

Were they thrown or were they laid?

These roses on the ice at the lake

Are wonderful, beautiful

But there is an ambiguous feeling

Of overwhelming joy

And unsettled sadness.

Are these roses

On the ice at the lake

A memorial or tribute

Of gain or loss,

A romantic tragedy

Perhaps?

I would like to believe

These roses on the ice

Are a celebration

Of true Love

Or a delight for Life

As God is a witness at the lake.

Ashland Cemetery

As I walk,

Stroll

Through the cemetery

Viewing the old, weathered stones

Limestones

With dates and names

Chiseled centuries ago

Faces of sculpture

Pale, beautiful,

Sun-bleached skin

Washed smooth

Fingers and hands broken

Arms and legs missing

Green mildew creeps up

Out of the cool grue shade

Where the magic periwinkle

Crawls and curls atop

The quiet moss.

Across the rolling green lawn

Of white markers

At a distance

There appeared something odd

As I approached for a closer look

I squint to focus my eyes to see

There stands an old soft maple

Many decades old

That had grow up in between

Two graves,

The graves of a married couple

Both grave stones had grown into the tree

Each, half exposed on opposite sides

The markers left long, deep scars

Up each side, in the bark.

I fell to my knees to weep―

The wonderment flooded my soul

To think that this married couple,

Once, separated by death

Were together again, now

Inside this living tree.

Whores

headed to the house

finally out of the barn

the girls are all milked

and the cows are fed

the game on the radio

was rained out

you could hear it outside

pounding the roof

over the fans

blowing hot yucky air

that smells of urine

and taste like

a cow’s raised tail

the flies were bad

but you hardly noticed

wipe them away

and slap on the milkers

you don’t talk

there is no one there

to hear what you want to say

“I wish I wasn’t here today”

But the girls need you

Twice a day

A hundred and fifty cow udders

You know them all by name

They never stop coming

And they will be back

It really doesn’t matter

what day it is

because every day is the same

nights are like mornings

and mornings like nights

sometimes you forget

to turn off the lights

you forget the hose

and run over the water tubs

making a mess of pen cows

you will have to milk that night

you would throw down your hat

but there is too much shit

so you kick at the air

swear and spit

sometimes feed comes out

sometimes it doesn’t

something brakes

something won’t start

if you are in a hurry

plan on being late

your obligations will understand

and your loved ones will have to wait

but a man’s family and life

can stand only so much cow

the whore will take all you have

and still want your soul

Purple Blossom Parade

Is that hay ready to go

They will always say

And they already know

That purple blossoms are on parade.

The Field knows and understands

The approaching banging sounds

And the oily smell filming the air.

There is a silence,

A hesitation

There is always a hesitation

Before the slamming flat sound

Of a steel deck onto the ground.

The tractor growls and recovers

roaring a cloud of rich black smoke.

The machine transfers power

With drive shafts & u-joints

Pulleys & belts

Knocking & slipping.

Just until

The sickle’s knives & guards meet

Comb & cut

The green, lush alfalfa.

Toppling the splendor purple flowering stands

Into the rollers

That smash the stems

Crushing and lay gently bruised

Into straight & narrow windrows.

The sun glares white & hot

Water is for sweat

Long-selves & hat protect

And a big fat pinch of chew

Chases the taste of diesel from your mouth.

You will be mowing

Hours & hours & hours

Going

Around & around & around

Until the entire field

Of hay & purple blossoms on parade

Is down.

Dead air of dust

Shattering leaf & dirt

The mower pushes & chase panicked butterflies

That flutter as fast as they can

Up & down

As their deep green cover

Disappears behind them.

As the sickle slides from side to side

Back & forth

Constant

Endless

Forward motion

Relentless

Not reluctant

For there is no emotion associated

With machines

Only function

And the only function

Of this machine is to mow down hay.

Keep air in the tires

All moving parts greased

Check the knives & the guards

Before each start.

The crows are always the first to come

I have never figured out how they know.

Do they hear the sounds of the machinery?

Or do they actually smell the blood

Of slain rodents?

You hear a bang

You suppose it is a rock

Or perhaps a groundhog

(or the occasional rabbit or cat)

going through the rollers.

Those are the kills that bring those

Big ugly buzzards

Slow dark prehistoric forms

Lofting circles

Narrowing their scavenging

From above.

Until the shadow of the hawk

flashes across the ground.

The crows fly away

While the buzzards hop & sulk.

It doesn’t seem fair to them one against seven

But the hawk will fly down

Land in the middle of them circling the fresh kill.

Daring them

With out stretch wings

Staring down

But they will not look up

Only over at each other

Taunting one another to make a move

But they won’t.

They will allow the hawk to fly away with the kill

Pretend to chase

Only to follow

With hopes the hawk may drop the prize

From it’s mighty talons.

Those ugly buzzards will lose interest

And resume their

Lazy slow ring patterns

In search of their next find.

After a long

Long day

Just before the evening dew falls

And the old air turns new

The swooping swallows arrive in their formations

To fill their bellies with displaced leaf hoppers

As you finish mowing out the V

And follow them back to the barn.

As you sit still wide-open

The tractor idles down

You feel a sense of accomplishment

Staring aimlessly into the dark

And smelling fresh cut hay

And purple blossoms on parade.

A Pretty Dead Horse

A pretty dead horse lays out flat across the road

Parked traffic filed back from the gruesome scene in two

Directions as I stop. There is a dead air silence

I can hear the ice crunch beneath my feet as I

Approach the accident. I yell, "Boy--boy," from my

Steamy mouth-hole as two rolled the twisted buggy

Black into the white ditch. "A lady is coming

Up the road with a child,...she is coming this way

Now." He looks blankly, setting his hat, grabbing a

Bicycle to ride off after the lady. I

Aimlessly stare at the pretty dead horse against

The flashing red and blue lights laying still out flat

Still warm across the salted black-ice asphalt road.

This pretty dead horse lays steaming sweat, foaming blood.

I turn my head away, I want to yell at them.

But I can only sob, "Why is this pretty horse

Laying dead in the road?" I realize as I leave

That the boy hadn't left to stop the lady and

Child, but to fetch a steel-wheel tractor and a

Chain to drag the pretty dead horse off the black-ice

Road, so traffic can go on, like nothing happened (wrong).

Sleeping Fishes

I will be lying there

In an adjustable hospital bed

Looking out the window

Between drawn vertical blinds

At the tar & gravel roof dripping

Drip

And when it is my time to go

I will take my dripping

Drip

A carton of red pack cigarettes

And get on a bus.

I will go to the ocean

To sit on the beach

And finishing my dripping

Drip

Wait

For the last sands to

Empty from my houring glass.

I should have my gently

Used copies of T. S. Eliot

And Anne Sexton in hand

To flip between the weathered

Covers with my withered

Yellow nicotine stained fingers.

I will not want to paint anymore

The easel will have out lived me

Left standing alone

Erect—

Somewhere else

Awaiting the journey

With the rest of

My unfinished works.

I will want to read now

As I try to focus my dripping

Drip

Eye-balls to read the blurry black print

From the pale dead semen pages

Of my favorite poems.

(Then I will begin to wonder:)

Is it illegal to

Smoke on the beach?

It is a public place

I am not sure?

I know you are not permitted

To walk on the sand dunes,…

I sure hope

You are allowed to

Die on the beach and

Sleep with the fishes.

When from behind me

I hear “Excuse me sir,…”

I would hope that it is

A beautiful tanned blond

Female life-guard

That has come to rescue me

From this dripping

Drip

Death

Wearing a small red

One-piece swim-suit

With a little white

Cross just above her

High hipping tan-lines

To read aloud to me.

But it is not

It is a beach police

Officer on patrol

He says

I will have to ask you to

Put out the cigarette

From that red pack

As he dismounts

A well equipped

Mountain bike

With knobby tires

I want to ask him

Why he’s riding a

Mountain bike

On the beach

But I can see

He’s really not

In the mood.

He informs me

That this is a public beach

And smoking is prohibited

As he sets the kick-stand

Down with authority.

I am speechless

Standing there

Peering at my dying

Dripping

Drip

Reflection

In his big mirrored sunglasses

With a half burnt

Red pack cigarette

Hanging from my cotton mouth

As I prepare to make a dripping

Drip

Rebuttal that I have

Come on a bus to

Die on the beach and

Sleep with the fishes.

I drop the red pack cigarette

And step on it out.

Then the beach police officer

Tells me I will have to take my dripping

Drip

Death and go die somewhere else

That this is a public beach

Where only the fishes are

Permitted to publicly die.

As he hands me a littering ticket

For dropping

Drop

The red pack cigarette butt

Onto the ground

That he had instructed me to put out

In the first place.

(I think to myself:)

I guess this answers my question?

He goes on to tell me

I can mail in a wavier

For the littering fine

To the address circled below

If I think I will be

Dead before the court date.

The beach police officer

On patrol

Concludes that

He is going easy on me

(And that’s really nice because

I am still dying here)

He said he could of

Run me in for smoking

On the beach

In a public place

Where the fishes sleep.

Then I just have to ask him

How did you know I was here?

He said there had been a call to his outpost

That someone was dying on the beach

And he caught me smoking

Responding to the alarm

While riding the well equipped

Mountain bike

With knobby tires.

He says now

He is in a hurry

And he must go

He has someone’s life to save

From dying on the beach and

Sleeping with the fishes.

I would have tried to tell him

That I was probably the person dying

But he would have never listened

He didn’t even spell my name

Right on the ticket.

(So now I wonder:)

Do I have to pay the ticket?

I guess it is too late to ask

The beach police officer

Had mounted the well equipped

Mountain bike

With knobby tires

Strapping on his helmet

Donning finger-less riding gloves

And peddled

Down the beach

With lights flashing and

Siren blaring.

And I think to myself

I am sure glad he didn’t

Turn all that stuff on when

He stopped me for smoking

On the beach

Everybody would of know

(except him)

That I was the guy wanting to die

And sleep with the fishes.

So I stand there

At the bus stop

Still dying still dripping

Drip

When I lit up another

Red pack cigarette

Shaking the sand from my

Rolled up pant legs,…

(And I think:)

So if I cannot die on the beach

Where the fishes sleep

Where am I allowed to die?

I know—

I think

In the streets

I can die in the streets

People do it all the time

It happens everyday

No one really seems to mind

As long as you die kind’ a

Out of the way

and

Don’t block traffic.

What is the difference anyway

Between public streets and public beaches?

I guess beaches have sleeping fishes

While streets have sleeping peoples.

(I wonder:)

Are there any life-guards

On the streets?

No just pissed off cabby's

Under paid trash collectors

And street police riding horses

I would want to ask

Why are they riding horses

In the streets

Shouldn’t they be riding them

On the beaches

Where the fishes sleep?

I’m getting kind ‘a confused,…

I still think

I’d rather drip die on the beach

And sleep with the fishes

Maybe I could go atop

The sand dunes and die

No one is allowed to walk

On them

So no one would

Ever know.

If I died on the streets

(I guess:)

No one would know either

Although everybody knows

John (and Jane)

Doe.

Speaking of Jane

Look

There she is now

I see the street walkers

Preening and parading

When I get off the bus

At the street corner

Maybe she will read to me

I did bring some Shelley

For just the occasion.

Where has the sunlight gone?

(There’s not much light

To read by here.)

Lie, Piling

When I am dead and gone, come to Tureo

And you will find me there, waiting for you

We shall lie, piling as piling sands lay

Like sands inside an hour-glass laying on its

Side, suspending Time at the ends of the

World where you took me, lead me by the hand

To where the Lands end, and Oceans begin

Where the sands and sediments build from the

Mass wasting of the weathering Rocks of

Ages, lie, piling, washed and sorted, licked and lapped,

Sucked down beneath by the tides, compiling Time

Where sea-gulls fly low protesting, screeching

Sermons of the white dotting Sun against the

Blue and to peer into your shimmering

Liquid, mercury eyes once more, as I had.

To see and feel, smell and hear, to taste the

Salty sweat beading your upper lip, here.

Our times together, are those sands, sifting

Through your hands and the grit is what remains.

Be

Be encouraged, so others may be encouraged

Believe, so you may be believable.

Be free, so others may be freed.

Be second, so others may be first.

Be different, so you may be a difference.

(j.d.b.2009)

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The Young Sopranos