Jon, I'd be honored. I'll e-mail one when I get home from work,'bout 2400, (after I crack my first beer). Then, whenever you get the chance.
Gracias!
Hobo Jungle
If I've posted this before, just don't read it. I sent it to Madsen today, and hadn't read it in a long time. It's one of the only poems I ever got paid for on publication. I think it brought a Ben. Someone illustrated it in the magazine. I hated the illustration, but the Ben spent good.
BLESS THE OPEN DOOR
We sit on the burning bench seat
Of a 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass,
One side torn like a plowed furrow,
That side sewn closed by a truck.
(She had walked back one night,
Found a chrome strip on the street,
Found a door handle half a block away,
These pieces seemed familiar,
Shiny trinkets in a nightmare.)
And now with me we sit
on this hot hot bench seat,
Past used car lots we drive,
Limp by in the wounded Cutlass
Searching for a southbound ride,
Evanston, Illinois to Laredo, Texas
Then Mexico, the land that draws dreams.
The August sun is a flare of desire,
The August heat a rising of blood,
My eyes lost in the bent neon
Of the bar signs singing in the shade.
And I turn to her—long red hair
Her pale skin glistening, moist
And I say: "How about, how 'bout
A cold glass of draft beer?"
And everything I know, all I feel
Is in this moment of passing
From the scorched pavement of the street
Through the open door of the barroom:
Into the empty afternoon barroom,
Into the large tidy clean barroom,
Into the cool shade of the barroom,
The fan-strummed quiet of the barroom
Smelling faintly of everything—
Of cleaning fluid, tobacco, humanity.
The long row of ordered stools,
The creak and scrape as we mount,
As we mount the joy of possibility,
My eyes released to the darkness,
My sticky arms resting on the cool dry wood.
And then the tap handle pulled back,
And the two glasses pearled with moisture,
And our hands reaching out touching wet cold
The anticipation of the first foamy sip.
My body slowly ebbing the irritation
Of scalded used cars and greedy salesmen;
I want to yell for just being,
For the fact that poetry can exist,
But instead I quietly look at her—
At the dripping glass at her lips,
At the way south waiting between us,
The burning Cutlass left in the sun.
BLESS THE OPEN DOOR
We sit on the burning bench seat
Of a 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass,
One side torn like a plowed furrow,
That side sewn closed by a truck.
(She had walked back one night,
Found a chrome strip on the street,
Found a door handle half a block away,
These pieces seemed familiar,
Shiny trinkets in a nightmare.)
And now with me we sit
on this hot hot bench seat,
Past used car lots we drive,
Limp by in the wounded Cutlass
Searching for a southbound ride,
Evanston, Illinois to Laredo, Texas
Then Mexico, the land that draws dreams.
The August sun is a flare of desire,
The August heat a rising of blood,
My eyes lost in the bent neon
Of the bar signs singing in the shade.
And I turn to her—long red hair
Her pale skin glistening, moist
And I say: "How about, how 'bout
A cold glass of draft beer?"
And everything I know, all I feel
Is in this moment of passing
From the scorched pavement of the street
Through the open door of the barroom:
Into the empty afternoon barroom,
Into the large tidy clean barroom,
Into the cool shade of the barroom,
The fan-strummed quiet of the barroom
Smelling faintly of everything—
Of cleaning fluid, tobacco, humanity.
The long row of ordered stools,
The creak and scrape as we mount,
As we mount the joy of possibility,
My eyes released to the darkness,
My sticky arms resting on the cool dry wood.
And then the tap handle pulled back,
And the two glasses pearled with moisture,
And our hands reaching out touching wet cold
The anticipation of the first foamy sip.
My body slowly ebbing the irritation
Of scalded used cars and greedy salesmen;
I want to yell for just being,
For the fact that poetry can exist,
But instead I quietly look at her—
At the dripping glass at her lips,
At the way south waiting between us,
The burning Cutlass left in the sun.
-
Jackie Blue
Leah is a beauty, Peter. I like the rainbow behind her. Has she lost some front teeth? Wish her a happy belated birthday for me.
Nice one Tramp! I have read that one before, and it is one of my favorites. Are you going to watch the Patriots game at the tavern today? Or do you not like football? I've always loved the game.
Ciao til later.
Nice one Tramp! I have read that one before, and it is one of my favorites. Are you going to watch the Patriots game at the tavern today? Or do you not like football? I've always loved the game.
Ciao til later.
-
Jackie Blue
No, it never snows in Austin. Maybe since I've stated that, we'll actually get some snow down here. Jack has no idea what snow is. He's only seen it on television. That's a shame! By this time next year, he'll have plenty. Last winter for us in Texas. In fact, last anything for me in Texas. Nothing but ignorance,death and heat here.
Wear some respiratory protection and go watch the game. Pretend you heard there was a SARS outbreak in Belfast. Tell JA and Denise "hey" for me.
Wear some respiratory protection and go watch the game. Pretend you heard there was a SARS outbreak in Belfast. Tell JA and Denise "hey" for me.
Very nice, Tramp! I swear I was in that same bar.
Go Brady, Go Dillon, Go Patriots!! (gotta root for my Dad's team, ya' know)!! The pork loin is smoked, the potato salad made, and plenty of cold brews!!
Tramp, are you ever gonna tell me if you fixed the problem on your layout? If you're running in conventional only, (especially with 35' loops) have you insulated the center rails at certain points and wired in power blocks?
Go Brady, Go Dillon, Go Patriots!! (gotta root for my Dad's team, ya' know)!! The pork loin is smoked, the potato salad made, and plenty of cold brews!!
Tramp, are you ever gonna tell me if you fixed the problem on your layout? If you're running in conventional only, (especially with 35' loops) have you insulated the center rails at certain points and wired in power blocks?
-
San Diegan
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