99 percent crap

I sit and write

Forgettable stuff

99 percent crap,

But i write it all down,

All kinds of forgettable

Crap.

Poems about sex

Poems about birds

and trees and oceans

and turds.

Poems about little girls

Poems about dirty old men

Who write poems about little girls;

Poems about drinking coffee

More poems about sex

Even more poems about sex

Poems about frustration

Poems about pointlessness

Poems about not getting it up

Poems about not keeping it up

Poems about losing it

Poems about being too old for her

Poems about her not caring about age

Poems about defeat

Poems about pratfalls

Lost love

Kept love

Misplaced love

Ill-considered love

Unattainable love.

Poems about punctuation,

No poems about spelling;

More poems about sex

Poems about losing your memory

Poems about boring people who

Repeat themselves

Because they are losing their memory

Poems about losing your memory

Sorry

Scratch that last one;

Poems about sad haunters of coffee shops

And bars, lamenting

The condition of their bodily functions,

The condition of their pocketbook,

The state of the union,

Global warming,

The coming ice age;

Poems about bodily functions:

Ingestion, digestion,

Evacuation,

Sweating, farting,

Masturbating,

Ejaculating…

Poems about not being able to;

Poems about wishing you had company

So you could;

Poems about poetry;

Poems slagging poems about poetry;

Poems about that delicious snugglebottom

Sitting over there working her laptop,

Please god, don’t let her be a poet;

Poems about sex;

Definitely

Poems about sex with her;

Poems about wishful thinking;

Poems about having to write poems,

Knowing most of them are forgettable

Crap

Poems like this one,

Hoping

Someday

For a one percenter;

 

Just missed

 

Again.

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Published in: on July 31, 2012 at 3:57 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Progress

Before I owned a house

all I worried about was the rent.

Now, the eavestroughs,

they need fixing–

the painters messed up

when they replaced them;

now the garden is overrun;

now i pick up dogshit;

now kitchen needs updating–

can’t let it slide,

might have to sell,

eventually;

now the front steps need painting;

now i have to mow the front yard;

now the front door…

piece of crap!

replace it!

soon i’ll have to take off the screens,

and wash the windows,

again.

Before i owned a house

all i did was pay the rent.

This is progress?

Published in: on July 30, 2012 at 4:37 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Bit of Bukowskiana

Here’s another great quote from Charles Bukowski.

 

there is nothing quite like

the arrogance of a

beginning writer

unless it is the conceit

of

a successful

one.

from ‘as Buddha smiles’ , collected in ‘The Continual Condition’

Published in: on July 30, 2012 at 4:31 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Noman the Stylite….1.

The stylites were early christian saints, who spent their lives sitting on top of pillars.   Usually they had a platform of sorts.  I first encountered Noman the Stylite when I was writing a surreal foofurah called Hunting Tygers out of Injah.  In that strange concoction Noman was accompanied by a mongander, my term for  a male mongoose.  The name Noman comes from the Odyssey, it being the name Odysseus gave to himself when dealing with Polyphemus the Cyclops.  Anyway…I have, from time to time, written little spliffs about Noman, in the style of sufi tales.   Here is one.  I shall produce more, as the spirit moves me.

Noman the Stylite had many critics.  He dealt with them all the very same way.

One would come to him, and say,   “Hey why don’t you get a regular job?”,  and Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written.”  And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.

Another would say: “Found the meaning of life, yet, holy man?”  and Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written.” And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.

Another would say: “Why do you not shave your head, like other holy men?” to which Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written”. And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.
To all such questions, Noman the Stylite would answer with a smile and “it is written.”  And the querrents would walk away, satisfied.

Noman would watch them go, and smile, and shake his head, and say:  “They never ask Where?”

Something Remaining

It’s Sunday

And I’m sitting in the food fair,

Hillside Mall

just finishing a coffee

the last remnant

of a lunch special:

soup-roll-donut (caramel apple

fritter)-coffee

 

I look at the families

mom, dad, kids,

getting ready to chow down,

celebrating the seventh day

by escaping the need to make lunch.

 

I am never

in that position

anymore.

 

I used to take my little girl.

We would go to the library,

picked up videos and books,

and then went to the food fair.

She would have hot chocolate,

with lots of whipped cream;

i would have coffee, black, no sugar.

We would watch the people

and she would sip her hot chocolate,

making moustaches with whipped cream,

and I would sip my coffee,

and she would read one of her books

and I would read one of mine, or

look around and

write in my notebook.

 

I’m still here,

but now it’s just me

and the coffee,

and a book,

and the people chowing down

and this notebook.

 

These remain.

 

Haunted Sonnet

Yes, this is an attempt at a sonnet.  Well, at least it is 14 lines, and rhymes, perhaps tortuously (?)  Thought i would make this offering as a break from my usual fare, here.

One more thing:  The Haunted Bookshop bills itself as Vancouver Island’s oldest antiquarian bookstore.  It graces a street in Sidney, British Columbia, Canada.

Haunted Sonnet

I went to the Haunted Bookshop and found

Its name’s apropos, as all around,

Along with the smell of mouldering tomes,

A throng of spirits, without any home,

Not the books, those corpses of ravaged trees,

Nor authors, obscure, famous, as you please,

But spectres, wandering wraiths like me,

Unable to locate the Demonologie,

That signed edition of Pippi Longstocking,

Or Carroll’s Snark, with drawings so shocking.

Most tragic of all, lost amid the racks,

Those standing bemusedly leafing through stacks

Of books yet unshelved, they sadly deplore

They’ve forgotten their reason for entering the store.

Published in: on July 27, 2012 at 6:42 pm  Comments (1)  
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My Love Does Not Discriminate

Let me embrace those I love, all,

Is it so terrible a thing?

Ah, discriminate, you say.

I do, I do.  Among all this dross

That cumbers the weary earth,

I choose you…and you…and

You.  Yes, three’s a crowd and five

A mob, but they are but a droplet

In the sewage lagoon of humanity.

 

And you with the cliched cheeks,

And you with the perfect mouth,

And you, standing, posing, waiting

For cappuccino, alas, not for me,

You, too.  Every day in every way

These dazzlers turn my eyes.

 

And you, possessing your place,

Full of power and assurance, you, too.

I’ll never shun you because you are male,

No more than you, because you are fat,

Or you, for your age, you, for your colour.

Where my heart leans, I let it.

It is not a rabid beast;

It needs no restraint.

 

I should have been a many-armed Hindu god,

To embrace all you whom I love.

I would then have but two regrets:

I would have only one pair of lips,

And of course,

But one eager phallus.

Jabbering Foreigners.

Dear me, I can be unkind, sometimes.  However, if one does not indulge one’s negative side, it tends to fester.  And, oh, how I cannot abide festering.  except in cheese.

Jabbering Foreigners

When I sit in semi-somnambulent gazing

Over a too-hot coffee on a sunny patio,

Or stand in a store and the racks of inedibles,

Or ride a bus on a sticky afternoon,

I have only one small irritation, well,

Shrieking brats and loud teenagers excepted,

The meaningless jabbering of foreigners,

Foreign by nature of their babbling.

 

I get so sick of signs in many tongues;

I no longer find it exotic, I am not enthralled.

My language bears my culture, it proclaims my race,

It is our only meeting place.

 

I’m not colour-blind, I do see you.  But,

When we talk, we might become brothers,

Or hate each other’s guts.  Ha Ha.  But, what the hell!

We are family,  And in the end, together.  Why?

We can talk.

 

The jabbering foreigners make my skin crawl.

They are alien to me.  I wish them no harm,

Nor do I bless them.  Just go away!  Learn English!

Your jabbering is a mask, walling you apart.

Unkind words?

Indeed.

 

However,

You in the streets of Bangkok,

You by the canals of Venice, the dikes of Holland,

You in the gasthauses in Munich.  And of course,

How could I forget.  You in the bistros of Paris,

Think of me in the same bitter way, as I

Jabber incomprehensibly  on in English.

 

 

 

 

The Obverse of Love

(A reflection of aspects of my past, but then, most poetry is, one way or another)

 

                             The Obverse of Love

I am one of those men who cannot fight;

Contention was forbidden in my house.

Never did we fight,  nor even loudly argue,

But once, and for that my father beat us,

My sister and myself, with a hairbrush,

Us, bare, kneeling side by side at the couch.

Only that once.

That one time

I felt my father’s intimate touch,

Through the medium of that wooden implement,

That touch of which affection is its obverse,

That one displayed as rarely as the other.

 

So peace reigned in its uneasy fashion,

And the lessons of victory and defeat alike denied.

Just so, anger learned to fester and

Reconciliation to starve.  And I,

I learned to shun the alien embrace of hostility.

 

I became one of those men who cannot fight,

Weapons of scold, accusation, lashing out

Send me to my knees, mute, burning up

With that delicious fury whose expression

I find so foreign,

And I am haunted

By the faces of those who evoke it.

Is that desperation I see?  Do they suspect

As I do, my way of love may be as limited

As my expression of its obverse?

 

Today

I woke up to my dog’s puking.

There he was, horking up in the hallway,

Fortunately, not on a rug.

 

I was stirred from a dozedream.

You know the kind;

You can’t tell if it is dream, or daydream.

 

Third time to wake last  night,

The others from urgings to piss,

Proclaimed by splendiforous erections,

Limiting the capacity to urinate,

While trumpeting the need.

So, I was fully awake by the time

My bladder was empty and member flaccid.

 

And not even a hot dream to enhance the experience.

 

So. In my dozedream,

I am in my next incarnation,

Or the next one, perhaps.

In that one, I am a girl

From a poor but honest family,

Struggling to get an education, and, so,

Raise herself from penury,

And to avoid, at all costs

Being possessed by the rich man’s

Intelligent and handsome, but, arrogant son,

Who is unaccountably taken with me.

 

But, once I have attained my goal,

My life seems as pointless as his,

So we fuck, anyway, in mutual desperation,

Breed more brats just like ourselves,

And die, wondering if just maybe

We have missed something.

 

Then, hanging about in the bardo,

We realize we missed absolutely nothing;

We are just stuck with coming back,

Again and again,

With the gnawing, creepy feeling

That there really is nothing to learn

From all this.

 

No.

It was not like that at all.

Just kidding.

I was merely totally pissed off,

At awaking, at my age

With a magnificent

But pointless erection.

 

So, I dozed again.

And the dog puked.