Variations On a Theme, In the Old Style

The topic of discussion was bull frogs
I remember my father telling me about
him and his brothers when they were young
back in the late 1950’s
going out at night to the pond
with their crazy grandfather
who would smash bull frogs with a tennis racquet
as my father and his brothers
blinded them with a flash light beam
the kicker being that the frogs
would splatter every which way
through the grooves of the hard netting

this story always disturbed me
I loved bull frogs when I was a kid
often times frogs and toads were
some of my closest compadres
so I thought this thread of talk
was out of line.

(years later)

I remember sitting with her in a Chicago bar
off of Broadway
the L&L Tavern
ordering round after round of
Old Style beer
in the middle of the day
in the dead of winter
listening to the Boss on the juke
and smoking, smoking, smoking
as a few laid off teamsters brooded at the bar

“… and then whap! He would splatter those fucking bull frogs
from here to kingdom come! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

she laughed too
because the beer was good and hitting just right
and I laughed because I was drunk
and it was hitting me all wrong
one of the teamsters turned around and scowled
perhaps he was a lover of amphibians,
as well,
and a champion of all things small and slimy
and this sort of wild talk
disturbed him
as much as it did me
when I was young.

“… then (burp) they’s would wipe da’ racquet off and (hiccup) have a go
at another one of dem’ green fuckers … ha! and … shit
maybe get ten or twelve a goddamn night!”

She laughed
and I slapped my right thigh and roared
the Old Style was coming and coming
and I was comical misanthrope.

“Bartendar!”, I shouted, “A few more Old Styles! And give me the ones with
the Cubby twist caps or prepare to be whacked … like a bull frog!”

The teamsters weren’t amused
but it was me and her
and a footnote of moments
that belonged only to us
love and life and history
and a few hanger on’s
down on their luck
in that cold bar
as Born in the U.S.A.
boomed on from the juke box
in the pale light of a miserable
afternoon.

Towards Night

Kneel in this vagabond dexterity
things working on all levels

mastodon memory
vacated like a filthy squat

tell it on the mole hill
this mountain is leveled by TNT

I need this
just a plain old square dance
with me and the keyboard
the muse, the smoke, the elixir
let’s make magic!

Verse is not dead, my dear man!
just dumbed down and slightly stillborn
these days
but still beautiful,
in the sense
of the full throttle mania
of sound and vision

Take for instance
the lonely highway
I’ve wondered down to
on many occasion
like a fairytale well of pitch black asphalt
I’ve strayed over yonder
and I need to be your hitchhiker
love me
I’m bruised
beat me
I’m used
re-invent me once again
this I give you
toward full tilt alcoholic holocaust!

We’re going!

No one responds
to my text messages
and
it’s 5 minutes to 9 p.m.
early in a city
late in a small town
ready to be cast down
I feel it
spreading out all over
bleeding into hysteria

I’ll regret this come dawn
I’m pasteurized and sizzled
the cow is dead
and the crow is old

I whisper way down into the ear Van Gogh
but no one remembers
or calls me back.

When the Heart was Heavy with Hurt

she came down through the woods, and into the meadows and over to the seaside
when the heart was heavy with hurt

an ancient sadness swallowed her up
when the heart was heavy with hurt

propelled by the midnight glow that illuminates the oceans of the world
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she was standing over the cliffs with a wine bottle in hand
when the heart was heavy with hurt

clenching an arrow in her wooden teeth
when the heart was heavy with hurt

beckoning towards the jagged rocks that met the ocean waves like charging armies
when the heart was heavy with hurt

calling in whisper the name of Luther, her lost love in the fire
when the heart was heavy with hurt

and as before, no word came, no telegraph, code or missive
when the heart was heavy with hurt

even the darkness of night swallowed her image
when the heart was heavy with hurt

and still nothing like a smoke signal or a bottle rocket appeared in the sky
when the heart was heavy with hurt

the rain ran down her naked body like ants swarming
when the heart has heavy with hurt

she warmed to the memory of his hand in hers
when the heart has heavy with hurt

when once they sat on the porch swing that belonged to her great Uncle Thaddeous
when the heart was heavy with hurt

he proposed marriage, after feuding long with her father for consent
when the heart was heavy with hurt

foam mist from the violent water exploded upward like great blasts of anger
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she waited all through the war as men of power waged their campaigns of blood
when the heart was heavy with hurt

it grew darker and the storm waged around her and inside her
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she imagined somewhere across the world his bones lay in a German Graveyard
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she drank the rest of the wine straight from the bottle
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she tossed it over the cliff and watched the bottle disappear in wonder
when the heart was heavy with hurt

back at the house a rain soaked stranger, in a green overcoat, knocked at the door
when the heart was heavy with hurt

with outstretched arms she held the arrow in both hands
when the heart was heavy with hurt

the stranger seemed crestfallen to find the house alone and empty
when the heart was heavy with hurt

the tip of the arrow was pulled directly toward her chest
when the heart was heavy with hurt

he wore many colorful medals on his coat and a patch that read “Luther”
when the heart was heavy with hurt

the force of the push drove the point deep into her chest
when the heart was heavy with hurt

and the blood softly spurted
when the heart was heavy with hurt

a clap of thunder and sharp lightning strike ignited the land
when the heart was heavy with hurt

he turned suddenly, thinking her heard the faint cry of a women’s voice
when the heart was heavy with hurt

she feel from the cliff in a slow motion, like a song bird lifting off in flight
when the heart was heavy with hurt

the man in the green overcoat sat down at the kitchen table and waited
when the heart was heavy with hurt.

DARK REFLECTIONS FROM NOVEMBER 2006

Freeze warnings. In places with the last name of “Valley” …. Lucerne, Apple, and (you guessed it) Yucca. 29 degrees out in the bitter, dust drenched wasted land of the Hi-Desert. Performed two embalmings yesterday. The first was an elderly women. Used Plasdoform-25 fluid with good results in regard to skin texture and color. The second was a forty something year old female who committed suicide with sleeping pills. The note she left in crudely scrawled print started out: To Whom it May Concern ...

A thin, somewhat attractive half Latino, Mary O. was her name, and she was well abused and used up by life. It was obvious from the multiple scars, no doubt from savage beeatings by a dope fuled ex-biker boyfriend and stretch marks from child birth. Nicotine stained teeth, hard lines in the face, tattoos and even attempted tattoo removals. One tattoo in particular grabbed my attention. It was the outline of a crudely drawn heart. Black Indian ink. About an inch tall and 2 inches wide with an inch and a half scar going across the middle. Perhaps some ones name was once in the there. Maybe it was a knife scar she wished to erase from memory. It held my attention during the embalming and remains with me still: the heart shaped tattoo with the scar in the middle. Perhaps a metaphor for her suicide?

Regardless and in retro-grade, it begs the question: physical beauty abused by physical life? Trans-continental divides of back alley realities stand before the altar of pain. Chance the chess game my dear? In efforts thwarted by starved blue collar existence, Miss Mary is now a child again in the realm of the void … the empty darkness. She made the leap.

Going off to work at the Funeral Home. No doubt I will return again with the sorrow of another human tragedy pressing down on my soul. Seems as if everyone is just passing the time between birth and death. Wasted lives in slow decline. However, when you lay on that embalming table before ME ... no one is judged! All your sins and crimes are wiped clean.

ROCKING CHAIR

She was a radiant moonbeam taking flight. Something of a soft sonnet and a deep longing. The old barn yard lay blanketed in February snow. The fire crackled and sparked. Early morning. Wood burning stove. He had an old, faded colorless photo in his right hand. The year 1937 was scrawled on the back. After all this time her face could still leap from the photograph to snatch his heart straight out of his chest. Tears weld up in his eyes. For years he had tirelessly been waiting for spring … a spring that had never come.

He rocked back in forth in his easy chair with a shotgun laid across his lap. All he could hear was silence. All he cold feel was the unrelenting cold. He thought it strange, but in fact, one can actually hear silence more keenly then any sound. Some children, bundled up against the weather and walking to school, were passing the old farm house when they heard a sudden, faint pop. Like a firecracker or a flat tire. It erupted out of nowhere and in an instant was gone. It was surely something to make note of. Even if only for a moment, then let drop. Their thoughts turned quickly back to Christmas presents and fart sounds. They hurried on to catch the bus.

Inside the old farm house the man laid slumped in his easy chair. The rocking had ceased. Blood was splattered upon the wall behind him and a few drops had hit the roll top desk where he kept a bundle of letters marked “return to sender”. The photograph he had been holding rested on the floor at his feet. The silence returned, this time louder then ever.