road trip

jalopy dreams · Road Trip

 

we can travel together

                kick back in the lap of a classic chevy ragtop

                engine block roaring bold existence

                soaring down huckleberry highways

                the eyes of god spinning

                and every loose strand of your ponytail

                painting the desert blonde

 

we’ll hunt down all the blind spots

                eyes too wide to have corners, we’ll make up names

                for the stuff maps leave behind, trash-heap landmarks

                lost truckstop civilizations, the grand madness of utah

 

we’ll decorate the dashboard like noah’s ark

                with your collection of plastic pez dispensers

                mickey mouse and donald duck and whatever

                that frog-looking thing is suppose to be

                i’ll laugh at your cheap toys, you’ll make fun of my ugly hat

 

we can bum rush a million sideroads

                or linger too long in time traveling roadside restaurants

                jukebox juiced, shuffling dozens of yesterdays

                eat hotdogs and watermelon in a winnemucca parking lot

                pour bottled water over a broken radiator

                in arizona heat waves

 

you can make a map

                of cloud formations, i’ll navigate the radio

                we can kill the static with philosophical gibberish

                or sing along with hillbilly fiddles

                scratching out lazy love songs

 

we’ll take shelter

                in each other, and motel showers too small for two

                take epic naps and ruin most of our clothes

                in a piece of crap laundromat

 

we can witness the heartbeats of alien cities

                i’ll admit I’m lost, and you can lead me

                thru santa fe streets, explore the festival of summer

                mingle in the heat of human nature, make totem poles

                out of strangers, drink the local wine and tell true-ish tales

                of exodus and diaspora

 

we’ll pose like stay dogs

                in tourist trap photographs, you all ragdoll beautiful

        me in my ugly hat

 

we’ll merge in and out of uhaul caravans

                in grapes of wrath formation

                across the four dimensions of america

                black and white and asphalt gray

                and you can crash in the backseat, paint your toenails

                whatever color you want

 

we can vanish into blue mountains

                the way all good expeditions do

                a gospel of impulse

                nothing but myth

                and a trail of sunflower seeds    

 

 

2009

posted for the world premier of the spectacular "friday writings" at poets and storytellers united

kill the phonies!

 

kill the phonies!

 

that’s the plan my man, but first

i’ve got chores to do

i’ve got tornados in my eyes

i’ve got chainsaws to juggle

and there’s rent pay

i need to teach my shoes to levitate

before streets get too real

i’ve got to find some ice for my head

the tires on my car grow old and slow, and oh no

                                                                                i hear reggae

down the street from hermman’s hidaway

front door thumping

barefoot bass player, dreadlocks spinning

girls in black tank tops with white bra-straps showing

shoulders arms legs gliding flowing floating in liquid sound

(splash)

 

no, i said kill the phonies!

 

sounds like fun but

i’m not the warrior i used to be

(and when i say warrior i mean teenage punkrock debutante   

                and when i say fun i mean thunder-jumping

                heart pumping dumb-luck buttercup juggling chainsaws  

and when i say splash

                it’s time to dance)

and then you say “kill the phonies”

and then i say sure, and if i kill them all

you want the big stuffed bear

or more arcade tokens?

 

kill!

the!

phonies!

 

well alrighty then my angry young phony-exploding friend

let’s print up all our favorite fugazi song lyrics  

dress up like middle finger america

hit all the shopping mall bookstores

shove our literary timebombs into every copy of

get-rich-lose-weight-find-god-learn-to-play-tambourine-for-dummies

                you can fold yours like political pamphlets

                i’ll fold mine like paper airplanes

we’ll spin a revolution!

                counter revolution!

                                counter-counter revolution!

or not, i don’t know, i got to get to the grocery store

they got skinless boneless chicken breast on sale

and hold up there chachi, i hear mariachi

(splash)

 

please kill the phonies?

 

relax little brother i’m just messing with you

now let’s go kill some phonies

(and when i say kill

i mean eat

and when i say phonies

i mean grilled cheese sandwiches)

 

 

 posted for poetics at dverse                                                                                    

muddy feet

 

its all one big puddle

in the middle of my mind

heartbreaking state of things

breathtaking stage of things

strange plan or plague of things

city skyline where the wet moon perches in night churches 

and the rain preaches

pulsating puddle of city creatures

run and flee fast flowing streets

no dry hats

pure puddle of deconstruction, where the fat clouds gather together

gangs of gray donkeys stomping down the moon

gray curtains, gray windows, pounding gray drip-drop rhythms

deep fuzzy puzzle of puddle

dry-hump trash-dump downpour city of dirt angel refugees, i pray you a puddle

all night i sing you a puddle song

o pig, o hog

o swine

ham sandwich divine

square root of all puddles

nose deep blowing bubbles

you are buddha beautiful

i sink

i swoon

i drink

i bloom

i think we might float bloated corpse to the moon

o sweet marinating meat of my bacon heartstrings, let us play puddle games

bring all the rain in the world, ocean my puddle

give it the broth and boil of cities and trains

people and their breathtaking heartbreaking things

slick shimmering rainbows of wet motor oil

give it little licks of headlight and streetlamp

and concrete glitter

i jump

muddy feet and mud-pumping heart

i jump

all my water-weight, all my membranes bursting

unearthing

jump right to the pork soda in the middle

explode into a holy splash

 

 

 

 

posted for poets and storyteller united writer's pantry

the coffinsmith

 

matthews international

casket division

 

that’s what the sign says on the building across the street

and while it creeps me out completely

i wonder if they’re hiring?

 

what experience is required, do i need to be certified? ordained?

amish?

 

and what do you call someone who crafts these beautiful little haunted houses?

coffinsmith? coffinista? journeyman casketeer?

dead grandmother gift wrapper?  

i’ll need a business card

 

other job openings in my area: nuclear waste taste tester, substitute backup pickle

briner, deep sea firefighter, bubblegum food color lab tech

            interim office-temp hiring manager (but it’s just a day gig, you know

until someone publishes my pop-up book of cartoon philosophy)

 

as coffinsmith, i’ll make good money with great benefits

            401k with employer match, paid vacation

social stratification and employee discount

instead of smoke breaks i’ll pound nails in my own personal project coffin

fourteen square foot subterranean death aquarium, mini bar

surround sound, and a launch button, just for giggles

 

more employment options i should consider:

love monkey

disaster junkie, used car salesman stunt double

best supporting actor in a superficial techno-colored administrative role

semi-pro miniature golf sports radio commercial break announcer

            (and now a word from our sponsor: matthews international    

 

casket division) and i wonder what the other divisions manufacture

lawn chairs? christmas ornaments?   baby cribs? 

            when i retire, the company will throw a nice party

all my favorite people, all my favorite snack crackers

            i’ll drink until i can’t stand, then lay down in my coffin

coworkers will carry me down to the river and cheer

“he worked himself to death! all hail the coffinsmith!”

 

or i could end all this nonsense right now

            park the car in the river, between two buffalo peaks 

            nothing but a loin cloth and a slingshot

run gorilla-knuckled into the wild

 

i wonder what my high school guidance counselor might think of that

i wonder what junior-grade tax collectors might think of that

i wonder what executive marketing department senior survey supervisors

                                                                                    might think about that

 

who cares, let them make their own coffins

atlas shrugged

so ponos sleeps in

 

 

posted for open link night at d'verse

 

bowl of soup

hey rosemary, i promised you an issa tribute poem, so here we go... 

first, the rice goes into the soup

then the fish

carrots, mushrooms, leeks

the poet stirs it with a stick

 

and the song that he sings, wordless and off key, goes into the soup

and the smoke of the fire, bits of drifting ash

whatever the wind brings along

                remnants of rain

grains of earth and herb from a thousand plowed fields

 

mountains crumble in the poet’s mind

become loose boulders rolling

become round and smooth and wise

some grind down to dust and wait for the next mountain to rise

                some travel the valley

seventeen perfect pebbles roll within reach

go into the soup

 

the last drops of saki and a thread from his shirt, into the soup

 

he adds the vanishing memory of youth

all the leftover laughter of summer festival

                                        drunk friends

all the footsteps that stumble

                dew drops

                                nightingales

                                                lonely cricket

into the soup and stirred with a stick

 

the spirits of scarecrow and firefly, into the soup

the stars and the moon above, tangled in the gravity of soup  

crash into the soup

 

soup becomes universe

alive

 

the poet sits, symmetrical in silence

(night - highway - fire - soup)

 

he holds the bowl with both hands and takes little sips

                                               the soup is hot

 

 

 

 

“clear view

in the soup kettle…

the milky way”

kobayashi issa (priest “cup-of-tea” of haiku temple)

posted for poets and storyteller united writer's pantry

the sunday muse #179

 

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

grab cookies from the counter

as we go

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

this is how we play

at jeffreys’ house

 

under summer leaves

under cottonwood trees

lizards and lady bugs

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

grab some cookies as we go

 

grandmother gets ready for church

grandfather rides the porch swing

melanie wears a pretty dress

i wear a clip-on bowtie

in thru the back door

out thru the front

race around the house laughing

summer all day long

 

all these years

boarded up windows

peeling paint and creaking boards

in thru the back door

out thru the front

good to know ghosts still play

in jeffrey’s house

posted for the sunday muse

this one just fell out of the sky

 this poem was a gift from the gods, it just fell out of the sky and landed in my hand.  an ice cream truck stopped in front of my building and i recorded it thru the window, and standing there, i saw what i saw. love it when it works out like that.

jalopy dreams · ice cream truck poem

so i hear the ice cream truck coming

                outside my window

so i go to the window and look outside and see the sky is clear

                a midday blue, And the trees all have That

midsummer green about them and i think

                                                                that is fantastic

and the truck pulls up and children are waiting

and the music is playing and spare change is falling everywhere

and ice cream cones are melting everywhere

                and i think that is fantastic

and i’ve got ten dollars, somewhere, and shoes, and wait

wait right there, that’s the crazy chicken-leg lady

and her dog

and Her boxes and her bags and she’s got crazy all tangled up in her hair

 

 she’s walking right in front of us with those two crazy chicken-legs

                                                that is fantastic

 

so lets take inventory

one window, one ice cream truck, one ice cream truck vender song

we got all that

and she’s in daisy dukes and pink tee, two boxes on her left shoulder

three bags under her right arm, her car keys jingle, and she has a bell

a jingle bell on her keychain that rings everywhere she goes

                                                                                                and that is

fan-

tastic

 

she yells at her dog, who wanders around on his own,

no leash

“hey! get over here!”

and then she steps in something and it swishes

 

she wobbles, nearly topples over

hopping on one foot she looks at her flip-flop

                                                and it’s dog shit

all those boxes and bags balancing on one crazy chicken-leg trying not to topple over

                into dog shit, i tell you it’s fantastic

                                                 

and one of the kids says “hey crazy chicken-leg lady, clean up after your dog”

 

she growls and mumbles and barks

like she’s got tourettes and just smoked meth

she shakes her foot trys to kick the shit off her flip-flop

                leaning tower of boxes bags crazy lady legs flapping shitty flip-fops falling off

                                                                                and her bell just keeps ringing

                                dingalingalingaling! dingalingalingaling! dingalingalingaling!

and that is fantastic!

 

oh i laughed so hard, i laughed so hard

 

i laughed so hard i had to write a poem to celebrate it

                then went down

                                                and got some ice cream

 

posted at poets and storytellers united

the sunday muse #175

 i saw two pixies on the downtown train

i’m sure they snuck on at the parker station

i’m sure they didn’t pay

so odd to see two pixies on the downtown train

in the middle of the day

one spoke the language of sunset

the other spoke riddles of sunrise

surprise!

i saw two pixies on the downtown train

and it nearly killed me

two pixies caught wandering in the middle of the day

one says (hey play it cool)

                                                the other says (yeah act natural)

i saw two pixies walking naked thru busy city streets

buying apples

 

two pixies sitting on a park bench, shoulder to shoulder with a hobo in the middle

and they babble and they blunder

he learns all their whistles and winks, the stuff they say with the stuff between their toes

                and he learns how to raise baby birds in his beard

                                                he learns a new sutra

                becomes a buddha!

 

two pixies wander downtown after dark

two pixies in the park

one pixie whirs and twirls in autumn gold, smacking the leaves as they fall from the trees

                exploding gold, smack! Smack! Smack! rainbows of rust!  

 

the other plays fiddle

 

two pixies spotted fleeing the scene barefoot in dirty underwear

party favors and jumper cables

not a pretty picture 

two pixies, one with his head in the clouds, one with her feet in the gutter

so strange to see two pixies hijack a downtown high rise elevator

when the sign specifically says “no shirt no shoes no pixies no service”

 

two pixies on the roof of the city posed like gargoyles calling all angels

danger! danger! the strangers are here!

                                                nothing but pixie tears

                                                                then giggle and run away

                                                jumping in and out of each other’s shadow

i saw two pixies standing around downtown grooving on tunes

one of them starts to sing             (caribou… cari-boooooouuuuu…)

 

and the other plays fiddle

posted for the sunday muse

posted for dverse

chucky gravy 3rd draft

jalopy dreams · Chucky Gravy 3

great challenge idea Ingrid! look forward to hearing everyone else's poem, i'll be back later to listen

don’t take no lumps

                                out of my gravy

i say don’t beat no lumps

                                out of my gravy

cause i’ve been craving baked potato

i’ve been craving dirt fruit

put something gritty on my plate

put some soil in my soul

thirty minutes in the oven

                                is eternal

and i’ve been craving rain on hot pavement

trees with thick leaves to hide me from the sun

i’ve been craving playground simplicity

i’ve been craving crystal balls that know it all

                                and never tell

so don’t take those lumps

                                out of my gravy

oh hell no

don’t you steal no lumps

                                from my gravy

                                cause i’ve been craving love

the kind that chases me down

put both hands on the back of my neck

                when you kiss me

i’ve been craving metaphoric moon landings

and lost fate duct tape contraptions

the rehydration of the earth

streets alive, café windows full of people

eyes full of smiles, faces full of porkchop

                                (pass the gravy)

i’ve been craving wasting all my time

in old blue fords on old dirt roads

a magic stone to skip all the way to the other shore

stevie wonder’s superstition and my cherie amour

                                (pass the gravy)

that lumpy candy

cause i’m craving something chucky, something savory

something funky

                something sassy

                                it’s not crazy

just means i’m hungry for more

whatever blessing be for me

that desire

                                that earth-fire

put the fleet in my feet

put the hustle in my whistle

                                feed the soil to my soul

and pass the gravy 

posted for dverse

the sunday muse #174

 

in michigan or minnesota

                                i forget which

it’s illegal to serve alcohol to a moose

which may say something about moosekind in general

                (a drunk moose is nothing but cruel)  

or maybe speaks more about life in michigan and or minnesota

 

and maybe it says something about people in a pandemic

the skull numbing finger thumping soul screaming tic-toc of time wasting

isolation in pandemic lockdown

                                                here kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty

 

which could explain all the videos on you-tube of cat mazes

cat tea parties, cat fashion shows, fancy cat wine tastings, cat slings

cat swings and cat catapults

 

                                                which would also explain all the lost pet posters

all over the neighborhood, all those runaways hightailing to a safer space

in the wild, clutches of cats traumatized by pandemic people

scratching out cat refugee camps behind dumpsters of feline freedom

 

and all those guilt-ridden pet-parents washing their hands with anti-

viral hand soap but can’t remove the stain can’t remove the

stain can’t remove the stain can’t get clean and going insane

yes, boredom is a tale told by an idiot

full of sound and fury and furry calicos

one tortured creature begets another tortured creature

                                                                begets another

                                                                                begets another

 

and so on, until

enter deux ex machina

in times of great nothingness and no release

keep your moose on a leash

  

posted for the sunday muse