Workingman Blues   Wednesday, April 29, 2020











workingman blues


did 
some gainful
employment
today

I try
to keep such
antisocial
behavior
to a minimum
but do stumble
into it
now
and again
though
I much prefer
pecking away
at this key
board
ungainful
though it may
be
there is a certain
soul
satisfaction
to it when
the stars
are
aligned
and it
feels like
just the thing
that ought to be
done
right now
right here
with
you













Here and Now
Workingman Blues




Me



Workingman blues



Me



flashing



green pastures



anniversary thoughts on a winter night



enter the dragon



John Engels



early Morning Poem





Me



Southtown – First Friday Artwalk



happy birthday and best wishes for your continued survival



halfway house





Janine Pommy Vega



Train Ride





Me



Little Richard at the supermarket





Read at herenow.7beats.com










flashing

watch her walk

with each step
the rear of her foot rises
as weight shifts from her heel to her toe
while her shoe lags behind
and between the shoe
and the bottom of her foot
the soft pale flesh
of her instep flashes
like a lover’s wink
across a crowded room,
this most beautiful, unseen place,
inviting a caress,
a kiss,
flashing like a secret
across a crowded room












green pastures

inside cat wants
out

outside cat wants
in

rooster wants
the day
off
on
Thursday

isn’t anyone
ever
satisfied anymore












anniversary thoughts on a winter night

the cold night seeps
through the window
beside our bed,
damp, coastal cold
that makes midnight fog
fall to the ground,
frozen,
reflecting in the pale light
like the tiny sparkles
of broken glass
you see scattered
on the street
after an accident

the window,
when I brush against it,
is a cold jolt
that pushes me across the bed
to lie closer to you,
to wrap myself around you,
embracing your warmth
like an animal
drawing tight around itself,
seeking the internal fire
of its own beating heart
to protect itself
from the cold hand
of night

you
are my fire tonight
and nights past
and nights to come,
the warm nest that saves me
from cold and loveless nights,
the light that sustains me
through dark and lonely days

you
are the center of life and warmth for me

you are
and so I am

















enter the dragon



a little
guy,
looks like
Bruce Lee
when he was
young,
back when he was
Kato,
Green Hornet’s
sidekick,
before he was the
Dragon

must be a med student,
looks like body parts
in the book
he’s studying, or
it could be serial
killer school, one
or the other, some
doctors it’s hard
to tell the difference

intense
young man

seems ready
at any instant
to break the table
in half with
one mighty
karate
chop

hiiiiiiiiyahhhhhh















This poem is by John Engels, taken from his book, Sinking Creek, published by The Lyons Press in 1998.
Born in 1931, Engels grew up in Indiana. After attending the University of Notre Dame and University College Dunlin (with three years military service in the U.S. Navy in-between) received an MFA from the University of Iowa in 1957. He has published 10 collections of poetry. He died in 2007.




Early Morning Poem



Mightily detained and allured

I’ve listened to music all night,

Bix and Tram to dispel austerity,

Bachet to inform the manner,



Will Bill Davison, then

Messiaen, Hayden for grace

and comeliness, a little

Chopin for the continuity, two hou4



of Bruckner and Schumann

for the last of the wine. By two,

everything is thinning and thickening, ragged

space at the edges of things, the sofa



billowing four inches off

the floor, the air

gone milky. I stand

at the door staring across



the lawn at the bristling landscapes

to the north. I imagine

I move out, accompanied,

The circling Bear apace , the Hunter



brandishing his bow. The dogs

which have barked all night

fall silent, and then the sun

squirms from a black seed

onto the highest comb of the farthest

peak, and all the time I’ve been coming

closer, wondering how to announce

myself, afraid I’ll choke



on a clot of voice. Everything

is late beyond late, tonight

this music has been something

of an answer, the dense



speechless collisions, the mind

delicately bellowing from its fixed

centers. When I turn back

into the room I hear strings



everywhere, horns

sonorous in the corners, timpani

like something bearing

on the doors, and no voice to trouble me.












Southtown - First Friday Artwalk



it’s an art
fair
so there is much
to feed the soul

but
with funnel cake
turkey legs
bar-b-que

roasted corn
and chicken
on a stick, 
the more substantial
elements
of an art lovers
needs
are not ignored

















happy birthday and best wishes for your continued survival



I saw
in the paper
today
a picture
of a woman
celebrating
her 105th birthday

(didn’t look a day
over 95,
mentally sharp
and physically
active)

if I could maintain
myself
as well as she
I could get
another
28 years,
time enough
to see, I think,
if this experiment
in evolution called
homo sapiens
 for a while
longer
survive
its death
wish

















halfway house

the sky
is full of
stars
tonight;
the moon
bright
and almost full

if I could
throw
a line from here
to there
I’d climb
this night

halfway to
those
stars













This poem is by Janine Pommy Vega. It’s taken from her book, Mad Dogs of Trieste, published by Black Sparrow Press in 2000. Born in 1942 and died in 2010,  the poet was associated with the Beats.


Train Ride
                    For Hugh Delehanty

The afternoon elongates
blistered roots and black oak, manzanita
crack the earth
somnolent hills pass, white and crackling
the desert of our humanity stands
with dry palms at a window

Greens in the passing trees hold
glimpses of a home I’ve never seen
and look for, feet pushing into the earth
like soft mud, sucked in there
and rooted

Houses with tin roofs built in a day
when beauty was abandoned
pass by, roads I’ve never walked down
wind away
where is the path my feet will find
Immediately familiar?
Where will my body lean
on a sleepless night, a night of revelry
the stars sticking to my shoulder blades
and like a horse, be led home!

I have passed over continents
attentive to a chord struck
in the body

Language childhoods melt away
and I lean over the edge of a cliff
a tuning fork in the wind
to wake on another day perhaps
when the tide went out and I sat there
empty, examining my hands

I watch how the pages curl in a book
I’ve scrutinized for thirty years
often the illustrations blurred
and I turn to a chapter written
in an unknown tongue, and stand there
rooted, ridiculous and certain.
                           California, July 1976
















Little Richard at the supermarket


one thing everybody 
wondered about
in 1955

was Little Richard
queer
or just a fancy dresser

one thing
they all knew

he was the devil’s spawn
singing
the devil’s music

that’s why
we loved him
and everyone
with any vestige of authority
hated him and all the rest

we burned up
our tinny little 45 record players
with his music, along with
Jerry Lee Lewis
and Chuck Berry
and all the other
colored
guys,
dangerous guys,
not from our part of
town

we loved these guys
because their music made us move
like Doris Day never did,
because we were sure
every crazy, wild-assed thing
we were afraid to do
they had already done,
because they scared
the crap
out of our parents
and anything that scared
the crap
out of our parents
must be the goddamn
greatest thing
we could ever do

and while we bopped
and hopped in the gym
churches were having
devil burning parties,
tossing records into the fire
just like they had tossed
our comic books in the fire
a couple of years earlier

now the comics are collectibles
and Little Richard rocks and rolls
through the sound system
in supermarket aisles,
right over the denture cream
support hose
and little liver pills

Good Golly, Miss Molly

sometimes
we forget we won















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