POEM - I Screamed a Scream

What I remember was White Flag chanting

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home

So where am I?

The only lyrics I could repeat of the few I could make out

Amidst a surreptitious immersion into punk

And I certainly wasn’t going to mention the Buzzcocks around my mother

Though I knew the songs by heart

Long  were the Tucson summers spent with the Jensen twins

Bruce played the clueless Wave-er

Wanting with all his heart to be Martin Gore

Belting out the dark lines of “Black Celebration”

Byron was polarly dissimilar in all but dates of birth

The consummate skate-rat wannabe rebel

Both had nerds for parents, both were bothered

Only Byron proved it as often as he could

This isn’t about them, they are vehicle, scene, backdrop

Them and the mismatched retro 50’s thru 70’s canvas

Displaying Early Christian Salvage décor of orange and earth-tones

This is 25 years later at 2AM on a Thursday

            2500 miles East of Tucson

Down a deserted South Carolina midlands byway

I’ve woken up once more to the realization that 40 came

The age of untrustability times two

On a very long day prior to another 2 very long days before some relief

Dog butt beat down dragging lazy falling to pieces punch drunk tired

I Flop down into the Blue Bomber ’83 Volvo GL

            Turn on my fancy new phone

                        Tap on the Pandora

                                    Dial in my past pleasures

The Circle Jerks station lights up the pre-pre-dawn night

            Trapped in my trusty old sedan

This will be the old scream-myself-home trick

                        Better than dying (better than fading out) better than it is to rust

And then that thing happens

            You know that thing. It’s that thing that makes poetry

The one that lets you know you timed it just right

Out of the pitch black night

            Amid the screams of Black Flag rhetoric

I am passed by a black hearse

                        Which seemed to materialize and then dissipate

From and to nowhere, perfectly

                        I could easily be convinced it didn’t even have headlights

  The moment was so right

                        So for me

                                    So punk rock

POEM - Immigrant for a Day

In the U.S. there is everything

Strata and substrate of cultures

Stacked or sorted or grouped

And no matter how authentic

How much this place or that

Is just like the old country

It is merely a transplant

On a supporting structure

Of United States soil

The streets in El Paso look like Mexico

With one big difference

They aren’t

Obvious but inexplicable

Everything changes at this border

And for the first time I was different

On that chilly January morning

I became the immigrant

Had to have the proper papers

Show that I was allowed to be there

Allowed to do my job

Nervous and uncertain

Until I got the big green stamp

Walked out the door

And into the arms of America

            It’s the favorite joke on tourists

Because this is still America,

The Americas

            Central America

The Estados Unidos Mexicanos

We were even still in the United States

            Of Mexico, in the Americas

But it is different

Not like the Utah is different from Wyoming

Because the signs in Wyoming are brown

It is that there is nothing that carries over

The gas, groceries, fast food, department stores

Houses, cars, language, speed limit and money

All pull up short at the Rio Grande

Head back to the Republic of Texas

Unaware of the warmth here

“¿Cómo se dice ‘visitor’?”

            “¡Deríamos amigo!”

POEM - Burnt Toast and Feminism

The way Grandma Steadman tells it is hilarious

She seemed like such a sweet old lady

Just out doing good

Being kind

All along always aware

Of an opportunity to be obnoxious

The framework was simple

She and Grandpa were driving to Salt Lake

With a small group of California teens

On a church trip

To a big conference

It was the late 60s and things were changing

People started to have causes

Trying to find their unique voice

Or uniting for the greater good

Most of these kids were easy going

They were young and happy

On a road trip

Almost by themselves

And they lived in Cali

What was there to be upset about?

But the new culture had been embraced

By at least one girl in the group

She liked the feeling of standing up

Making your voice heard

Supporting the underdogs

Fighting the good fight

And my grandmother knew it

Was probably waiting the whole trip

Just to poke that bear

So the group stopped for breakfast

In the age before drive-thru

They headed into the diner

Took their place at a big table

Placed their orders

Chatted the time away

When breakfast came my grandpa’s toast was burned

So he reached over

Took my grandmother’s toast

And gave her his burnt ones

That girl saw it and nearly screamed

“Why did you let him do that?”

            “Do what, dear?”

“Give you the burnt toast!”

            “Well, he’s is the man, and I do what I’m told.”

What’s funny is that she never explained

Didn’t tell her she liked the burnt pieces

Didn’t let her in on the joke

Never broke character

Never tried to sooth the beast

Went on about her business

            Enjoying the delicious burnt toast

POEM - Flushed Reveries

I. Rimbaud Made me Do It

And for the fourth time this week,

Yellow water greets my arrival

At my favorite thinking spot

So I dispose so I can repose

In relative sanitation

As my thoughts drift

To awful flotsam and jetsam, passing

Below my perch of prominence,

Down slimy pipes rushing forward

To a meeting with Rimbaud.

He knows this river.

Arthur was never one to miss

The feces among the flowers,

The blood in the wedding bed,

Vomit in the air, pervasive.

The drudge and sludge to wade in,

Some metaphor lost to putrid

Excremental thoughts.

Loose it quick,

One last vomit and I have had too much.

Stay in Hell Rimbaud

I have other business to attend to.

II. Wall Scrawl (Left on the Bathroom Wall at Maricopa Community College, c.1994)

Share something beautiful on the wall of the stall

make it sound meaningful or say nothing at all.

Petition the holy muses and write their whispered verse

create a lifelong sonnet before you're in a hearse.

So as your lower sections are practicing their art

and before you pass out from the smell of that last fart,

leave a message for all the world to see

and maybe they will read it the next time they go pee.

III. The Earthquake (California, 1991)

Floating amidst the rolling landscape

Inside a suddenly fluid second story apartment

I nearly died

Of a massive toilet enema.

Earthquakes are not in my repertoire,

Helpless, I sit,

Caught with my pants down,

Amidst the big one

I hope and pray I am not the headline

For all the morning DJs to read:

Man found with toilet up his butt,

Death ruled accidental.

Apparently he prayed

To the wrong porcelain god!

Amazing how many thoughts make appearance

Uncontrollable, massive and scattered

Like the moving fault I straddle,

Consumed in morning rituals and fear

Only able to sit and wait

For deliverance or death.

I don't think this is what my Nordic forefathers imagined

When they wished for a death worthy of a poem.

POEM - It’s Nice to See You Out and About

The man in the wheelchair

Has a good attitude

He earned his seat by accident

It broke only his neck

Not his life

An interesting point he makes

In a radio interview this morning

He said he has it easy

His trials are readily apparent

Gets stopped on the train

Or in passing

And the comment is made

            “It’s nice to see you out and about.”

He laughs a little

            Like “Congratulations! You dressed yourself!

                        And left the house! Good job!”

Easier when you have it all out there

There is another point

One not made, but obvious:

Everyone needs to be congratulated

For getting up each day

Overcoming our own handicaps

And going out into the world

And we all need to be nice

            Cuz life is like a bull elephant

Sitting on your chest and settling in

So he can watch “A Cure for Insomnia”

All 87 hours of it . . . twice

POEM - 101 Elephant Mistakes

Yeah, right! Like an elephant would do that!

I could understand a few dance steps or swirls

on those columnesque back legs,

maybe draw the occasional raised eyebrow

when they splash paint on a canvas or two:

but really it would be hard to avoid

even at the outside chance

a ramp and a meat grinder

could both be persuaded

to show up at the same time

the great ethical question that still rears its nodding head,

I mean, of course, just because you can do something of that nature . . .

having machinery of sufficient

dexterity and all of the recipes

worked out to a perfect blend

of spices and textures

doesn't mean that you should do it, after all, PETA and

the FDA are probably on the same side and that happens

never, I mean never – well . . . there was that incident with the monkeys

but that is another story, no corporate sponsorship behind that one,

but I digress . . .

So, you say that this is a new product

something that's cutting edge. I just can't see why

Campbell’s of all companies would promote this product -

these are the alphabet soup people, for goodness sake!

happy little kids eating yummy soup as a fictitious cure for

everything from the common cold to cancer!

So, you say that Campbell's - still can't believe it –

has a new soup. What would you even use

Cream of Elephant in, my gosh -

must be some sort of soufflé or othersuch Frenchy type dish.

Do they actually use the skins in the soup? Ewwww!

And the color: gray and white, not the most appetizing of hues . . .

I can't imagine the taste, it's just incredibly awffff. . . what?

What's that you say? Ohhhhhhh . . . I get it!

Red and white on the outside, gray and white on the inside,

Sorry, my misunderstanding, and no, I didn't see your book –

all right, that’s enough, you've had your laugh –

Yes, I can read what it says

101 Elephant Jokes . . . very funny, sheez!

POEM - The Thief Under the Sand Box

My earliest memory is a traumatic one

This must be what sustains it

What gives it permanence

It involves a prized possession

            And a horrific monster

When I was two we lived in Wymount Terrace

Married student housing at BYU

Known affectionately as the “Rabbit Hutches”

It was a fun for me

            There was a sand box and swing set

All down just two flights of stairs

I had just received a shaving kit

Brand new for my birthday

I could now join my dad in the morning

And knock down that stubble with ease

I had to use my dad’s shaving cream

But the razor was all mine

            Finest plastic blade available

A little dull, but it did the job

            Clean shave, no nicks ever

One day I took the whole thing down to the sand box

Set up shop

            Waited for customers

                        And played in the bright sand

I was daydreaming a little when I saw it

Out of the corner of my eye

            I saw the sand start to give way

Some black spindly legs started to emerge

And my beloved razor vanished

            Drawn down to the depths of the pit below

I was horrified and distraught

            It was then that my mother called

Rotten timing, but what could I do?

            I gathered the shambles of my kit

                        Ran up the stairs

                                    Explained every detail to my mother

All to incredulous looks and general disbelief

I can’t blame her, I barely believed it myself

Years later I came to terms with what happened

I was able to let it go . . . a little

Accompanied my wife to her class one day

A family studies class in the Cowden

They were discussing different psychologists

When one in particular was explained

My story suddenly made sense

This guy Piaget talked about being kidnapped

Oddly enough, when he was two

            But he wasn’t. He thought he was, but it was fake

It was a story, that had been told convincingly

Then he had filled in the blanks

            Made the whole thing real

I think my razor was probably the same thing

            I lost it in another way

Buried it in the sand and forgot where

            So, I made up the other story

                        Maybe to avoid getting in trouble

                        Maybe I wasn’t supposed to take the set out

Then my mind filled in intricate, horrible details

            Yeah, that’s got to be it

            That must be what happen

Still, I’m not going in that sandbox again

            And I never more take my razor outside

POEM - The Water Closet

Went to the new modern art museum

It had just opened and there were Calders

Even a couple of Warhol pieces

            Not the famous stuff

                        Some floating Mylar balloons he’d thought of

            Floating around a room aimlessly

The failing movie theater had converted

Reborn into a space for art to breathe

A new creature created by the new master

The architect had become a local star

This was his latest in a string of hits

I knew who he was from the library downtown

And because I had met his nemesis

I was delivering furniture to an amazing house

Tucked back in the Ahwatukee foothills

Looked almost like his stuff, but rounder

When we entered the second story bedroom

We were told to not worry

            The floor would hold us

The hallway floor was clear glass

            Butted up against a clear glass wall

Looking over the living room 20 feet below

I asked clumsily if this was a Bruder

The guy hung his head and shook

Like a prize fighter who is still standing

After a devastating right hook

"No man, it's mine! I designed this!"

I knew it wasn't quite Bruder’s style

Similar, but. Like I said, rounder

I told the story to my uncle

He's an architect too

He designed our house in Tucson

We were at the new museum

Discussing the art work and the building

I said "It's nice, but you know what was great?"

Without a pause he answered

"Yes, it was the restroom. Wasn't it great?"

That’s exactly right

The restroom was amazing

            Simplistic, architectural and masculine

Then he told me the thing,

The secret I thought only I knew

"You can really tell how good the architect is

by how cool the restrooms are.”

POEM - Not Quite Better Homes and Gardens

That place in Corvallis

Must have been a dive

Though it was probably called rustic

An old, tiny odd house

But I loved it there

I was five or six and oblivious

To the obvious flaws

Apparent to more discerning eyes

Those were the selling points

In my young world

All except the huge hole

In the floor of the mud room

I was certain a terrible fate

Lingered in the dark recesses

Romped and roamed in the crawlspace

Thought I saw a furry beast or two

Pop their head out and wink

Not quite human it was

But not all beast either

I would run by with wary eye

On my way to the better place

The small yard, overgrown and magical

It must have been old

I remember flowers and vines

And the whole back fence

Covered in blackberry bushes

That I gorged myself on

Whenever I got the chance

Indifferent to the scrapes

From jealous vines

Reticent to release the bumpy black fruit

If it was raining I was stuck inside

Left with limited options

To entertain myself

Tormenting my sister was a favorite

Until we would get separated

Alone, I would play with the ancient radiator

I used to lay my scraggly blond head

Against the cast iron tubes  

Until I smelled burning

Then I’d grasp the clump of singed hair

Now curly and orange

Fascinated by the transformation

POEM - Those Lowdown Blues

It had to be in ’88 when it happened

Flipped on the public radio station

Late Sunday evening

Trying to catch something to zone out to

A couple of times I caught radio plays

The best was “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”

The weirdest were the “Star Wars” ones

I listened either way

What was on this evening wasn’t a play

It was music,

Good music,

The Blues

I listened for a while

Became involved and entranced

These were old blues

Played on a turntable

Full of hisses and pops and hard to hear

The kind that grab you and don’t let go

This was the kind of show that grabbed you too

Because this guy, Bob Corritore, knew the blues

Talked about the songs

Put names and labels and stories and weight and knowledge

Into every one he could

He seemed to know them too

Had met or played with many of them

So it was even more good, more fun to hear

Like the plays I was listening to

Married to music by Reverend Bob

I got the idea to record a show or two

Listen to it in the car when it wasn’t Sunday night

The night I finally did, like it so often is

Was the night that mattered

Bob started going on about the next song

How it was a long one

Recorded a long time ago

There was even some intrigue in the story

Seems the Rolling Stones had ripped it off

Once I heard it, I knew why they had

It was “The Prodigal Son”

It was sung by Robert Wilkins

It is nearly ten minutes long

It is one of the best songs I ever heard

It changed me, man, it changed me

Over the next few months I listened

Over and over I listened

I wore out the tape listening

Listening to that gem

Right in the middle of side B

We are all prodigal sons

And the blues are how we know

Prodigal Son by Robert Wilkins

POEM - A Romantic Comedy

Shortly after the romantic comedy machine

Churned out its latest

Touchingly sweet commercial

She turns to me

With those eyes

I have loved for millennia

Turns and says longingly

She should have fought for me

She should have tried harder to understand me

That these problems we have,

Why don’t we face them

Why can’t we handle them head on

Like those people over there

And so I say something sensitive and heartfelt

Something to salvage our fragile time together

Something like,

“You have got to be kidding me!”

The reason we don’t fight harder for each other

Is we don’t have those problems

We are not complicated

We are just a couple . . .  

“A couple of what?” she asks, backing it with venom

A couple

That’s it, that’s the end of it, the whole statement

We are a couple without questions

But look how good they look

They still have problems

They are beautiful and muscular

Full of life and vigor and frivolity

Charming and brash and demure

And so interesting with their issues

Their complicated and interwoven lives

What kind of world is this

Where intriguing hot bods

Can’t find answers?

Can’t find true happiness?

Because my dear,

They don’t know what we know

They aren’t privileged

To live our great story

This legendary tale of love

And endless joy

Full of certainty

And a small sampling

Of several of the deadly sins

See, drama, we are sinners, there you go

But why don’t I look like that

With all the problems I seem to have?

It is precisely because we don’t look like that

That I have to make up problems

Just for your benefit

It’s because we look like this

That we are happy

And it is how we discovered such blissful serenity

“Oh shut up!” she says

With the launching of a pillow

And a roll towards me

To rest her head against my shoulder

Like some cheesy do-wop ballad

Wrapped in the comfort of middle-age