HANGOVERS

A world-wide experience–
Perhaps cave dwellers
quaffed remedies like mastodon blood
for the pain of sloshing down boozes.
The Roman poet Pliny–ate fried canaries,
raw owls eggs – but died of fumes from Pompeii.
Birds may be the key – the Assyrians
in the time of the cruel Sennacherib,
who was certainly a drunk, chewed
ground bird beaks mixed with myrrh.
In medieval times, maybe even the monks
slurped raw eels and cracked bitter almonds.
Placidly the Chinese sipped green tea – and still do.
Maybe the worst, Mongolians recovered with pickled sheep’s eyes.
But the Japanese only pickled savoury plums.
The good old Wild West – Prairie oysters, raw egg yolks
Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper.
A football player I knew slugged down five yolks daily
before he was thrown off the team.
You might want to avoid Puerto Rican bars,
cuz of their preventive deodorant—
lemon slices under armpits.
Bloody Marys are quite common now,
but Hemingway downed Bloody Beer.
I’m sure there are many more, maybe you have a favourite?

But if you’re a lush, a souse, a binger,
no matter– none of them work.
So you’re sitting at your special bar
or home with your favourite elixirs.
You know, you know, damn well you know–
The best and only cure is to cork the bottle.
Good luck!

Originally Published in Ink Pantry

HISTORY OF SPANKING

Mrs. Furness, my second grade teacher,
long dead now, told my mother,
“If I believed in geniuses, he is one.”
Made me her pet, skinny me, buck teeth,
owl glasses, unruly cowlick,
left in charge of the class
when Mrs. F. went to the Ladies Room.

Watched over her desk, stopped
kids from messing around.
Janie did, despite my protests,
stuck out her tongue.
Class clown, tipped over
the inkwell on all the papers,
fled to her desk just in time.

“Who did this!.” screeched Mrs. F.
“Who did this!,” spit my name.

I was mute. Janie and the class
prayed I would not tattle.

What would the kids do?
Push me off the monkey bars?
Flip me off the Teeter-Totter?
Refuse to play?
Billy once spit on Stuart.

Mrs. F., arms akimbo, glared:
“Either you tell who
or I call your Father.”
Terror squeaked out, ”Janie.”

She dragged her up front,
flashed her ruler, whipped her,
ripped her dress,
sent her to the office,
the class yelled, cried, glared.

It is said: Spare the rod, spoil the child.
And they spanked, switched
and whipped, even beat
until Dr. Spock—the Dr. Seuss for butts—
said: Wrong thing to do.

In Texas, they allow paddling again.
Triumphant Mrs. F., arms akimbo,
smiles down from above.

Originally published in Ink Pantry

LATE NIGHT MARTINI TALK

In 1981, a noted editor,
martini under a small lamp,
yawned, turned the manuscript over,
snapped off the light,
Took the last sip, tongued the olive,
went to bed, after signing
the letter informing
Gabriel Marquez his story
submitted to the New Yorker
would not be accepted.

Marquez won the Nobel Prize in ’82.
I suspect that same editor
is now quietly sipping a martini
by that same lamp, intoning,“I fucking
rejected, Gabriel Marquez,”
nodding, "I fucking…”

My story was rejected by said mag
last year. I suspect martinis ahead
for another poor fool.

Originally published in Ink Pantry

LEGIONS OF ANGELS

Though many think Him deranged,
insane—healed lepers, walked on water,
dispelled demons, raised his friend
from the dead, then, the same for Him,
most would not call Jesus a liar.
Intimate with attending angels ,
famished and broken in the desert
when they rushed to minister to Him

He responded to Pilate—
If He asked the Father,
God would send forth
twelve legions of angels,
(approximately 5,000 x 12 = 60,000),
to rescue Him right then and there,
eschew the blood and pain and death
of the old rugged Cross—
was He scared or out of His mind?

Instead, if He spoke Truth—
indeed, when released to return,
He will be joined by those angelic Beings—
horses charging from the sky,
brandishing swords and fire.
Understand the difference
between Truth and falsehood,
between reality and illusion
and know that a great cloud of witnesses
will burst forth with legions and legions
of angels and others—soon.

Originally published in Ink Pantry

CORNUCOPIA

You can’t slip and fall on sunshine.
Wagon trains never go East.
Weeds don’t know they’re weeds.
I didn’t know flowers went to Heaven.
Nailing my heart to the roof of my mind.
Bull in a china shop and you are the china.
Shoving toothpicks into the cuticle of your soul.
Sludge of a different colour.
My life is so much thinner than thick.
I was annoyed at the moon.
There is no punctuation in dreams.
Eventually it is naked and sags.
The comedic timing of an owl.
Everything has a penultimate day,
even The End Of The World.

Originally published in Ink Pantry 

CHEATING DEATH

Every second that ticks
is another nail in my coffin.
Keep on hammering.
 
I am not a frog.
I do not live in a pond.
I cannot croak.
 
I’ll never go to Israel.
Then I can’t cross
that Jordan River.
 
I will wear tennis shoes
or sandals or dress shoes.
I will never die with my boots on.
 
Poker is a game.
I’ll never cash in my chips:
I’ll hoard them all!
 
See that cowboy with the lasso?
If he gives me enough rope,
I won’t hang around.
 
I might be a radish or a flower.
When it’s time to go,
I’ll never be dead meat.
 
I have no unlucky number.
I can’t count the hairs on my head.
My number will never come up.
 
I won’t bite the dust,
May I always eat poppies
in Flanders Fields.
 
Flowers make me sneeze.
If I push up daisies,
there might be an earthquake.

I will not sidle up to the Reaper.
There will be no chance
I will brush up against him.
 
I will never go in that door.
I will ring the doorbell,
never knock.
 
I have kissed many.
My lips are sealed now.
No kiss of death for me.
 
I will specify my grave.
Please dig it five feet deep.
Never dig to six.
 
All my services will be free.
Give me no wages
for my many sins.
 
But watch out for the bore and the badger.
I guess, in the long run,
they may get me in the end.

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

AGNES' IGA

We lived two blocks from the state line,
two blocks between Illinois and Indiana.
Agnes had her store in Indiana.
Almost every day we crossed the state line,
unobstructed, unaware of any meaning.

Agnes was an old lady with a gray wig.
She was always nice to us, threw
a few extra penny candies into our bags,
not following us around the store
like other proprietors did.

It was a happy childhood memory,
but mean teen intervened.
We began to steal small things.
Agnes was pur-blind; we knew
she could not see us.

I don't remember feeling bad.
But I remember when we started
stealing empty bottles to cash in
with her after we thieved the back
of her store before her son saw us.

He called to his mom who stumbled out.
her wig askew from her hasty response, 
looked  ridiculous, plaintive call:
"Why did you do that?"

Agnes died after I moved away.
I sighed and tried not to remember
until today when an old, gray-haired lady
crossed the street ahead of me.
She looked like Agnes and I was sad.
We may try to forget, but the human heart
is a sentinel for us all. 

Originally published in Tenth Muse

LURKER

On my daily walk
in my neighborhood,
cuddled houses,
trimmed, green lawns,
saluting soldier trees,
manicured flower beds,
my dog Butter and I stroll
past a gnarled tree,
twisted, a runt,
bony fingers sky pointed,
green moss dusted
on her wrinkled bark.
Misfit body.
A witch alive in the burbs.

Originally Published in Old Red Kimono

APOLOGY TO A TREE

I thought I was so clever,
as I compared a twisted runt of a tree—
you may read that poem above—
to a gnarly witch in the burbs.

I was so proud, when I saw that older man
in his yard as I was walking my dog,
I told him of the poem, asked if he wanted a copy.

He gave me an unenthusiastic nod,
but indicated that was okay.

A few weeks went by and I did not see him.
I put the poem in his mailbox,
but did not see him at all on my later walks.

We went on a short trip
for a couple of weeks.
It was a bright, brisk Fall day
when Butter and I passed his house again.
I decided to knock on his door.

But as we moved close to his house,
I stopped and gasped.
Was I lost? No, no tree!
The witch has been cut down and I was sad.

When we walk by there now,
confronting  the stark memory,
I mumble an apology to the dirt-covered hole.
Was it my poem that killed the tree?

Originally Published in Old Red Kimono

EVENTUALLY…

Antimacassar—Crocheted doilies placed on sofa arm rests to
prevent men from smearing mustache wax and hair oil.

 When I first lifted my beautiful bride
across the doorstep to bless the luck we did not need,
I thought of her pretty knee
as it held her garter I filched off 
and threw toward a gaggle of hopefuls.

 I did not think, why would I,
of the knee replacement in our 70's
we endured, she with pain,
me with patience.

 Tonight we walked our dog,
as my wife caned her way around 
one long block for the first time,
a triumph of sorts. 

 "We've got to change that light bulb,” she said.
“Yes,”I agreed, “and put the lid on the seed can;
the squirrels are spreading them all over the garage.”

 In the past, couples sat on their once plush,
arm-worn sofa chairs, waiting out dusk.  
She said:” Arnold, please straighten the antimacassar.”
“Okay, Agnes, is that smooth enough?”
She nodded once, after a silence. 

Originally published in The Point Press

DRUSILLA

 What parent would name children after Anastasia and Drusilla,
Cinderella’s evil step-sisters in that iconic tale?
Anastasia was a poor choice I think, Grand Duchess quality,
too much dignity for a mean girl. But Drusilla, the perfect cad.

I looked up silly girl names and there were many,
some who actually had those monikers to my dismay--
Green and Autumn Harvest, hippie names 
honored Nature more than daughters,
(God--the original name of China Kantner),
Bluebell, the cheap ice cream, Desdemona and Ophelia,
thanks mom for the name of one strangled one, one suicide.
Bambi, I knew a young lady named that but it was not dear to her.

 Oh, young parents, be so careful when you peruse those books of names.
Add ie to see how it sounds before you decide. Nearly wrecked me.
Vernie--always misspelled on medicine bottles as if I were a girl. 

 Even a  cute nickname may hurt a tender heart.
Remember your own silly terms of endearment,
embarrassing if ever made public--Coochie, Honey Pot or Schmoopy--
you know exactly what I mean--so think before you leap. 
A whim of yours could be a social disaster for your child—
mocked in school, shunned on the playground.

 But Drusilla stands--a perfect name for her wickedness.
So bad it made silly Cinderella into a well-loved name, 
which, I suspect, no one ever named a child, 
but not as bad as Bippity Boppity Boo.

Originally published in The Point Press

BOXING BLUES

I.

Men have always bashed each other
and now women pummel
each other to the ground.
Points given for winning a round,
by knocking the opponent out
so they can't get up for ten seconds,
or beating them so badly a ref
decides they can't compete. 

Those were the Friday Night Fights
when I was a kid and, like most kids,
I loved what my Father loved.
Dad, my uncle and aunt
were hunched before our small
black and white TV. 
Watched the Pabst Blue Ribbon
sponsored fights between
young men, who wanted to escape
their ghettos, bashed
in the faces and brains
of those of the same background, 
hope to attain the Golden Gloves.

My brother and I
picked out our favorites
and cheered and booed. 
The blood was black on white
and black on black
which you couldn’t really see. 

II:

As I grew older, I learned boxing 
was the exploitation of poor young men,
mostly of color, but a lot of white boys
from tough backgrounds too.

Boxing was a way to glory
most did not attain— financially alluring,
dangerous and brutal—
some killed in the ring 
or brain-damaged for life. 

My best friend Marcus and I
argued because he loved boxing
and was a huge fan of a young Cuban boxer.
The poor countries also sent their youth
to a type of Hunger Games.

He defended the sport
till one day he called me up 
because his champion had been
so badly beaten he died in the ring
in what was just another amateur match.
Marcus never watched a boxing match again.

III:

Short-story writer Thom Jones
saved his own life by boxing.  
His dad was a pro fighter, 
who taught him what many call sport,
because it makes so much money
and draws rabid crowds,
unlike dog or rooster fights 
hidden in the backwoods 
of poor nations who still
send their boxers our way. 

Drafted for the Vietnam War, 
Jones had a final match and was beaten
so badly he about died, but it cancelled
his draft notice and prompted the stories.
The story that made him famous
featured his best friend,
who did not box but died in the battle
where Thom would have been killed that day,
the whole unit wiped out. 

Men and women still box.
Fans still cheer, no matter.
Different eras, same results. 

Originally published in The Tenth Muse

RETIRED GARDENER

Massive sunflowers grow in our park.
My wife only able to mince her limited steps.
No wind. The flowers never nod.
She, a flower only nods once now.

Originally published in The Tenth Muse 

SOUL

We must have one,
everyone says so.
To be souless
one of the worst
condemnations.

A soul cannot be seen,
inside a body that is seen,
body feels pleasure and pain,
the soul just absorbs.

Where does the soul go?
I think it waits for renewal
occupies non-space
because there are too many
and waits, waits

until the artistry of God
paints a new body on it,
the colors of incorruptible flesh.

Originally published in Cantos Magazine

A WHITE POET REFLECTS

I am an older white man who writes poems
about myriad topics—about my first plane trip,
a harrowing flight to see my mother,
a poem about the Beatles,
one about book buying idolatry,
another whimsical one about the moon.

This white man went to an inaugural
celebration of a new Black poet laureate.
He listened to her beautiful lyricism.
She wrote of her life, her people, her history:

racial childhood experiences, fear for black children,
school trauma, civil disobedience, gun violence, water fountains,
police encounters, Black beauty, sexuality, lynchings, sit-ins,
inequality, language, Tulsa, etc. etc. etc., across centuries.

I marveled at her wonderful poetry.
But a strange question sneaked in.
Was she trapped by her history?
Did that almost totally define her subjects?
Two young black poets followed,
spoke only of their Black lives.

These Black poets wrote mostly of oppression
from slavery through Jim Crow,
Civil Rights, Black Lives Matter,
the exigencies of their current lives
and how every speck of those lives
was affected by their history and culture.

It was not only for now—the history
of Black poetry is rife with
the pain, the courage, the longings,
the faith, the ever battle.
Ever a choice?

How much freedom do Black poets
have to write of Nature, silliness,
an exciting vacation,
the ill-treatment of animals.

Oh, I know Black poets write on many subjects,
but I’ve never heard that variety at these readings.
None of the poems read that night reflected
on anything but race. In my own poems,
I understood the dimensions of freedom
and what it truly means. I understood
the depths of white privilege.

Originally published in Valiant Scribe

PUPPET TALK

How I feel about these times. Anon.
I move my feet 
I dance and dance,
up and down, up and down,
cannot stop. 
The cares of the world
marionette me
all around and around
up and down, up and down.
I cannot exit.
The curtains never close.
Characters appear 
and disappear.
They whisper, 
point, direct,
shout, push. 
Who is the stage master?
Who is the Stromboli?
Will they ever reveal
who they are and why
did they do this?
Pity me, poor fool—
dancing, dancing
up and down 
and all around. 

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

CIRCUMSTANCES

“It is far easier to make war, than peace.”— Georges Clemenceau

may well determine history,
far more real than the best laid plans of men.
In 1914 the Archduke and Duchess of Austro-Hungary
traveled to make peace in a dangerous area.
On the return the driver had the wrong map.
Trapped them in an alley where a nobody 
caught and Glocked them and WW I
blew up, killing ten million in four years.

Five years later, three white men,
Wilson, US, 
Clemenceau, France,
Lloyd George. Britain
had the hubris to remap the world
as if they were gods.

Created Yugoslavia which fell apart
in genocidal violence
Carved out Iraq and
we know how that turned out.

A cloud cover saved Kokura, Japan.
Too hard to see, “Fat Boy”
destroyed over 50,00 in
second choice Nagasaki
in less than five minutes.

Rejected the freedom petition 
of a waiter in France, 
Ho Chi Minh of Viet Nam
and killed 4 million Vietnamese,
57,000 American GI’s.
The best laid plans of mice too
are often ruled by circumstances. 

Originally published in Blood And Honey

INCOMPETENCE

In 1943, disillusioned German officers
planned to assassinate Hitler.

History hangs on skill or incompetence.
Disgruntled Nazi officers
plotted to gift der Führer
with a bomb in a whiskey package,
but the mis-wired detonator
on the plane didn’t go off.

An unnamed man did not do it right.
He must have been chosen
for his competence.
A dud bomb meant certain
death for the gifters.

When they arrested the doomed officers,
the failed bomber was among them.
Terrible grief in the prison
prior to the hangings.

I am sure he was very careful
and tried his best.
We can only guess if the lives
of millions of humans
may have been saved.

Originally published in Blood And Honey

LAWN HISTORY

What is more American than a lawn?
Maybe even a fetish for some.
Dad, like everyone, had a push mower. 
He said it would make his boys into men faster.
Insisted we go door to door for jobs,
$5 a cut and throw in free edging.
A way to learn business and earn cash.

We were small and frail,
the push mower nearly crippled us,
and the edger handle blistered our hands.
You don't talk back to your dad.
We blistered and grunted.

Moved to a thoroughbred farm.
Overjoyed that Dad rented a big mower.
Lawn-free through my teen, college,
and hippie/radical years.
Only landlords needed mowers. 

Got married, built a house,
contractor sold the black dirt,
left hard clay behind. 
My pregnant wife and I laid straw
to protect the grass seed,
but the wind blew and a bee stung my mate,
who cried all the way to the emergency room.

Sod and neighbors saved us—
at least in the front—
the back raised itself.

I cut for years with my old gas mower,
until it got so hard to pull that damn rope.
Easy peasy with an electric for a while
till short breath slowed me down—
right into cardio world—
three stents and no more cutting

I look at my lawn this morning.
The neighbor boy cuts it well.
Needs after school cash and no pain.
Some say no more cutting anyway.
Let it grow for the bees and good insects,
Some cities let you now.

Is there grass to cut in Heaven?
Eden watered itself.
Will the grass recycle then on its own,
no grass cutting as part of no suffering.
Won't know till I get there. 
And maybe mowing will be fun again, 
the clean air of paradise blessing that chore.

 Originally published in Macrame Journal

HIPPIES VS THE BANK

There was a time, indeed there was a time,
when hippies, despite ragged jeans,
torn tie-dyes, no bras, long hair
or hair under gals' pits and on their legs,
beads the vivid colors of parrots, 
sandals and dirty feet, weed Heaven, 
psychedelic dreams--had power.

We had created co-op businesses,
ways of sustaining our culture.
A record store, SOUNDZ, an art co-op, ART START,
METAMORPHOSIS, our veggie restaurant, 
a clothing store, THIMBLE AND THREADS, 
our food co-op, EARTHWORKS.
Trucked fresh food down from the big city,
brought (YOU’D BETTER BE READY)
granola to life, by our Jesus freaks, 
(everything was alternative), even an alternative
tropical fish store, OCTOPUSES’ GARDEN,
our own print shop, HOTT OFF, 
run by Crazy Frank to get our news out,
GOOD VIBES, a competitive electronics store, etc.

We spent—our parents had money
and we could scrounge with the best. 
But we did not have an alternative bank.
That big grey monstrosity still smirked
over our tiny business hovels,
as we stored our cash in their coffers.

But the fat cats got too fat,
dollars from the poor weren't wanted.
The poor shopped at our stores.
The bank stopped taking their stamps.
We could not serve our neighbors.

I was there for the showdown,
the fight at not OK Corral,
the suits vs the rags.

Our burgeoning little community 
had more than a million in the vaults.
"Either accept food stamps again
or we walk." How faces change,
how smirks disappear. 
Our rights, restored. 
America was alright again
in one tiny way. 

Originally published in Corvus Review