A Broken Heart Life

They
say you can
die

of a
broken
heart

she
said to me
once

but

I
am more
likely

to get
hit by a
car

We were
castaway people
from the

other side
of the
glass

she
had lived

a crumpled
dollar bill life
like

a tattoo
on Downtowns
arm

her
kisses tasted
like

lipstick and
vodka

I
was thinking
about  

a sober Chistmas
but
she just

shook
her head

She
had hardluck
blues

Quality
House liters
the only cure

When
I would
leave

her,
to walk the
eight blocks

to the liquor store

her
face would be grey
as a cypress barn

When

I would
come back from
day labor

mornings

with
the brown paper
package

her
eyes would light
up like

I
just got out
of prison

I
see her
still

a thousand faces

sad old ladies

giddy little girls

she
was the saddest
muse

she
died of a
broken heart

Other Side

The people from
the other side
of the glass
don't drink
in the clubs
with the white-tooth
crowd laughing.

The people
from the other
side of the glass
gather at places
filled with the
frowning uglies:
the sad and angry,
the given up.

The people from the
other side,
the other side ,
the other side of the glass
dont dance
and kiss each others
cheeks upon meeting,

they just check
their reflections in
liqour store doors
to make sure they
are still there.

Writers Conference

Drinks with Buk, and

I'm half in the bag

when Miller Williams

shows up, he is from Hoxie

not far from where

I grew up and

I love his voice,

sort of half chant -half chat.

The bird blows his horn

for us and sometimes it's

Monk on piano,

but they are subtle.

Not like Buk,

he grabs me by

the cajones,

jars me into thought.

You've got to come

at 'em from

where you are

Got to be real with 'em.

I set aside his words

and stir the cubes

in my glass with my

finger, taste its wetness.

Crossing to the kitchenette,

the other side of the room,

I bump into Billy Collins

a new friend to me

but great for a laugh.

Digression is the key,

reasonably good grammar,

and a smooth digression.

Then, in that great way

he has, he makes me

smile like we have

a shared secret.

Monk attacks the keys,

like a meth laden

ninja with a fist full of

chinese throwing stars.

He doesn't say much

but now I am thinking

about cool broken rhythms

and improv technique.

Hungry.

Maybe some scrambled eggs

and whiskey.

crazy deb needs a new pair of shoes

crazy deb was
a prom queen
gone bad
and she stood
 and cried
and prayed
one day like
she had
learned in vacation
bible school
all that time
ago over
tuna sandwiches
 and red
kool aid
jesus what
she wouldnt do
for a hit of dope
but god didnt care
or the
tricks were scared
so she went
back to the
little room
where she stayed
and stared
on better days
at the
soiled curtains
and black greasy hand
stains
around the
doorknob door
and shadows
in the corners
and the pulls
on the drawers
unblinking
thinking of the
tattered carpet floor
and her scuffed soled
shoes by the bathroom
were tired and ready
to sleep
and they were
sick of getting high
and beating
down the street
or flying
near her ears
on her toe curled feet
so
they kicked back and settled
down
while the crazy prom queen
came unwound

The Forsaken

Sinners and Saints

of Second Street

shift restlessly and

knelt and prayed.

Heavenly Sun passed

behind thorny crowned

buildings downtown

on a slow baptismal

plunge into the river.

A double minded man

offered up dime stone

burnt offerings

to gods to foul 

have names.

Lost and blind

panhandlers shared

potluck dumpster

offerings and

screw top bottles

of wine

The mentally ill

on pharmaceutical fasts

had visions and

dreamt dreams.

A lonely angel

flapped her wings-

unhappily, impatiently-

and Jesus whispered

with Jackie Masons voice

in my ear.

I turned away

and Jackie shrugged,

hands deep in his pockets,

I turned my back

and Jesus wept.

Hope Erodes

A river runs
black and white
and red
and yellow.
A river runs,
with old men,
and young,
women and
children.
Flowing over
church steps,
into basements,
into souplines,
and flophouses.
They surge forward,
coarsing and rolling,
hungry and displaced.
A river runs
through the country,
through the Delta,
through the state.
A river and it's
thousands of tributaries
runs and flows
and hope erodes.

Who will bend backs
to change its course?

Who will build dams
to stop it?

Whistle

In her all alone time
she smiled
half crooked smiles
and whispered
his name aloud
sounding wicked
as red.
Sometimes thinking
back to the first
time she had seen him
whistling
a sad nameless tune.
She didn't exactly
teach Sunday school
but she prayed at night
and called Mother often
and kept teddy bears
and trinkets
and lived well.
Her high school
Knight had lost his shine
and most of his hair.
He sold cars
and watched television
and ate Tums.

Arianna's beauty
was unfaded.
She was like music
heard from far away
drawing you near.
Like Hamlin's rat
he came to her song.
He was the talk
of the big little town
they lived in,
and whenever the
old women mentioned him
they shook their heads
and made comparisons
to the Grandfather he'd
come to see whose
own grandfather
had fought the English
with his face painted blue
and sired the first
of their line to
come to America.

He sat on a park bench
drinking bourbon
from a paper sack
and felt a twinge of guilt
that he didn't like Scotch.
Listening to trains
and their slow
metered steps moving along
tracks quickening
to roaring din.
Lighting a smoke
he thought of her.
Something kind of close
to love, he smiled
then picked up
his ditty and whistling
headed out of town.

Capitol Mornings 14

The neck tied

shoe shined and

the lipsticked 

pantsuited

rush into days

grinding hours, 

past Quick-marts

and pawnshops

and Mexican restaurants

to grey and glass

office buildings

reaching head and shoulders 

towards a 

cotton candy sky.

RED

YELLOW

GREEN LIGHT

intersections crowded, 

used car lot specials 

and tool-laden pick-ups

and Mc Single moms

late for Mc Shifts

at Mc Dead-end jobs.

The sad-faced unshaven

wait with cardboard signs

and upturned palms;

gravel-voiced pleas

smell faintly

of yesterday's drink.

Little Rock stretches

and yawns and shakes herself awake;

and blowing on Turkish coffee too hot to drink, 

I bid her Good Morning and open my laptop waiting

for the day to write itself.

I never wonder

I never wonder
why you love me
You are so filled
with affection you
cannot contain the magic
.
Instead I wonder
why you stay.

Why you stay
and listen to my
excuses for losing
another job, and
tell me things will
be better soon

Why you sit quietly
and listen to me
as I drink and
become more brilliant
by the minute
until finally
I am just an ass
who pisses in
the closet not
knowing where
I am.

Why you would
scrap together the
last few dollars
to get me a bottle
even though you
never had a drink
in your life and
could use a new brassiere
because the old one
is worn out and
it's the only one
you've got.

I often wonder at
night after you have
drifted off why it is
that you stay
with a mean old
bastard who
calls himself a poet,
based on the pile
of rejection slips
stacked up
like some great
paper mountain
waiting to be scaled
by only
the bravest souls.

Why, I wonder
do you weep sometimes
when I read my words
aloud to you,
when you are so
tough on the rest
of the world
a lioness with
bared teeth
at the ready

I never wonder
why I keep on loving you

forever,

though I don't
deserve to.

Summertime

There were three children,

two boys and a girl,

though she remained 

unaffected by roles

dictated by cultural whim.

Summers kept them 

busy outdoors seeking 

new adventures

on the farm built 

with Grandfathers hands.

The hottest days found 

them spraying each other

with the waterhose or

riding castoff bicycles on 

hard packed dirt road. 

Sometimes they would sit 

in silence for an hour or more

searching for lucky clover

in the same yard Grandmother

once swept with a broom. 

Rarely did they see

miles away neighbors

or others their own age

and the bond they shared

was stronger still.

Years later, sister 

became a woman

and the brothers fell

for the same girl,

but shared memories 

of summertime 

never change.

Paula

Things don't happen by chance,

that's what she said

When we inexplicably became

Facebook friends.

I followed her link to a site

and saw her paintings.

And photos.

I saw her soul.

I never do this sort of thing.

I've never chatted with a stranger.

She had the bluest eyes,

the funniest way of talking,

she had a tortured past.

I had an adult beverage,

and unlimited minutes.

We talked every night for hours

 like two teens who'd never loved

And she came to visit once.

She brought paints and poems

and a great glass for drinking. 

It was like striking a wooden match

to life, bursting brilliant with flame.

But I dropped it before the burn, 

a little scared I guess, and

I haven't seen her since.

Again

And just as the sun begins,
in frozen yogurt hues,
the third hand car with its
grinding clutch and
its squeaking brakes
rounds the corner
creeping guiltily home
and she is relieved that
he is not dead
or locked up in jail.
She stands in the open
doorway hurt and angry and
scared that he'll never
quit binging and grow up
to be a father to the boy.
That the next may be the last.

She slams the door shut.

This is it then, he thinks,
she will leave me. This is the
last time, I swear it.

One last chance.
He is sorry
again.

You're so special? You're sad!
You can't stand to be with me?
I see it coming you know...
I am not stupid, just because
I don't say....

Tortured soul artist? So...
special? You hurt us-
you hurt me. Nobody even reads that
shit but me.
Come to bed, I love you.

And so it goes, a hundred,
maybe a thousand times more-
and it will be this
one day
that makes him sad.

Great Book

I just finished Larry Brown novel "Joe" and I cannot get over it. If you haven't read his stuff- you must. If you have, then you already know how powerful this gifted southern writer is. Great writing, great story, great characters!

If...

If I won a million bucks,
I'd say God was fast asleep
and Ol' Scratch was in a hurry
to see me, but I'd go.

I'd go back to the sidewalks
where I used to sleep,
to the soup lines where I waited,
drunk or hungover, for a meal.

I'd go see Mouthwash Jimmy
and Crazy Red and Drunk Tammy
who turns tricks with strangers
for the ashtray change.

I'd be Santa Claus, Elvis with an extra
caddy, Jesus with a loaf and a fish, all
for the people who loved me sometimes
and shared their next to nothing with me.

I'd cop dope for the junkies, and
buy bottles of booze for the drunks,
I'd let the girls sit a while and rest
those sidewalk strollin' feet for once.

Wouldn't try and change a soul,
bow a head, or save a life but
I'd share a million with Red, and Jimmy
and the girls who sometimes love me.

Uncle

So your sure he's out,
Dad whispered to Mom
content that I was
watching cartoons
and wouldn't hear.
I learned more stuff
that way- doing that
Zombie stare
in front of the TV.
Sure I'm sure
I got an email from
the department of
corrections- so if
anybody wanted to
go to his parole thingee.
Okay, my dad said,
just dont take any
collect calls.
I almost forgot about it,
then on Easter sunday
we are all sitting there,
in our usual places- me,
Mom and Dad, and
my big sister all in a row
on our pew six
from the front
when this guy wearing
a shiny suit walks in,
and walks right up
and sits with us.
My dad just slides over
and lets him
have the outside,
the Pastor nods at him
and the others keep
turning in thier seats to look.
My dad and him whisper back
and forth and giggle
and the Pastor
looks over again.
After church we all
go out to eat and
him and my dad
drive fast, racing-
and sis was scared
and Mom looked mad
but I wasn't sure.
After dinner him and Dad
fought for the check
and Dad ended up with it-
so he gives me a
hundred dollar bill
and says split that
with your sister.
After that I never
really saw him again
but I did hear lots of stories.
Dad passed a couple of
years back, and Mom
doesn't know but
I write my uncle letters
and send him money
in the fed joint where
he's at up North.

Passing By

You eat
Chef Boyardee
spaghetti and meatballs
right out of
the pan you
warmed them in,
and read the
words of Keasey
and Plath
and Cassidy
sitting on a
ten dollar sofa
that you picked
up at Goodwill
with the help
of a buddy who
owns a truck
and keeps a cooler
filled with beer
in the back,
most of the time.
And you try
to remember
what it was like
before
in the new
brick house,
wife and kids
sitting at your feet.
Then wiping
the orange grease
from your fingers,
onto the leg of
your pants
you think to yourself:
the past
is the only thing
more frightening
than the future.  



 

Grand Slam and a Hooker at Three A.M.

The saddest guy

I've ever

known

painted 10,000

self portraits

and even

wrote an opera

about his life.

Some days

he'd shave

and be stuck

for hours

trying

to see his

own soul.

In bars,

the others

would crowd

around him:

he would
sing and
tell jokes
and he had a smile
that no one

could look

look away from.

To him

women were

like ants

drawn
to the
fresh dropped

and

half melted
ice cream cone
that was
his life.
17 to 70
they all wanted
to save him,
make him better,
fix him.
Only the ones
who were the
most melancholy
appealed to him
and they
just as a way
to look
into the mirror
while sitting
in an orange
vinyl booth
in a darkened
corner
in the back
of Denny's

with the girls

who strolled
in the night.

Broken Hope Dreams

Sweat pours

from the heavy

bottomed tumbler,

and the ice cubes

and amber liquid

as shiny

as yesterdays

Sunday shoes.

The whiskey ninjas

flip and fight

in my blood and

brain, killing

the past and all

it's hurts.

Killing good times

and bad, because

the good ones

hurt most of all.

The Arkansas
heat challenges
a fresh drink to
a fist fight,
wearing away
at comfort and
coolness.

In hand

and soul.

A watered down drink

and broken hope dreams,

are all there are some days.

Lucky Guy

Didn't work today

the day labor place sent

a black guy named Willie

'cause he's got a car.

Too damned old to

be clearing dishes

off table's for the

wealthy folks, who

came to stay at the

swanky high rise

hotel in West
Little Rock anyway.

Woke up thinking
of my 15 year old
daughter, she hates

me, and makes no
bones about it. Out
of smokes, I walk

to the corner for
a pack, a 6 pack of
cokes for mixers

and a two dollar
scratch off ticket.
Damn, I won 30 bucks-

I'm a lucky guy.

Distilled Destiny

If angels could disco
and demons would cry
I'd lay down my bottle
without asking why,

but fortune is fickle
as Damacles' sword
and humble menservants
will never be Lord.

When pigs are all Jewish
and Hindu's eat steak
then none of my nightmares
will keep me awake

but the oceans are angry,
the sun sleeps in the west,
children still skin knees,
Moms hope they know best.

The fattest of freemen
are prisoners of fate;
so pour me a whiskey
before it's too late.

We Talked of Coleridge

She taught English
second semester
of my senior year.
Straight from the University,
she seemed so
enlightened.
I believe it's called a crush.
We talked
of Byron and Coleridge,
she smiled
at my enthusiasm.
She offered me
the Beat Generation,
and I was in love.
She asked me to write,
I filled reams.
i copied e.e.'s style,
stole subjects from Ginsberg.
I tried to find my angst.
I utilized adolescent innuendo,
and it seemed to work.
We met at coffee shops,
and I ordered espresso
served in a tiny cup and saucer.

She had a soda.

The things that she taught me,
the words that we shared...


Xanadu.

Crazy freakin' Johnny

poor little boy

with a Fonzarelli coat
loaned me his treasure

wore it in a show

next we were both

boy scouts

mastered by a queer

met him ten years

 later we killed

 a few beers

 he had a little

 darlin  she had

 great rack

 but i never

 put it in her

couldnt take it back

rather drink all day

  and shoot all night

   rather write my little stories

 than have this fight

People and Lovers

Jimmy Icarus shot speed,
he flew so high.
Blood in the barrel
and bones in the spoon,
he would race to the sun
and howl like a loon.

China Doll turned tricks,
got up and went down
Rocks on the table,
a stem in her purse,
she never really figured
life could be worse.

Irish Red Murphy
followed the Dead
Three hits of kind bud,
and bootleg tapes,
deep conversations
of corporate rape.

Mouthwash Jimmy got
a Dollar Store fix,
a homeless academic,
soup lines for grub,
lost a leg last winter,
left with a nub.

Shelly was crazy,
got married in rehab.
Momma sang gospel,
Daddy played Cash
Raised Pentecostal,
ate pills and shot smack.

Knew and loved them all,
each time, a different life.
Been a student and a hobo,
a junkie and a thief,
but I've known a thousand people
and tasted their grief.

Caraway

I grew up
in the beds
of dusty used
pick-up trucks,
bouncing down
back gravel roads,
over wooden
bridges splitting
rich Dixie dirt
into poor farmer

size chunks of

sandy brown hope.

Where long straight

rows of cotton

kept company

with cockle burrs

who seemed to arrive

by night in silent

wooden horse.

My mother cooked

and doctored and

played with us,

Father shook his belt
and wrote bad checks
when he had to.
Sundays after church

at Grandma's house

with cousins and

uncles and aunts

we had our fill of

food and fun and family

and seldom knew

 the blues.                                                                                                                                                                                                  

The Spectacle

Friday nights
in County Jail
are big.

You can buy
hamburgers and
fries.

Professional wrestlers
strut and fret their
hour on stage

and the brothers,
the Mexicans and
the white guys

all ooh and aah at
staged flips, kicks,
and punches.

I watch them,
all watching,
all boo's and cheers.

I watch them,
killers and rapist
and thieves

and picture them
in shiny yellow boots
and feather boa's

punching and
kicking and
flipping.

Huge muscled guys,
easily as big as those
on the screen,

they share memories

and talk of

days gone by.

Blonde locked

heroes pinning

villainous heels,

mythology of

simple men in

better times

and the spectacle seems a little less silly to me.

The Poetry of Night

Slowly, the day
and it's cacophony
pass by, changing
to silence and
darkness in
uneven increments.
Finally,
grey steel and
beige concrete
become
less a cage
more
vestige of solitude.
The last shouts
and bravado
evaporate
as droplets of water
flee, steam from
a hot forgotten pan.
No more distorted
announcements,
chastening shouts,
or guards
final warnings.
The rhyming,
banging,
pecking,
of new urban music
on hold 'til tomorrow.
Unhiding
my contraband
cardboard desk
and lining up
sharpened bits
of pencils,
too short
to begin with.

Day Labor mornings...

are queasy stomachs,
and pounding heads,
and empty pockets,
and Oh, what a smell!
They are folding
metal chairs
and gaudily painted walls
with an ancient bulletin board,
its loose, yellow pages
barely hanging on.
A creaking swivel
office chair on
the other side
of the counter.

Day Labor mornings
are the hope for
cigarettes and a burger
at days end.
The chance of a bottle
to make the way straight.
They are poor whites,
and browns and blacks
crowded around a
filthy coffee urn
desperate in their
unrelenting itch
that must be daily scratched.

And to those left
sitting in uncomfortable,
unforgiving chairs
still at mid morning,
Day Labor is a huge
disappointment
that must be endured
and repeated each day.

Will I be lonely

still when
I am old
or will I
have grown
accustomed?

Will the company

of myself be

so familiar then 

that I will

be unafraid?

When my days

are spent

with yellowed pages

bent in gnarled

arthritic hands

and the nights

with old fool's dreams

of a family?

Will I know

what it is like

to have
poetic love
with someone
to share the beauty
of Grecian Urn?

Will I Know

the love of
silver haired muse
inspiring my
verse and my soul?
Will my lover
be old with me
when printed word

I barely can see

or will I

die alone

wasted to bone

with no love
to everyday wake.