The Whipper Gripper
We called him Whipper Gripper
or sometimes Wacker Jacker
trapped as we were in the dorm
dead nights of that all-boys Catholic
boarding school. He was doing
what all boys will now and forever do
only to get busted by some Brother
surprising into his room one blank
after school afternoon when the rest
of us were at practice, some Brother
in his swinging cassock-skirt and rope
knotted belt with the professed keys
to everything, some Brother catching this
kid naked but for a cowboy hat and boots
doing his version of every boy-man ever
the same some Brother who kept panties
under his own pillow with a mouth
big enough to spread around a false sin
that could dribble its way down the ranks
into our minds where we would name
and make hilarious mockery of our scape
goat to hide what shouldn't have been
our own shame.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
One Every 24 #11
Luck Pusher
I wouldn't think I could get from doing dips off a 10th floor
and flat on my back drunk laid out in the street asking for a brake
test on some souped contraption pumped into the teen neon dash
play at cool; from the jealous kick in the head or stumble down
pass out, my blunt shoulder nosing in for the extra hit
the slur, the nod, the itch, the need for the next dumb luck
to this moment: the simple turning of a corner, my muling
the lawnmower around and readying for the next row only
to come upon her smile, my daughter, three, peeking over
the sill, out the living room window, calling to me above
the motor's grind, those words I see but can't hear, Hi, daddy!
Hi, daddy! as I mow down the grown past, think of the blow
the trips, the risks, the blurred mistakes, all middle aged
now with my headphones clamped over my thinning brain
the music cranked, the bluesman in mind swearing to me
I'm pushing my luck. Feels like my luck wanna change.
I'm pushing my luck. Feels like my luck wanna change.
I wouldn't think I could get from doing dips off a 10th floor
and flat on my back drunk laid out in the street asking for a brake
test on some souped contraption pumped into the teen neon dash
play at cool; from the jealous kick in the head or stumble down
pass out, my blunt shoulder nosing in for the extra hit
the slur, the nod, the itch, the need for the next dumb luck
to this moment: the simple turning of a corner, my muling
the lawnmower around and readying for the next row only
to come upon her smile, my daughter, three, peeking over
the sill, out the living room window, calling to me above
the motor's grind, those words I see but can't hear, Hi, daddy!
Hi, daddy! as I mow down the grown past, think of the blow
the trips, the risks, the blurred mistakes, all middle aged
now with my headphones clamped over my thinning brain
the music cranked, the bluesman in mind swearing to me
I'm pushing my luck. Feels like my luck wanna change.
I'm pushing my luck. Feels like my luck wanna change.
One Every 24 #10
The Rex Ray Desk Fan
Circa 1950
Four sharp blades
Stainless steel
says: A.C. ONLY
REX RAY
X-496
REXALL DRUG CO.
on the stand
Spaces in the fan guard
more than big enough
for my curious finger
Circa 1950
Four sharp blades
Stainless steel
says: A.C. ONLY
REX RAY
X-496
REXALL DRUG CO.
on the stand
Spaces in the fan guard
more than big enough
for my curious finger
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
One Every 24 #7
The Only Son Returns from Traffic School
I was driving my mom's car back to the suburbs after traffic school
I was an errant boy, drove reckless. Hence the traffic school
I was in downtown Detroit, somewhere around eighteen
and probably wearing shades
I might have had some grass in my pocket
stains on the worn thin thighs of my jeans
hair well past my collar and a black concert T
He was an explosion of grey rags, the wild haired and mad
homeless man staggering down the trashed street
where I waited at the stoplight, my tape deck most likely
turned up way too loud. Without hitching a step
he whipped it out, let the piss fly across the sidewalk
the front of his pants, all the while ranting
some indecipherable magic language of despair that seemed to hold
the dark alley of every secret pain my teenage
brain hungered to know. The light turned. I believed
I had somewhere to go. Depending on who you asked
he'd already been there.
I was driving my mom's car back to the suburbs after traffic school
I was an errant boy, drove reckless. Hence the traffic school
I was in downtown Detroit, somewhere around eighteen
and probably wearing shades
I might have had some grass in my pocket
stains on the worn thin thighs of my jeans
hair well past my collar and a black concert T
He was an explosion of grey rags, the wild haired and mad
homeless man staggering down the trashed street
where I waited at the stoplight, my tape deck most likely
turned up way too loud. Without hitching a step
he whipped it out, let the piss fly across the sidewalk
the front of his pants, all the while ranting
some indecipherable magic language of despair that seemed to hold
the dark alley of every secret pain my teenage
brain hungered to know. The light turned. I believed
I had somewhere to go. Depending on who you asked
he'd already been there.
One Every 24 #6
Riff: Led Zeppelin (Moby Dick)
rat tat tat tat tat tat tat, tat-tat-tat-tat
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bamp dap beedle dee dam dee dam day dee
bamp dap beedle dee dam dee dam day dee
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
zhamp det deedle deet dee dee de dee dee
rannel rannel rannel reh weeeow nannle nan now
rat tat tat tat tat tat tat, tat-tat-tat-tat
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bamp dap beedle dee dam dee dam day dee
bamp dap beedle dee dam dee dam day dee
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
bomp bap deedle deh bom de bom deh duh
zhamp det deedle deet dee dee de dee dee
rannel rannel rannel reh weeeow nannle nan now
One Every 24 #5
Fence
Wooden whore,
I bring you this easy
hard luck last chance
my best guess
a gold wrist watch
stolen with augers
my point made and driven
home with a nailgun.
Wooden whore,
I bring you this easy
hard luck last chance
my best guess
a gold wrist watch
stolen with augers
my point made and driven
home with a nailgun.
One Every 24 #4
Ivy (Poison)
Lurker in plain context
red bumps arriving in the road
of her body mapped by
the weeping, blistered skin
you, too, have a hand in this.
Lurker in plain context
red bumps arriving in the road
of her body mapped by
the weeping, blistered skin
you, too, have a hand in this.
One Every 24 #3
Cliche and the Question of Pseudo Idolatry in the Context of Common Poetic Metaphoric Tropes
One must love the rose
even in the teeth of a rat.
One must love the rose
even in the teeth of a rat.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
One Every 24 #2
Absolute Rules for Every Writer in Every Genre Pertaining to the Imparting of Ultimate Meaning in the Evolving Context of Everything Ever Written
1) Forget all rules
2) Don't lie
3) Lie beautifully
4) Lie fantastically in the actual sense of the word
5) Lie phantasmagorically
6) Keep lying until you twist words into the truth
1) Forget all rules
2) Don't lie
3) Lie beautifully
4) Lie fantastically in the actual sense of the word
5) Lie phantasmagorically
6) Keep lying until you twist words into the truth
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
One Every 24 #1
Left Right Left
the closing of nearly everything
the scissor's confounding edges
the nun's forced hand
the party leaning I can't stand
when things are correct
the turns that get you there
the moves, the stuff, the ideas
all the flaws of my own genes
this foot what wants turning in
this hand what won't grip
this eye blocked from the world
the dull pain in my side
everything wrong and bad
with me and the world is right
not left, right, not left
in itself, of itself, in and of itself
meaning I want to be right
and left to my own devices
the closing of nearly everything
the scissor's confounding edges
the nun's forced hand
the party leaning I can't stand
when things are correct
the turns that get you there
the moves, the stuff, the ideas
all the flaws of my own genes
this foot what wants turning in
this hand what won't grip
this eye blocked from the world
the dull pain in my side
everything wrong and bad
with me and the world is right
not left, right, not left
in itself, of itself, in and of itself
meaning I want to be right
and left to my own devices
...happily ever after...
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