36
Hark! The dog makes the sound
Of someone interested
In my poetry
37
Getting drunk
To the story of Enron—
Alcohol flows like gas.
38
Untamed land
Just waiting to be explored—
From the five hundreds…
39
Swimming the halls of fortune,
Beset by the winnings
Of the greatest generation
40
Macadamia nut
Dusted with imperial
Gunpowder
I could’ve gone
to see Pound while he was
still in the hospital.
But my mother-in-law hates him
and it would’ve killed her.
So I just let
the crazyman be;
him & Fords,
Jags, Land Rovers, etc.
One of the
must-read poets
said he couldn’t write
with stubble on his chin;
called for
a holiday for writing.
In other words,
a good time
to swear off coffee,
not to get too gassed.
Ezra Brooks
bourbon you say you
were drinking.
But why then
do I smell lime
on your breath—
I am not a teetotaller,
not a prohibitionist. I know
there is no cuba libre
for whiskey,
none for fascists
the world around.
When he shook
the once-sand bottle
what was left made the sound
of a maple leaf growing
It is not possible, he thought,
and it would not be appropriate
for me to shake hands
with a leaf’s three jagged hands
Who needs leaves anyway?
Nothing but the fruited conspiracy
of seed and soil repetitive, hogwash
But the aging leaf in the bottle
interrupted him saying,
Leaves run their veins in all directions
hoping to report most sun
They are green when they need to be,
and red in their rest allegiant to none
but the season
When he finished drinking the leaf
he searched for a sunrise, any sunrise,
his head tilted back,
in sun-loving obeisance
Everyone debauched but everyone a virgin in some way. You can’t have tried everything, you can’t have tired of everything. Something to come back for, something to save for next time, when you’ve got more money, some savings to play with, and hopefully better luck.
There’s a premium on everything, and nothing is free. Not even luck. Luck costs money. Luck for a buck? Maybe the stars are free, but good luck seeing them through the neon broil. Maybe it’s time for a drink. Maybe it’s time to skim some winnings, to cash out, to double down, to parlay, to bet the house, to count some cards.
Good place to come for a birthday. One you don’t want to remember. Just cab doors opening and closing. Croupiers changing shifts, cleansing their hands of the table and all the bad luck that came with it. Cashiers sitting behind bars. Chips in their neat little stacks of hundreds or thousands. The peaks in the distance. The hotels standing and stretching in the hot, dry desert air, the sun not far away.
Gathering chips for their bets, trying to get free drinks, trying to get comped. A generous mix of Filipino, white, some blacks, you name it, a few Koreans, the new wealth Chinese—cabbies called them whales because they were big fish, big betters. Old and older. A bunch of kids crawling around doing god knows what, more likely to get kicked out of the casinos than anyone else because they don’t bet.
Mafia types—Skyball Chibelli and Baba, hoping the croupiers don’t look too close at their money. Cabbies who went to high school here. Eighties music, light shows, five-dollar minimums, champagne bottles, sixes and eights, Manhattans, Coronas, the hot sun, no clouds, bellmen looking for tips, towel boys looking for tips, everyone looking for tips and some people giving them. The whole place like an octopus but with more arms, looking for anyway to get its hands on your money, and when it does—bang! it pops its barb into you like an unexpected sting ray, whether you are an expert or not. Here, no one is an expert. Experts get beat up and know better...
Brought down by
parking tickets,
the weight of the city
upon him like
a dozen concrete elephants;
asleep in his best suit,
hung up on cigarettes,
never far from booze—
still clutching
that one bright coin
from the plaza fountain
that landed face-first.
Your legs cold, your
skin brooding.
A martini drunk only
for the olives.
Occasions for celebration
are plentiful as lost hairs.
He passes a mirror
and catches his glance.
"Not bad," he thinks.
Indeed, he doubles back
for an encore
but ice cube echoes
tell him no.
A glass of cognac waits, melting.
Is it June, or am I
just in Austin, Texas?
Today, Labor Day, is for
all of the people who work
nine to five (or more).
Anyone normally working
nine to five (or more)
who has neglected
to take this day off to:
get drunk
sleep around the house
take his kid to the beach
write a haiku
stock up on toilet paper
should be committed.
Not myself among the
nine to five throng
I don’t deserve this
wheelbarrow loaded with
twenty-four golden bricks.
No meaning in any of them.
pretty bumpy en route
not the only ones gone to dallas
george dub, too
short flight, 33 mins
cold in dallas, dallas love
a place to wash me hands
pop some 'cedrin
head is cabin-pressurized
my hands: scraped
spilled myself at intersection
walkin the whole way home
leaving a classic message
then writing gibberish mail
count the drinks, count em
on both hands
without all digits, i'd be short
one dogfish, two dogfish
bus comin—half a dogfish
real ale phoenix esb
cigarettes and a phone
over to a bar onn fifth
a jack, a coke, a band and waiting
hey, there is someone i know
beers for them
where's the group leader?
there he is, says, "car bombs"
consensus says, "OK"
half a pint of guinness
(you can chug it)
and bailey's goes down easy
no drink service on this flight
coulda used some water
parched, dessicated, husk of self
carcasse void even of lions
clipped from sky
like a headline never written:
i arrive on time
time for another beer
let's move on
time for some dancing
wristbands and a cigarette
forty bucks for jaegerbombs
the guy next to me gets three
i double that
but can't unload the sixth
maybe god drank it
before he kicked my ass
in the form of a friend
handing me what was it?
some anonymous shot
goodnight everybody
good night for dancing
who's gonna dance with me?
i told a guy we should
brokeback dancefloor
but it didn't come to that
i worked up a sweat
doing the faux salsa
when did I leave?
don't remember
barfed a little
turned off my phone
woke up to the sound
of the handyman
mowing the lawn,
two hours late
for my flight.
JBR.com 