Wednesday, September 30, 2009


The cascade is long dry, hanging on a wall.
So much for the rent…
as to say- in side joke

"If you're pissed, urinate."

(Yours truly, R. Mutt.)
Mongrel dog, laced with rabies
A receptacle to hold defecation
In a Modern Art Museum
In America.

[So today's poetry will be a readymade of sorts.]
[As most of my poetry resembles]
[Some junk]
[Someone found]
[And called art.]

As defiant as a loose canine might be

But that's besides the point.

later, in Ney York:
The now deceased
Max Roach
Gets his ears wet.
Plays with The Duke
When he's 18 years old.

So, of course there's envy…
Improvisational little jazz drummer boy
Bebop/hard bop

And I'm filled with deceit.
Maybe I was dreaming
And my legs just are not
Long enough
There is no distance
So distant
To deliver me
Far enough
To forget about the good days
To jump start a heart
Which has since refused
To beat.

Packing the drummed drum set in the trunk
Tree trunk bark falling off the tree
From the long nights rain
Dogs in the distance
Barking at a haunting

The moon is
not the moon
nor is it anything
that should concern you

My lips are dancing alone
Talking consistently
with the hum of the coke machine
In a big empty room
Sensual lights
Dim and detailed
With a sash draped over top
Gliding across
A new suit
Tailored specifically for me
(is it safe to keep,
All these secrets?)
My arms holding on to big balls of sheets
Eye holes
Old time costume of a ghost
The memory of the tattered house
We called a home
Where I felt comfortable writing countless love songs
And read William Carlos Williams
On the back lawn
When night came and the day was done
I'd sneak into bed
To reach these arms around

A body


… a sturdy snowball in hell that melts so slow you can't quite recall the old and trivial differences. A steady change that is monstrous…after so long. A creeping that haunts you in your sleep like a death certificate with your name misspelled or your first rejection letter from heavens publishing company that took 6 weeks to appear magically in the box nailed to your house...

Let's just say:

Mornings are lonely
And memories are concrete
Hard as nails
On chalk boards
Youth as you'd like to forget it.

Life seems
relentless when
reminds me of
the beginning
of "you and me"

I write
simply to have
a written collection
of my own handwriting

So when I'm old and bored
I can count how many times
I actually wrote the letter 'E'

It seems suiting then
That after Duchamp was long dead
His "Fountain",
(the urinal
that he placed in a museum
after writing R. Mutt on it…)
was selected nearly 90 years later as
"the most influential artwork of the 20th century"
by 500 renowned artists and historians…

But that's not really the point.

Your Life, Your Meal, and Everything

Where would we be
If I took us out of context?
Out of our normal setting…

What do you say
To the familiar waitress you see
At the grocery store…

She's awkwardly smiling
Because of a slight recognition
You say, "hello…"

Knowing full well
She barely recognizes you
"Hi," she chirps back slowly…

Her voice is different-
Different than before… different than when she asks what you're eating today,
Or how everything was…
And by 'everything' she only means your meal.
And you know that, but her voice is uplifting when she asks,
And it makes everything a tiny bit better…
And by 'everything' this time you mean your life
Which hasn't been everything you had wished it to be
But the waitress is being so very nice today,
She must realize you're having a shit day
And she is so very understanding that there's no need to let it all out on her
You know she's understanding because of that amazing tone she uses when she talks.
Refilling your coffee and asking about desert…
You answer,
"Everything is fine… Thank you."
And when you say everything back to the waitress,
You mean everything.

The voice she uses in the grocery store is less friendly and more casual.
A bit more real and down to earth
As if she had met you in a high school class that you both hated
And seeing you reminds her of this class,
Although she seems happy to see you, she is thinking about the terrible Calculus exam she failed
And you passed…
Barely, but you passed and she is proud of you for being so studious but resents you also.
This voice is bitter, like your voice is when you first enter the restaurant she works in
A voice hardened a bit by the real world
A voice that talks just fine with minor proper English issues
But is laced with thoughts of rent being due soon,
laundry having to be done so you have clean work clothes
Budgeting so that you can afford to put gas in the tank
And knowing that you might have to ask someone to help you financially
And how degrading it feels to be at the mercy of someone else
Being tormented by the fact that they help you
Because they can hold that over your head…
This voice is harsh…
and you don't like this new voice.

She's confused, you can tell this much.
And her hair is down. You've never seen it down, and you like it down but because her voice is not the one you remember from the restaurant, you convince yourself that she looks bad.

"How are you?" she asks.
"Fine, fine…" you answer, followed by a pause.
"Yeah… I'm doing well."
"Nice… It's nice to hear that."
"Yeah. Well… How are you?"
"Oh! I'm fine… I'm good. Real good… just shopping for some food." she says with a smile.

She likes her own observation about her shopping… because it's obvious, it's funny. You smile at her. You like the joke, because it reminds you of the waitress at the restaurant, not this bitch at the grocery store who is hard and normal and not a bright ray of golden sun as she is at work.

"Ha, yeah… me too… Obviously." You joke back, with the same joke, hoping that it holds water again.
"Ha, cool… well…"
"Do you work today?" you blurt out nervously when you think she is going to leave. The beginning of the sentence being fast and loud, and the end being quick and normal volume.
[It clicks in her head that you come into her restaurant often… Now she remembers.]

"Yeah, I work at four…" she says. She speaks hesitantly still, and you realize that this is because she pondering if it is rude to tell you that she had no idea who you were until now.
"Sounds like fun," you say a little offhandedly.

Now you're a little pissed
that she's thinking about
what she is thinking about,
because you know what she is thinking about.

You knew who she was, even with her hair look dumb and down, and her not being in a uniform, and she doesn't know who you are even though you have her as your waitress at least two times a week. She knows what you drink and makes you feel like 'everything' is a bit better when she wants to know if 'everything' is ok even though your everything is your life and her everything is your meal.

"It's not bad when it's busy, you know? Gatta buy groceries somehow…" she states, very matter-of-factly.

[It clicks in your head that you're a decent tipper… You're buying the block of cheese and bag of potatoes in her cart this week]

"OK, well, maybe I'll see you later. I have to check my bank account after I leave here," you tell her, "see if I can afford coffee and pie today."

What if I was able
To put us back into context
Having me pay for your kindness …

Knowing full well
We're both humans
Both standing on our own two feet…

If we were babies,
It wouldn't matter
If I gave you a five or a single…

Because mommy would fix it
No matter what had happened
Living under her roof
asking what time dinner is…

But as adults, You have fears and worries and need someone like mommy to ask if everything is OK. As long as you tip well, and talk politely, everything will be fine. Your meal, your life, and everything.