Keep Coming Back
Before sin there was cocaine. Coca leaves spread like a carpet
on lush clearings and golden paths in the Garden of Eden.
Creation was born with a habit. I was born addicted.
The demon sinfully attached itself to my mother’s placenta
snaking around my embryonic swim. I was yanked out
into the light of tragedy. My hazel-to-be-eyes would never
see the straight way. My body, small & vulnerable, would never
know maturity and after ten slaps on the butt, the surgeon relented.
She couldn’t make me cry.
But keep coming back to these rooms & you won’t
be alone, dead, or in jail, I was told.
Only in these rooms will you find French poets,
celebrities, ministers & auto mechanics –
everyone equally bent on self-destruction. .
Withdrawals emerged in the first week. Soon
You are riding on the moon every night, painting
graveyards on the walls with a palette of fresh vomit.
It’s simple really. You cope, shake, crave, curse, knit,
write, exist inside this salvage tanker of a facility
that’s carrying broken souls and you get clean or die.
By the second week your piss will clear up
& your mom is proud of her little pig that can fly.
You get a chip for not killing anyone. Next week
it’s your turn to rip out someone’s heart, sauté it
medium rare. Relax, relax, God didn’t make junk
so try not to act like a conceited piece of shit.
A new best friend will arrive – Superhyperparanoia
and rooms with you. He has paperbacks confirming the scam.
You’re never leaving. You’ll never get out of here!
It’s all a fucked-up mess. You believe Shakespeare
was really Japanese. The USA invaded Germany
in search of Einstein’s brain cells. Charles Bukowski
threw up on his editor. It’s all a scam. You paranoid bitch.
Stop pretending you’re young & innocent. This
is war and like any war,
the agony has a way of dropping your balls so low
in the blues, you can only masturbate holding an AK-47.
If only I could remember things without writing
them down. If only I could remember. Remember.
You are not alone. If you keep coming
back you’ll not end up on a gurney, lifeless,
easily disposed of. On the last night, your soul
wraps its chains around you. Bound and gagged
you’ll sink deep in a cold sea. Drowning. Dying.
But ready to surrender to swim another day. The
water bubbles escaping your lips whisper, Please God.
So you surrender. Run from people in dark places. Change
those things that planted stinking thinking
in your fucked-up brain. Day 27 arrives like the nightmare
before Christmas and all through the rooms, not a lung
was heaving, not a head off its swivel. Listen. You can
hear – the unemployed mom. The stage magician. The
urban cowboy. The maniac with an ice pick. Teenager
with powers of prestidigitation. The nymph in a low-cut.
The quiet one with bulging eyes. Everyone is a story.
Every story sucks. Tears are common but not required.
Keep coming back to these rooms. As long as it takes.
Until the clouds turn blue. Until you kick the door open
& it hits you between the eyes and you realize – damn!
It only takes twelve easy steps to find Love
WHERE HAVE THE WATERBOYS GONE?
(A pantoum)
This Is The Sea (album) 1991
The Whole Of The Moon (single)
The Waterboys
My dreams have no season
disappearing too close to heaven
like a river that was the sea.
rolling stars into a ball!
disappearing too close to heaven
by a drum that bangs the ear
rolling stars into a ball!
the whole moon is seen in her tear
high above the urban noises
folded in the breath of spring
the whole moon is seen in her tear
dreams speak in smiles to me.
folded in the breath of spring
how long will I love you?
dreams speak in smiles to me
as long as there are stars above you
How long will I love you?
The inky nonchalance of the sky
as long as there are stars above you
blue eyes winking on the moon
The inky nonchalance of the sky
lyrics once bright as Orion’s belt
blue eyes winking on the moon
The Waterboys popped the Milky Way
lyrics once bright as Orion’s belt
because now and then they play
The Waterboys popped the Milky Way
landing rhymes on silver spoons
because now and then they play
like a river that was the sea
landing rhymes on silver spoons
my dreams have no season
A Pretty Room For My Books
where dust settles on the fresh angles of new authors
and cracked binders catch the golden flecks from the sun.
where timeless sonnets occupy dog-eared pages
in the joyful presence of sweet evening shadows.
where high windows face the frowning lawns
scuffed by likable children. A simple room.
the finest oak shelving to bear the weight
of hurtful words or plots foretelling tipsy seduction.
a fine place to suffer escalating drama after drama.
a kind place of the heart is what I want, where
indifference is swept under the rug & humor
softens the four hard walls. where Roald and Seuss
are suitably squeezed between Saroyan and Ellison.
Where heartaches lean into carnivals on sanded cherrywood
and gently wake young minds ignorantly orbiting
a world of vanity and unpredictability. where
lasting tomes of different lengths and dignity occupy
a boardroom papered by fabric myths large enough
to embrace the aesthetic of solitude but not so big
I tire dusting the thick editions of deceit and avarice.
where pages stickied by finger licks and time, reside
side-by-side with movies-to-be and emotional colloquy
to be read in fire-orange faces hot by perspired anticipation.
Allow here a yellow bulb to hang above the reader’s eyes
and make silky the light on chapters written out of love
although hate remains the frequent mouse skittering about.
I want a pretty room to harbor a multitude of chronicles
regaling history; of treacherous worlds gone mad and
gone by. Perhaps a unique bedside shelf, appeasing
the limited edition of my own journey carousing
various highways and small roads into neon cities high
on hash or clean and sober times across amber plains of grain.
this pretty room, a book’s castle, you might say, may entice
a frequent Scotch or merlot drinker with delicious expectations.
who can tell what the final chapter will bring
in this humble room hung by the long drapes of pages
from Nobel novelists inviting the moon to pierce
their sentences for learned eyes to only see its history
by squinting. There’ll be no heavy shroud in my pretty room
where the air of whimsy permeates a space once heavy with boredom.
Allan is a (baby) Boomer who at 70 years old and fighting cancer tries to remain relevant in the world, as all Boomers can still be. He’s written poetry for many many years but only during the COVID pandemic did he seriously pursue this wonderful craft. He’s published a few poems here and there and is currently trying to finish up a book of poetry. The poems included herein reflect both his experiences and his whimsical imagination.
Image: Attributed to William Notman, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons