Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

enough of this yup poetry
enough goonball ejack
enough lampshade parades
poetry comes, and it goes
do you want to shoot the rose
nature is tired of you
trying to imitate her


while you suck on a baby ruth
there is no beautiful landscape left
that you haven't defiled with lipstick
this hard nosed exterior you paint
your collapsing countenance on
you have the deer in the headlights
where you want her

you roakilled your self more times
then the hitchhiker movie
and you made a poem out of each
episode

you tough enough greasy spoon
gal in a mojave desert pitstop cafe
with your heart pinned to your sleeve
with a hypodermic needle
like someone spiked your sarsapilla
with some mickey ultra issue STP
you don't have goose bumps
but you always have the plucked chick
you bat your eyelashes at some Bukowski
totin kid lookin to get lucky with a bar slut

you have that goosed by god look
but you been waitin in that booth
for some devil dog from Peoria
they say the devil came from Kansas
and they ought to know
but if i'm going to Kansas city is about
a pretty little girl, then goin to snakehole
river is just another turn in the highway
ifin you get my drifter

you walk like you been layed by Jesus
but you talk like some gum chewin born again weirdo cult
got your wires all crossed and your eyes too
you were told to uncross your legs in church
so the spirit could enter up your holyness
but all them summers with uncle Bogart
made your cherry pie tart

but you learned your grade B part too well
and now you appear like some dime novel rocket to venus
but your fly trap just would stay shut , oh no, you want
to tell your sordid little story in serial killer style
each installment is a one way ticket to your bermuda
triangle, and boy you swallowed some ace pilots there
they all were good at making paper airplanes out of
your torn out of Gibson's Bible last empty page poems
too superstitious to write on the supplied stationary

and now you wait in the grayhound bus station for king bozo
but he never shows up and the silver whale is callin to you so

LOL! What can I say, except thanks for the boxing match? Nice black shiner to walk away with.

couldn't be finer, to be inside Caroliner in the mornin.
and by evenin to be inside Lilith to spillith the shiner.
get your boxing matches all lined up, it's punchin
Kangaroos verses kicken Kitty style

You know you're good when you evoke the E-motions,
don't ya? Sure, you do. But, my blues runs deep on the tail-end of a roughed up fucked gal. What can I say? Someday Rabbit, I'm gonna have it all, then get pounded in the earth, nature style. Thanks for the reminder of the remainder.

i knows witch way da wind blows, mus be da season of the witch.

oh on reflection, i did not write this poem because i read your poem, just
in case you got that impression.

I did Rabbit. I don't know what else to say.
All my deaths, but the e-motions struck on this one. I took it like a bullet. What a wimpy gal I am.

hang in there child.We all go through this, a poet is a magician or is a crushed flower.A poet is a wall flower or a wild flower.A goddess or a door mat.

I noes it Rabbit, I'm swung both ways on each of the selections.
Had you meant to hurt me? Deep down I don't want to believe it, but I can't get passed believing it was meant for me. Let me pull it apart, and I'll suck on the wounds.

nature is tired of you
trying to imitate her

The Youghiogheny river was my home each childhood summer. It dirtied my knees. I'd crossed it wet, I'd crossed it dry. I killed her baby rattlers, ate her berries and hid from her bears. I shouldn't of touched her, I noes it, but I couldn't leave her be. I wanted her that badly.

you roakilled your self more times
then the hitchhiker movie
and you made a poem out of each
episode

I noes I gotta stop all the death poems. It's dull with my overdoing.

you tough enough greasy spoon
gal in a mojave desert pitstop cafe
with your heart pinned to your sleeve

I'm too obvious walking in the buff, like I do.

you bat your eyelashes at some Bukowski
totin kid lookin to get lucky with a bar slut

o.k., this cracked me up. And it's true, but dammit, every poet dude imitates Bukowski. None of them try to be Henry. Can't blame the girls on that one. It's all on the dudes.

then goin to snakehole
river

The place is crawling in snakes. Long blackies stretching across the road, rattlers in the high lawns, copper heads begging to bite, thin red/black water skiers and dead ones hung from the tree branches dripping blood on the Ford's windshield. The river. The water's so deep, you can only feel their bodies going over the toe.

you walk like you been layed by Jesus
but you talk like some gum chewin born again weirdo cult
got your wires all crossed and your eyes too
you were told to uncross your legs in church
so the spirit could enter up your holyness
but all them summers with uncle Bogart
made your cherry pie tart

Honestly, I don't want to be holier than thou. I do my best to attempt balancing my belief with not pushing it on anyone else.
This struck such an amazing chord with me though, I think most of the pain's wrapped up in it. My cultist pentecostal, snake dancing, holy roller childhood is a big thing I chew over and over. I wrestle it more than I wrestle anything. My disgust of it matches my rooting of it. I can't have it nor abandon it. The gun shot.

you appear like some dime novel

Not the first I've heard my writing's like a dime novel. I'm not sure what a dime novel is. I guess it just feels like a bad thing to be compared to.

and now you wait in the grayhound bus station for king bozo
but he never shows up and the silver whale is callin to you so

Ouch. I didn't wait for him. Have never been that type of vain, that I'd allow myself to think he'd meet me anywheres. Yes, I did wait on his call at the Grayhound. I spent the week worrying he was dead. It was but a relief he still lived when he called on my trip back from my girl trip.

My apologies for tearing the poem up like this. I just wanted to go through where I saw how it was me. If it wasn't about me, and I'm just exposing my paranoia or thinness or vanity, it still leaves me in obstacles. I'd run my mouth off at you, said my own share of cruelty and it can't be erased. I'd not expect you to be able to forgive me for that. My astrological make-up beats me down. Too many obstacles of my own creation even. I am my biggest obstacle. I battle me over and over.

If it wasn't meant to me, my sincerest apologies, I truly mean it. My imagination is a beast to tame. Thinking you wrote this about me/mine, thinking you're jack, thinking I come off lame in my attempts. I'll be giving myself a thrashing for awhile. Saying this will lessen it, I guess. I'm just a stumbling writer, tripping on myself.

lordy, lordy, holy molly jelly rolly, back in the day when you could still buy a novel for a dime, even past my time.Never wanted to mess with no rattlesnakes, don't wanna roll my holly roller eye balls and my head, and froth and foam, and speak in them tongues.But one time i was hitch hiking and this black cat came over and offered me a hit on his joint, how the heck did i know it was laced with angel dust.Now i was like Jesus the camel standin there on the side of the road, i wasn't speakin in no tongues but i could do a heck of a camel imitation, mooowa, mooowa.

YOH.
Thass all i gotta say.
Dime novels can be good sometimes, I read a few.
I was hungry till this collaber ate.
Filled me right up.
Hobo thanx.
To both of ye
H

instant enlightenment


don't need no stinking gloves
ain't them black cats
cool?

yes thank you both
and thank's to the black cat with the baseball bat.