WEED

By

J. Beck

2007

Dedicated to:

The one-armed Jesus

Mourning Doves

Mourning doves coohing
At noon don’t they know the time
Of day they may cooh?

WEED

Contents:

Dedicated to: The one-armed Jesus

Mourning Doves

Crash

Polished Grey:

II The Stuff You Say

Weed:

Not Evil

II Rain

III Rant

IV Horse

V Smell & Taste I

VI Don’t I

VII Don’t Forget

Whores

Purple Blossom Parade

Hill Field

Choke

Boxwood Bush

Door:
Open

Closed

A Pretty Dead Cat

At the Lake

Ashland Cemetery

Sea-Shell Fossils

A Summer Sunday

Donny

Poppy

Mean Old Man

Leian

Anne Sexton

Sliding Glass Door

Dog Star

Bongo

Paper Cross’

Seed

God Spoke

No Oil Left

Left Behind

Angus:
Xebec

Sleeping Fishes

Be

Crash

Open books scattering
Open red packs of cigarettes
Butted ash-trays run over
The easel stands alone.

Erect—flanked by lines of
Foam cups of cold coffee
Unfinished paintings hang
Off the plaster cracked walls.

There are narrow winding
Trails through the rooms of pile
One moves deliberate
One wrong move may result in

An irreversible crash
(of falling things)

In such a case one should
Get out of the way and
Turn up the music loud
Fill a new white foam cup

Sit down beside a good
Opened book empty an ash-tray
Fire up a red pack cigarette
To stare at the easel

Until the crash is over.

Polished Grey

I can’t believe
You talk like that,
You must think
That way.
I don’t
Think like that
But, I am
Beginning to talk
Like
I do.

Talk like that some more,
Terrible—ly.
Let me hear
Inside your mind,
Some more.

You say
So much stuff
But, your brain
Is still grey
Like mine.
Shouldn’t it be
Bronzed or gold?
I know—
Your brain is
Silver,
Polished grey.

Like liquid silver,
Slipping
Sliding,
Shiny,
Are your words
You speak
(how you talk).

Our words
Are the same
But, you say them
Different—ly.
Leaving my mind
Mud grey.

II The Stuff You Say

My teeth, are your knives
My smile chews, yours slices
The clay between your teeth
Is dirt in my mouth.

The soil, under my nails
Are cloves, beneath yours
You smear the blood
I wash from my hands.

The sea, you breath into your lungs
Is brine, that burns my wounds
The sunshine, I sweat
You lick and taste.

My moon, that glows
Vexes your soul
My aches, are your yearns
My desires, are not your secrets
(you don’t have any).

Except

What your words mean,
The stuff you say,
Are they true?
Do you actually believe
The stuff you say?
Or
Are you tricking me?
(I hope not)

Because, I would, like to believe
The stuff you say
Is true,
But it’s not
(for me).

Cherry Red

A red hot cherry
Appears silent in the dark
Then disappearing.

Weed

Not Evil

Die you old miserable man
(you are miserable & corrupt)
Return to the Earth – the dirt
And the Worm from which your Life came
And so life does go on
Not without you
Atop you
Life advances with each receding Death
Death simplifies Life –
Decay is not passive
Nor the stench of.

What sort of seeds do you have in store?
Will a Tree sprout & grow
Tall & strong
Reaching for the Sun
Joining the Earth with the Sky
Licking the clouds for Rain?
Will a Flower bloom
Beautiful & bright
A living testimony of a divine Creator?
Or shall a Weed grow?
Heading Tares
The Winds scatter abroad
Unto Good & Bad ground alike
Allotted the same Time & Space
As the Tree that affords fruit & shade
As the Flower that appeals & admires
Providing the nectar to the gods
The weed competes for Light & Water
The Weed is not evil
It’s just a
Weed.

II Rain

The Fly & the Worm are delighted
So are the birds and the mice
The Crow steals & nest your jewels
And mice sharpen their teeth, grinding your bones.
The grave-digger curses your name
Urinating on your grave.
What had Eve done?
She had no idea
She didn’t understand
But the Serpent knew
Sin would inherit the Land.
The Dead don’t sweat
Nor do they know they are cold,
Hell, is a real place
Where the living die
Down below.
Don’t worry about the Weather
Or Trash day,
Seek out the whores
In open doors
And enjoy standing out in the
Rain.

III Rant

I want to run naked in the rain Desire for Wholeness
Rant
And tell you
Fuck You for Christ sake Rebellion
Take you Shames
And take your Blames
And put them up your own ass
You wave your sticks Repression
And cast your stones
I want your eye for mine
Your hand for theirs’ Remorse
I am not afraid of dying Drama
I am afraid of failing
(not failing you)
You are already dead Mortality
And you are too god damn stupid to know
I piss on your grave Satire
And laugh
I am not your Son
I am not your Brother
I am the Ghost Conviction
When you close your eyes Immortality
I will you see my face
I shall haunt you
No fail Revenge
I will see
you in
Hell.
Certain

IV Horses

There are horses in my dreams
Running, Running, Running.
Their sweat beads glass
Down their necks
And across their backs.
Their hooves pound the ground
Scaring dust piling
Vibrating the air rolling.
Where is this dream going?
Nowhere

V Smell & Taste I

I smell your name
I taste old blood
I hear the past
I say nothing.
Love? you ask,
Hate? you ask,
Nothing
I say.

VI Don’t I

I don’t hate you,
I don’t know you.
Don’t
Feed me your
Unborn.

VII Don’t Forget

Don’t forget, Toads pee,…
The Rabbit never wins,
…Crows are everywhere.

whores

headed to the house
finally out of the barn
the girls are all milked
and the cows are fed

the game on the radio
was rained out
you could hear it outside
pounding the roof

over the fans
blowing hot yucky air
that smells of urine
and taste like
a cow’s raised tail

the flies were bad
but you hardly noticed
wipe them away
and slap on the milkers

you don’t talk
there is no one there
to hear what you want to say
like
“I wish I wasn’t here today”

But the girls need you
Twice a day
A hundred and fifty cow udders
You know them all by name

They never stop coming
And they will be back
It really doesn’t matter
what day it is
because every day is the same

nights are like mornings
and mornings like nights
sometimes you forget
to turn off the lights

you forget the hose
and run over the water tubs
making a mess of pen cows
you will have to milk that night

you would throw down your hat
but there is too much shit
so you kick at the air
swear and spit

sometimes feed comes out
sometimes it doesn’t
something brakes
something won’t start

if you are in a hurry
plan on being late
your obligations will understand
and your loved ones will have to wait

but a man’s family and life
can stand only so much cow
the whore will take all you have
and still want your soul

Purple Blossom Parade

Is that hay ready to go
They will always say
And they already know
That purple blossoms are on parade.

The Field knows and understands
The approaching banging sounds
And the oily smell filming the air.
There is a silence,
A hesitation
There is always a hesitation
Before the slamming flat sound
Of a steel deck onto the ground.
The tractor growls and recovers
roaring a cloud of rich black smoke.

The machine transfers power
With drive shafts & u-joints
Pulleys & belts
Knocking & slipping.
Just until
The sickle’s knives & guards meet
Comb & cut
The green, lush alfalfa.
Toppling the splendor purple flowering stands
Into the rollers
That smash the stems
Crushing and lay gently bruised
Into straight & narrow windrows.

The sun glares white & hot
Water is for sweat
Long-selves & hat protect
And a big fat pinch of chew
Chases the taste of diesel from your mouth.
You will be mowing
Hours & hours & hours
Going
Around & around & around
Until the entire field
Of hay & purple blossoms on parade
Is down.

Dead air of dust
Shattering leaf & dirt
The mower pushes & chase panicked butterflies
That flutter as fast as they can
Up & down
Up & down
As their deep green cover
Disappears behind them.
As the sickle slides from side to side
Back & forth
Back & forth
Constant
Endless
Forward motion
Relentless
Not reluctant
For there is no emotion associated
With machines
Only function
And the only function
Of this machine is to mow down hay.
Keep air in the tires
All moving parts greased
Check the knives & the guards
Before each start.

The crows are always the first to come
I have never figured out how they know.
Do they hear the sounds of the machinery?
Or do they actually smell the blood
Of slain rodents?
You hear a bang
You suppose it is a rock
Or perhaps a groundhog
(or the occasional rabbit or cat)
going through the rollers.
Those are the kills that bring those
Big ugly buzzards
Slow dark prehistoric forms
Lofting circles
Narrowing their scavenging
From above.

Until the shadow of the hawk
flashes across the ground.
The crows fly away
While the buzzards hop & sulk.
It doesn’t seem fair to them one against seven
But the hawk will fly down
Land in the middle of them circling the fresh kill.
Daring them
With out stretch wings
Staring down
But they will not look up
Only over at each other
Taunting one another to make a move
But they won’t.

They will allow the hawk to fly away with the kill
Pretend to chase
Only to follow
With hopes the hawk may drop the prize
From it’s mighty talons.
Those ugly buzzards will lose interest
And resume their
Lazy slow ring patterns
In search of their next find.

After a long
Long day
Just before the evening dew falls
And the old air turns new
The swooping swallows arrive in their formations
To fill their bellies with displaced leafhoppers
As you finish mowing out the V
And follow them back to the barn.

As you sit still wide-open
The tractor idles down
You feel a sense of accomplishment
Staring aimlessly into the dark
And smelling fresh cut hay
And purple blossoms on parade.

Hill Field

Above the hill field
A low crescent moon appears
Where we once made love,…

Choke

She stops me from leaving at the front door
Running—with big hair and smiling teeth
Looking back—with neck bent speaking loudly
She reaches out to me with trembling hands
Leaning forward kissing me on the bearded cheek
Pressing her swelling breast against my chest
Then quick on the mouth following me out
She shoves her tongue down my throat—grabs my crotch
I just stand there kissing her back until
Her body begins banging—against mine
I take hold of her arms—leaving marks
Marks she wants she needs in between visits
I steady her as I stand her back up
She looks away—without a word
She walks back inside slamming—the door closed
Sighing “Good night” trying to catch my breath
I pull up my pants and miss the front porch step
Then I choke on a red pack cigarette
As I disappear inside the streetlights.

Boxwood Bush

Coming up the alley
I see you sitting
Teetering
Half in half out
The back porch door
On a quarry
Cut stone step.

Smoking
With an open wrist.

From an aimless stare
Without looking
You drop your shoulder
From a beautiful
Bent neck
Reaching out
Feeling the air
Until
You find

The living plastic
Green leaves
Of the boxwood bush
With ringy fingers
Combing
Slowly yet smoking
Brushing
With the back
Of your hand

A slight breeze
Blows
Your long stringy hair
Into a gummy
Smile
Exhaling smoke
As you peer up
Curling your bare toes
Your nipples go hard

Squinting your perfect
Little nose to say
I have been
Waiting
For you

Door

Open

What had just happened?
She sat and asked
Her legs are wobbly
and her hips are collapsed
The floors move
The walls steady and help
As she walks.

She had laid with his books
And slept with his coat
She had listened to his music
And breathed his second-hand smoke
She found his hair in her mouth
And his sweat salted her tongue.

There was a new room
(inside of her)
A new room she had never knew
And she had left the door wide
Open
(She had forgot–
the room was new).

Closed

She rolls and reaches
Across the waves
Of piling bed-sheets & quilt
Searching in the dark
To find an empty & cold
Place- sad & lonely
A place once warm & dank
Where laid & slept
her lover–who is gone.

She lays staring
At the ceiling
Where had he gone?
When had he left?
Had he left a note
Or sign of some kind?

She sits up to look
The door is open
Perhaps he is still there
but she doesn’t smell coffee

She forgets
And gets up to close the door
She had sent him away
She lays down
and goes back asleep.

A Pretty Dead Cat

Empty words
Bounce off my face
A pretty dead cat
Lays ran over
Across the center line.

Smelling lemon water
I taste it in my mind
I hear the birds singing
Morning dirges of the past
I feel my heart jump
That slow choppy way.

I see you for the first time
Again.

You
Sitting on the lawn
In the sun
Tossing your sweaty hair
From your redden shoulders
That hinge your recline.

Grabbing, tugging
At the long green blades
Of tickling grass
With your tiny naked toes
Laughing
As kite tails smile
In the sky.

I mine your eyes,
Not for silver nor gold
That sparkle and reflects,
But the black centers
That hide your heart,
Your love and desires.

And as I peer
Back down
At that pretty dead cat
Smiling
It winks at me
And I
Laugh.

At the Lake

On a bitter January, sharp blue air day
There are roses on the ice at the lake.
What are they doing there like that?
Who did this, did anyone see?
What were they thinking
What does this mean?

Were they thrown or were they laid?
These roses on the ice at the lake
Are wonderful, beautiful
But there is an ambiguous feeling
Of overwhelming joy
And unsettled sadness.

Are these roses
On the ice at the lake
A memorial or tribute
Of gain or loss,
A romantic tragedy
Perhaps?

I would like to believe
These roses on the ice
Are a celebration
Of true Love
Or a delight for Life
As God is a witness at the lake.

Ashland Cemetery

As I walk,
Stroll
Through the cemetery
Viewing the old, weathered stones
Limestones
With dates and names
Chiseled centuries ago
Faces of sculpture
Pale, beautiful,
Sun-bleached skin
Washed smooth
Fingers and hands broken
Arms and legs missing
Green mildew creeps up
Out of the cool grue shade
Where the magic periwinkle
Crawls and curls atop
The quiet moss.

Across the rolling green lawn
Of white markers
At a distance
There appeared something odd
As I approached for a closer look
I squint to focus my eyes to see
There stands an old soft maple
Many decades old
That had grow up in between
Two graves,
The graves of a married couple
Both grave stones had grown into the tree
Each, half exposed on opposite sides
The markers left long, deep scars
Up each side, in the bark.

I fell to my knees to weep—
The wonderment flooded my soul
To think that this married couple,
Once, separated by death
Were together again, now
Inside this living tree.

Sea-Shell Fossils

I will remember their folded hands
(because they never show their feet)
There is no reason to look at their faces
They are gone—
Leaving their perfectly combed hair behind
Their eyes are closed (without dimes)
And their lips are painted shut
With a waxy make-believe smile.
I never have figured death out
Is it like a door
That opens or shuts?
Does the soul leave because it can?
Because the body is weaken and
Can no longer contain it?
Or does the body force
The soul to leave
Slamming a door shut?
The body is this three dimensional manifestation
Of an abstract soul
A stick in the mudd
With a turning leaf
Flickering in the breeze
When I (my body)
Am dead and gone
And reduced to smoke and ash
By the licking fires of death
Will blood rain down from the heavens
Once the smoke dissipates?
Where will have my essence gone, be found?
Shouldn’t my ashes be scattered into a river
With hopes my remains will have gone
To the seas and reach the eternal beaches
That the oceans lick and build
Compiling the sands of time
And someday be found
A sea-shell fossil
From a long time.

A Summer Sunday

A summer Sunday in June
Crimson, red hollyhocks bloom.
Wearing a kitchen apron
Over an apricot blouse
Weeding plastic flower beds
Trying to find out the truth
In the dirt. Her heart is burst
And her soul has been taken.
This is the first time in her
Entire life she has ever
Felt lost inside w/out God.
Where had the Holy Ghost gone?
Smearing mudd across her cheek
She wipes the tears from her eyes.

“Donny”

My dear friend Donny, what has happened to you?

After six months I wouldn’t of known you without

your tattoo. The cancer has starved and beaten you

and has left you for dead. Does anyone know

that you are here (in this room) all alone?

A good man is dying here inside, no

one cares, not the hookers or drug addicts

who john next door. I don’t know how I found

you here still alive. You aren’t waiting for

Jesus or long black train. You hear the bells

of Hell tone as you stand waiting for Death

at Hell’s gate. Life is cruel when death is nigh

and Hell is a welcomed friend to your flesh,

and soul, laying on your death bed burning cold.

Poppy

Why won’t you die for Christ sake
Yes I know you feel cheated
But it is your own damn fault
I know I won’t understand until
This moment is my own.

I just wish you would stop breathing
And close your eyes–but you won’t
You just lay there breathing
With your eyes wide
Staring blindly at me.

I can’t look away
It wouldn’t be right
I can’t I won’t do that
I just have to leave the room
To smoke another fucking cigarette.

The devil sits waiting laughing
At the foot of your bed
That pompous way as you lay
Drowning inside your own brain
Waiting for your last breath to seal your fate.

Yes people will cry
But I for one will sigh
Having held my breath this entire time
You may end up in Hell
But you will be in a better place

There will be hookers
And whores there for you
And Grandma will never know
As she waits for eternity
For you at Heaven’s door.

Mean Old Man

John was a mean old man
He lived in the same house
In Mansfield most of his life
John was from the old school.

He sat in his big chair
In the corner beside
The front street window
Patrolling the side-walk traffic.

Mean old John would glare out
From under a bent brow
And rigid horn framed glasses
Through bellowing clouds of smoke.

With a clean razor shaved
Face and fine tooth gelled hair
A mouth full of flat yellow teeth
He licked and chewed cigars.

John wore plaid button-up
Shirts with ties pinned and clipped
Under a vest or a sweater
Pleated slacks and good shoes.

John and great grandmother
Marie sat together
Every evening before
Bed she knitted and he smoked.

There was a big old style
Hot smelling standing tube
Radio between them
That hummed snapped and crackled.

At the end of each day
He’d butt out the last blunt
Dig for his pocket watch
To tell Mother the time.

John ate a bowl of warm
Milk and crumbled saltines
Before bed each night he
Crossed off another day.

Mean old John lived to be
91 Poppy said
He was so mean that God
Asked when he’d want to die.

The devil of this world
Didn’t want anything to
Do with that mean old man
John gave him a bad name.

Hell wasn’t big enough
For those two together
So John took his leather
Razor strap to Heaven.

And took a seat beside
God Almighty’s holy-throne
As he’d sat here on Earth
Smoking his big cigars.

“Leian”

I
I am a young boy
Ten years old
When my childhood ends.

“Your mother has cancer”
Were the four words
My father said.

What do you mean
I asked with my eyes
I can still see my mother
Trying not to cry.

We don’t cry in our family.

II
When my mother was sick
People would say
“I know your mother”
And I would wonder
What do they mean?

She use to say
She didn’t have any friends
Then after she died
They all sent flowers
They all came to call
Why didn’t they bring her those flowers
When she was still alive
Ill and bald.

Now they say they knew her
And remember when
But after all these years I rarely
Hear them speak her name.

III
She was the first of
Many to follow
But there is no greater
Sorrow then a son has for his mother.

All I can say now is
“Really”?” That’s too bad”
Once you loose your mother
You really don’t care.

IV
So they took one of her breast
Said they had gotten it all
And we went on with our lives
As if it were all gone.

It all went away and
All her hair returned
She had survived the devil’s lie
And we were a happy family once again.

But the day came
Out of the blue
“Your mother is sick”
My father said once again
“The cancer has returned”.

V
I am angry
And full of hate
I blame God
For my mother’s pain.

I live in denial
Do you truly know
What that means?

You see your mother dying
You pretend it isn’t true
But it is- – true
And there isn’t a fucking thing
You can do.

VI
The day she died
I had no idea
I assumed she’d be home soon
As she always did.

I walked up the street
And in the front yard
Stood Poppy my grand-father
And he told me
“Your mother is gone”.

I screamed to heaven
And I cursed God’s name
She had left without a word
Or a note to explain.

VII
I ripped off the front door
As I entered the house.

My father’s mother
God bless her heart
Is praising the Lord
And praying out loud.

I told her “Fuck You
And your God”
As I beat down
My bedroom door.

I didn’t drink — I didn’t do drugs
For those four days
Until she was laid to rest.

But as she was
Lowered into the ground
I fell unto her casket
I didn’t want to let her go.

There was so much
I wanted to tell her
But it was too late
She was gone.

VIII
She was forty-two then
And I was seventeen
Now I am forty-five
And she would be seventy.

I wish she were still here
I wish she were still alive
To hear her loud laugh
And slapping my arm

Saying “Joseph David”
My full name aloud
With a wink
And that teeth-dropping smile.

Because
I would still be teasing her
And giving her
A hard time.

Anne Sexton

How many demons did you gas that day
Locked in your car inside that dark garage
I bet you were pissed felt betrayed and tricked
When you woke up naked with the same saggy tits.

Standing in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen
Bellies and buttocks in barrels & drums
Penis’ and breast hang from rusty hooks
Heads and limbs are piled and stacked in corners.

Couch whores wearing singed fakey eyelashes
Stirring boiling kettles of steeping tongues
As their cheap make-up melts runs
Onto the bloody floors of yellow fat.

All the ward nurses are on the gay floor
Standing out in Hell’s halls masturbating
With white uniform pants down to their knees
While lesbians giggling point & stare.

There are no babies in Hell to hear cry
No runny noses or asses to wipe
No dirty dishes spoons or forks to wash
In Hell you eat w/ the dogs off the floor
Who vomit up the dead and lick their balls.

Sliding Glass Door

Erect posture, she walks and sits up straight
With an air of confidence that slides smooth
As sliding glass doors on a strict, tight track
A daring barrier allowing in clean light.

Laughing nervously the double pane glass
Door slides slowly open, breaking the seal
A clear, odorless air invades and chokes.
Short of breath, threatening to suffocate

She has to leave the room to wash her hands
Returning armed with a fan, over-sized
Yellow, rubber gloves and buckets of hot
Soapy water to wash the walls and doors.

Once the walls, doors are clean and glass sparkles
Without streaks, the sliding glass doors will close,
Properly seal—and keep the dirty air out
Allowing the clean light to shine in.

She then can go, take a hot, long shower
(behind another set of sliding glass doors)
So she will be clean enough to do it all
Again, the next time the sealed glass doors slide open.

Dog Star

I rebuke you—you
Sons of bitches
In the name of Mann
and the blue planet.

You go about running
As dogs at large
Digging holes
And soiling lawns.
You gag and cough
After rolling
On dead things.

You bark and
Make noise all night
Then slumber days away
From your long chains
Of convenience
That waters and feeds you.

You lift your leg
To mark your territory
In the Universe—
The Dog Star.

Bongo

He runs this machine
The faster the better
He never breaks a sweat
He breaks down tires

It’s his job he’s the best

And he will break your face
If you look at him wrong
Don’t say a word to him
And stay out of the way

He doesn’t get paid enough
To fool around w/ you
He has a kid & wife
And a car that won’t start

Unless you have a set
Of car-keys to a Vette
You can drop fucking dead
And go straight to Hell but

First pay at the front desk
Then you can get your car
Out of his god damn way

He’s a bottom feeder
In your make believe world
You’re a pain in his ass
On a fucked up planet

Spinning out of control

The name is Bongo if
You care say him a prayer
If not buy him a coffee
And don’t try to shake hands.

Paper Cross’

Why do you address me as your brother?
You are not my brother and I am not yours
Were we both born from the same mother’s womb
Or do we share the same father’s last name?

You speak of a Divine Creator but
I am a heathen son made of flesh and blood,
Not a God son as you proclaim to be
Your Brother walked on water but you may drown.

Your paper cross’ and crowns were wood and thorns
Show me your brow and back, your hands and feet
I don’t see any holes or ribbons meat
Lashed, missing from your backs, exposing your spines.

Why do our backs bare the stripes of your Brother,
Whose yoke is easy and bares your burdens?
My brothers and I are out on the streets
Your brothers hide in your Father’s glass steeples.

We go bare footed while you wear sandals
Your hands pray and break bread on bended knees
Our hands provide, protect and masturbate
Which Mary is yours? (all three are quite pretty)

Lazarus’ sister, Martha is with us.

Seed

I sat and talked to the devil on
A sunny afternoon and he said this:
The Tree of Knowledge and Life caused the
Fall of Mann. Eve took and ate of the forbidden fruit
And passed the curse onto aAdam, who too
Disobeyed, eating the fruit of Doom, and forced
The Hand of God, condemning Mann to die.
The Seed, also fell (from their mouth) unto
The ground and died. And so with this,
The death of Mann, Nature was born again,
Escaping the pruning Hand of God, and the Garden walls.
The tree of Eden needed Eve to sow
The seed of Nature as I needed the fruit
Forbidding Mann to inherit the land.

God Spoke

God spoke unto Noah and said
Build an ark, save your righteous house
And spare two of each bird and beast
The world is corrupt and breeds sin
There are giants in the land
Sons of devils and demons
Who have taken the wives of Mann
I shall flood this earth I made.

Babel-ing tongues seek and enchant
The princes of darkness and
Principalities of the Air
They copulate with goats in Holts
And practice human sacrifice
For their evils are before me
For these deeds they shall surely die
I shall flood this earth I made.

Believe these words you have heard
For the Lord your God has spoken
Ignore the teasing taunts of those
Who laugh and play while you build
With righteous hands, saw and nail
For they will perish in their sins
I shall flood this earth I made.

Noah, when the first rain-drops fall
Save yourself and your righteous house
Enter the ark and I will shut the door
I shall flood this earth I made.

No Oil Left

there is no oil left for your lamps
nor water to change to wine
your baskets of bread are empty
Heaven’s manna fails to dew down

the holy veil is rent and torn
the stone tablet commandments lost
the ark of the covenant stolen
the grail pours blood shed out on Mann

the seven seals have been broken
hounds howl the willow widows weep
the beggar drools dribbling glib
the grackles peck yellow beaks

the eternal scroll unrolls
and vials spill out unto the Earth
the four horsemen rise up their mounts
the bit biting steeds stomp snorting

the breath of the black horse plagues mankind
the red steed bleeds bloody slaughters
the pale horse is famine and thirst
the white steed steeps shafts of light

doom looms demons moan devils groan
the sheep bleep for their good Shepherd
while goats dance and ride witches
the Reaper sharpens the sickle.

the holy rollers fast and pray
priest stand wave in white shame stained palls
clergy watching wait for rapture
that their good book of blame proclaims

the Coming of the Lord
the Resurrection of the Dead
“oh Death where Art thou Sting”
and Grave thou shallow pitch and Dread

we will meet our Maker this day
the Sun goes black the Moon loams red
the Book of Life reveals the names
of the Almighty’s chosen few

will you be one in that number
or a child of Satan damned doomed
sentenced to burn eternally
in a Hell of wailing souls gnashing teeth

Left Behind

the newspaper headlines read
the Resurrection of the Dead
and the Rapture came and went
Jesus returns and God’s not dead

meeting His Bride in the sky
the Lion of Judah reigns supreme
riding a white horse He appeared
in all His glory King of kings

the homeless widows orphans are gone
but the priest and clergy are left
God must have a sense of humor
he took the goats and left the sheep

some grave-holes lay open while
others are still full of dirt
Andy Warhol was taken
while Jerry Falwell remains

joined together in Paradise
Pablo Picasso counts his wives
John & Yoko make love in the sky
and Bette Davis bats her eyes

Mary Magdalene has to share
as Princess Di takes Jesus’ hand
Marilyn Monroe waits in line
Anne and Sylvia fuss and whine

not available for comment
Elvis Presley has left the Earth
Courtney Love is reunited with Kurt
John Wayne wants a god-damn cigarette

aAdam & Eve have lost their leaves
Lot licks his salt pillared wife
Moses has broken stone tablets
John the Baptist has back his head

friend what if you were left behind
will you take the mark of the beast
what will you trade or buy or sell
for your lost soul damned for Hell

Angus

He dwells in swells of churning ships at sea,
Lo, Angus appears weary, long and frail
To serve the pangs of the unHoly Grail
Angus climbs aboard ships at night to please.
Eternal yearning, blood thirst hunger screams,
He stalks his prey from behind flapping sails
Through eyes of mercury, strands of seaweed hair,
His speech is pompous, pale, he laughs, and teases.

Upon their necks Angus falls, steeps and bleeds,
He leaves wasted victims for crews to know
Upon the living he, Angus has fed;
Lo, the unholy Grail hunger decrees.
Nocturnal foe, decades, centuries old,
Hundreds, thousands Angus has supt and bled.

Xebec

Over seraph wings of a swifty Xebec
He, harpoons the ship, Angus drips aboard
Lo. The unholy Grail prowls with an open mouth
To taste a sweet breeze of chamber maidens.

He, harpooned the ship, Angus dripped aboard
The taste is mixed, rotten pirate sea brine
And sweet tasting breeze of chamber maidens.
Angus swings his stringy head of sea dreads.

The taste are mixed, rotten, pirate sea brine.
With a grim, pale face and black, dilated eyes
Angus swings his stringy head of sea dreads
Stowing below, he locks the maidens in their chambers.

With a grim, pale face and black dilated eyes
Before he visits the Captain’s quarters
He locks the maidens in their chambers and
Angus violently takes the pirate’s life.

After visiting the captain’s quarters
He strings the sea lord up the center mast
Once he violently took the pirate’s life.
Painting sails with the captain’s remaining blood.

Stringing the sea lord up the center mast,
Staining sails with the thirst of unholy Grail
Painting sails with captain’s remaining blood
Angus strains neck to tongue blood from the air.

Over seraph wings of a swifty Xebec,
Staining sails with the thirst of unholy Grail,
Angus strains neck to tongue the blood from the air.
Lo, the unholy Grail prowls with an open mouth.

Sleeping Fishes

I will be lying there
In an adjustable hospital bed
Looking out the window
Between drawn vertical blinds
At the tar & gravel roof dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
And when it is my time to go
I will take my dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
(and a couple eight balls)
A carton of red pack cigarettes
And get on a bus.

I will go to the ocean
To sit on the beach
And finishing my dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
Wait
For the last sands to
Empty from my houring glass.

I should have my gently
Used copies of T. S. Eliot
And Anne Sexton in hand
To flip between the weathered
Covers with my withered
Yellow nicotine stained fingers.

I will not want to paint anymore
The easel will have out lived me
Left standing alone
Erect—
Somewhere else
Awaiting the journey
With the rest of
My unfinished works.

I will want to read now
As I try to focus my dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
Eight-balling eyes
To read the blurry black print
From the pale dead semen pages
Of my favorite poems.

Then I will begin to wonder
Is it illegal to
Smoke on the beach?
It is a public place
I am not sure?
I know you are not permitted
To walk on the sand dunes,…

I sure hope
You are allowed to
Die on the beach and
Sleep with the fishes.

When from behind me
I hear “excuse me sir,…”

I would hope that it is
A beautiful tanned blonde
Female life-guard
That has come to rescue me
From this dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
Death
Wearing a small red
One-piece swim-suit
With a little white
Cross just above her
High hipping tan-lines
To read aloud to me.

But it is not
It is a beach police
Officer on patrol
He says
I will have to ask you to
Put out the cigarette
From that red pack
As he dismounts
A well equipped
Mountain bike
With knobby tires
I want to ask him
Why he’s riding a
Mountain bike
On the beach
But I can see
He’s really not
In the mood.

He informs me
That this is a public beach
And smoking is prohibited
As he sets the kick-stand
Down with authority.

I am speechless
Standing there
Peering at my dying
Dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
Reflection
In his big mirrored sunglasses
With a half burnt
Red pack cigarette
Hanging from my cotton mouth
As I prepare to make a dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip

Rebuttal that I have
Come on a bus to
Die on the beach and
Sleep with the fishes.

I drop the red pack cigarette
And step on it out.

Then the beach police officer
Tells me I will have to take my dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
(and eight ball) death
And go die somewhere else
That this is a public beach
Where only the fishes are
Permitted to publicly die.

As he hands me a littering ticket
For dropping
Drop
Drop
Drop
The red pack cigarette butt
Onto the ground
That he had instructed me to put out
In the first place.

I think to myself
I guess this answers my question?

He goes on to tell me
I can mail in a wavier
For the littering fine
To the address circled below
If I think I will be
Dead before the court date.

The beach police officer
On patrol
Concludes that
He is going easy on me
(And that’s really nice because
I am still dying here)
He said he could of
Run me in for smoking
On the beach
In a public place
Where the fishes sleep.

Then I just have to ask him
How did you know I was here?
He said there had been a call to his outpost
That someone was dying on the beach
And he caught me smoking
Responding to the alarm
While riding the well equipped
Mountain bike
With knobby tires.

He says now
He is in a hurry
And he must go
He has someone’s life to save
From dying on the beach and
Sleeping with the fishes.

I would have tried to tell him
That I was probably the person dying
But he would have never listened
He didn’t even spell my name
Right on the ticket.

So now I wonder
Do I have to pay the ticket?

I guess it is too late to ask
The beach police officer
Had mounted the well equipped
Mountain bike
With knobby tires
Strapping on his helmet
Donning finger-less riding gloves
And peddled
Down the beach
With lights flashing and
Siren blaring.
And I think to myself
I am sure glad he didn’t
Turn all that stuff on when
He stopped me for smoking
On the beach
Everybody would of know
(except him)
That I was the guy wanting to die
And sleep with the fishes.

So I stand there
At the bus stop
Still dying still dripping
Drip
Drip
Drip
(and eight-balling)
When I lit up another
Red pack cigarette
Shaking the sand from my
Rolled up pant legs,…

And I think
So if I cannot die on the beach
Where the fishes sleep
Where am I allowed to die?

I know—
I think
In the streets
I can die in the streets
People do it all the time
It happens everyday
No one really seems to mind
As long as you die kind’ a
Out of the way
and
Don’t block traffic.

What is the difference anyway
Between public streets and public beaches?
I guess beaches have sleeping fishes
While streets have sleeping peoples.

I wonder
Are there any life-guards
On the streets?

No just pissed off cabbies
Under paid trash collectors
And street police riding horses
I would want to ask
Why are they riding horses
In the streets
Shouldn’t they be riding them
On the beaches
Where the fishes sleep?

I’m getting kind ‘a confused,…

I still think
I’d rather drip die on the beach
And sleep with the fishes

Maybe I could go atop
The sand dunes and die
No one is allowed to walk
On them
So no one would
Ever know.

If I died on the streets
I guess
No one would know either
Although everybody knows
John (and Jane)
Doe.

Speaking of Jane
Look
There she is now
I see the street walkers
Preening and parading
When I get off the bus
At the street corner
Maybe she will read to me
I did bring some Shelley
For just the occasion.

(Where has the sunlight gone?
There’s not much light
To read by here.)

As you can see
I have died this death
Many times
In my mind
On the beach
Sleeping with the fishes.

I just wonder
Each time
If this will be
My last end.

Be

Be encouraged, so others may be encouraged
Believe, so you may be believable.
Be free, so others may be freed.
Be second, so others may be first.
Be different, so you may be a difference.