Long Heavy duty Poems
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Frankly Speaking
There is a couple on the beach, they have a small room, been on the beach for years, suffered through the worst of it. They have been through every phase. The Hippie, the war protesters -the poet-the artist - the "free love fest"- the heavy duty weed scene, "hell no we won't fn go" from there; To the board room with a haircut and a suit. Back to the beach, to retire; She still wore pigtails and flowered skirts. Oh, my God, we’ve moved slower through time she thought, and those times now seemed so far away. Contrasting times were here with cocaine, ecstasy, and mushrooms.!
S.S. check gone too soon, these days were not like the old days but vegetarians never die- So we dance at night after soaking up the sun; Growing wrinkled and red and filled with vitamin D... He displays his art- we played on our boombox: Bob Marley and Elton John which drew a crowd. We became as one with South Beach, as we practiced our Yoga, or played our musical instruments and chanted “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo”.
My black friend was so beautiful in her bikini and golden headwrap...She roller-skated past and waved. She was a poet like me... She said she'd be back for the session. A lot of her poems were about David the owner of the Franklin Hotel where we lived. I and other poets wrote poems about the system that tried to impose hate upon us free thinking peoples. People would give us money for sharing our poems, and purchase his art work. We’d buy few mangos and veggie burgers for our dinner, next, we’d wait for the sun to go down.
At night, my Black friend. Oladeji would collect the last 5 bucks, for the Gourmet Franks that she sold to the hungry drunks left over on the beach, who had been evacuated from the clubs for maxed out credit cards. Sad looks and broke pockets were not welcomed.
Which made her hot, fat kosher gourmet grilled franks, smothered in her special onion sauce, even more of a redeeming quality; As her poetic sign read… {FRANKLY SPEAKING…Home of the gourmet franks} ... Oladeji, would chant out her newly learned Spanish words nightly, to the dregs of dejected party goers, she’d shout “Pero caliente, saboya salsa” Rico delicioso”! then again in English; Hot-dogs with onion sauce very delicious.
Electroconvulsive therapy,
a last ditch avail
able effort optioned, aye bewail
as desperation if standard
psychological measures peter
out leave ving paul tree
(paltry) choice, and blackmail
ling Doctor Frankenstein
out of the question, cuz
accidental discover re:
visa vis could yield (ahem) grave
zero APR, hence bad
(bon jovian) medicine
sought as precautionary
measure to countervail
undesirable repercussions
hoop fully curtail
ling any unexpected derail
ment, thus every nitty gritty detail,
asper my treatment plan
made purposely intractable
courtesy Matthew Scott Harris,
to flummox decrypting
this daunting task, whose
hair brained scheme didst entail
hatching with Sam I am
(of Doctor Zeus fame)...Oh...My...G___
egg gads no fail-
safe recourse, should shell shock
Electroconvulsive – formerly electric shock
therapy even slip an infinitesimal jot
offsetting requisite
exactly predicted results
yes, even if precision errs
by a mere clipped fingernail...
the sought after outcome
(devised on the fly - by night
Reddit writer above named author)
must absolutely dovetail
with The Elements of Style
or very close
facsimile thereof, anyway
strict requirements quality controlled
with results tubby
sent as email
to Strunk and White,
who will flail
like some GMO gone awry
(if patient accidentally electrocuted)
finding them to become
instantaneously petrified and frail
looking analogous to
witnessing the Holy Grail
shattering into a bajillion pieces,
whereby the heavens,
would reign hail
scaring every last man,
woman, and child to hightail
donned in heavy duty boots
studded with many a hobnail
with duff feet, sans long arm of
law and order on their heels,
and if any scapegoats nabbed
definitely consigned to jail
without chance of parole to prevail
no matter guilty might sail
to some tropical island awash
with countless carbon copies
of Euell Gibbons doppelganger,
and Swiss Alpine like mountains to scale.
After the storm, my brother
(all gangly knees and elbows)
bore the brunt of its ferocious aftermath.
Every day after school
I watched his wiry biceps bulge a little
as his handsaw scritched against the tree
which had fallen diagonally across our front yard.
I witnessed the violence of metal on wood,
the violence of The King of the Mountain’s smirk
as he too watched, his greedy eyes
taking in my brother’s razor sharp collar bone,
with jaw set in furious concentration.
This imposed punishment was meant to goad my brother,
meant to tempt him to rage
so that the next time the stepdad slugged him
he would feel justified, holy even.
Kneeling on scratchy couch to watch
I scrunched my shoulders,
Folding into myself like an accordion,
gathering myself up to make of me something smaller;
I pressed my knees together
wrapping my arms around them
and lowered my head,
waiting for the sky to rain trees
with swollen trunks, and branches thrust downward
as if warding off a sickening impact with earth.
My brother, it seems,
must be punished for the crime of
his existence;
for this the stepdad’s eyes shone bright,
bright as the heavy duty flashlights
he begrudgingly loaned my brother
so he could work far into the night.
His eyes fairly burned with lust—
The lust of sadism’s glee.
I saw him lick his lips;
You’d have thought he’d conjured up this
Columbus Day Storm all by himself
for the sole purpose
of proving to my brother
that he had no right
to co-exist with him in the same universe.
I watched until my eyes burned
and my head ached dully
and my brother, sweating and chilled,
laid down his saw
swiped his arm across his forehead,
and straightening up, met my wary gaze
with the scoured look
of shame whittled down into hatred,
sawn away into stumpy pieces like an old tree trunk.
After the storm my brother cleaned up nature’s wrath.
He stood a little taller and his eyes, when they met his abuser’s,
burned unflinching.
After the storm we feigned memory loss
Pretended that nothing had shifted in our family dynamic.
We sat down to meals silent and repressed and picked up our forks
as if the stepdad hadn’t just won a major battle,
as if my brother’s days in that household were not numbered.
Big trucks rolling down the street
With a message that is very deep
Big trucks rolling down the street
Filled with mixed concrete
Big trucks rolling down the street
carrying tons of steels
Stone truck, cement truck, steel truck
And truck whose body can hardly match the street
Rumbling through the protest town with a terrible sound
Big trucks rambelling through the street
Stirring up the people's heart beat
Bread truck, peanut truck, chocolate truck
Biscuit truck, chicken truck, police truck
Waste management truck, whoes stench
Circulate the air with a smell that cause
The people to fear.
Big trucks criss crossing the town
Carrying goods that are scarce in town
Heavy duty trucks with drivers whose
Hearts are tough journey all night
Into broad daylight with their big
Tattoo arms grasping the steering wheel
with smile that is very mean
Big truck gathering on the bridges
Forming long ques on the free ways
moving slowly into the city oh what a pity
Their drivers knows the road and they
are used to carrying heavy load
They honk their horns and make
Fun of the women watering the lawn.
Big trucks honkering down in the town
watching the women changing their night gown
Bulldozar truck, wreckers truck and truck that can cause
A man made disaster, the street is messy and the
Gods are unhappy but the truckers are ready.
They are travelling from city to city and they are
taking over states and towns dropping
Off boxes of goods in rundown towns
Removal trucks, horse trucks, furniture trucks,
And trucks with bodies mounting up in the sky
They have to use a special road to get by
Buses and cars motor cycle and bicycle
All gather in the street to sound their heartbeat
They circle around the town making loud
and boisterous sounds chasing the visitors
Out of town.
Big trucks with double gear shouting
And pressing the gas that is filtering smoke in the air
Water truck are crawling by
Fire trucks, petrol trucks and dirt trucks are
all waiting in line to meet their deadline
Get ready to board the truck and hop
off that terrible bus , cross the ocean
and make landfall in the desert.
I awoke a bit firghtened
My senses were heightened
I had heard a soft whirring sound,
As my eyes opened,
I thought I saw three silvery Quarters
Fly out of my bedroom door...
My head felt stung,
My mind seemed full of dung
And I dragged myself
Out of bed
I fought my way to the bathroom,
Awful pain about my head
Light put on,
In the mirror I look
And horrible what I saw!
I had "crop circles" on my head,
Circles, squares, and more
My hair had become a canvas
For alien artists,
And they sculpted as I snore...
Now, I found this rather frightening,
So next night before I slept,
I put on a comic wig,
For funny skits that I had kept
Better the wig than me,
I trusted,
But next morning lo,
I was disgusted
To see my face etched
Like a Mayan Temple
So this was what my plan's reward fetched!
I stumbled to the bathroom,
In pain and anger sharp
In the toilet I retched
Around my head, I secured
A heavy duty tarp
With but slivers for sight and breath
I felt much like a mummy after death
I went back to sleep,
Praying the Lord to keep
Those damn aliens away from me!
Now I slept a deep, deep sleep,
I don't think I made a peep...
But awoke quite alarmed,
To find myself webbed
On the bedroom ceiling,
And though not physically harmed,
I felt my life was now less than charmed
So I paid a construction company $15,000
To seal my bed in a close meshed web of steel,
No alien should reach me now....
Yet somehow I was not sure...
They seemed awfully capable
Of making me suffer more
Next morning I awoke
To find I had webbed feet,
Are these water-world aliens,
And these they thought were neat?
I called the police,
They laughed at me
Told me to sleep it off,
I got so mad, I found myself,
Suffering a severe cough
Lo and Behold, out of me came,
Two silvery Quarter sized saucers,
So, now they're working internally!!
What was I to do????
I ran to the bathroom mirror,
And this was more frightening too!
I was two feet shorter than yesterday
They're shrinking me down to size!
So I can ultimately fit in their saucer
And they can fly home with their new prize!
4/30/17
Underneath what they consider lunar
Don't care if your name is super
So much for your future
And all of the rumors
There is nowhere you can go to outmaneuver
When I turn into Krueger
Take you out before the sound of the rooster
Whether or not on the computer
Or a scooter
Oh well that just makes one fewer
I don't care if you can't appreciate my humor
I come from the sewer
Not much of a snoozer
But a heavy duty boozer
Warning
Night and morning
The rage accumulating and forming
Before, during and after storming
In and out of areas with bugs that continue swarming
Feeling like Rick and not so much Morty
The temperature below, above or at the forties
In and out of different territories
Near and far from quarries
Coming in like Vorhees
It doesn't matter if you heard all the stories
Because nothing can prepare you for me
Considering that we all fall in different categories
And carry our own inventories
Mine can make it gory
Yours are empty normally
For you it just may end up horribly
Drawn out or ending shortly
I don't care about the glory
Or so called purgatory
A simple and friendly reminder
Don't have on your blinders
Think wiser
At elevations lower and higher
On foot or tires
Looking like Myers
In and out of areas devastated by fires
Above and below telephone wires
With a pair of pliers
Ready to eliminate any liars
Leaving behind no traces or fibers
Tried to go after me, but instead
He was caught, and pissed the bed
As it was off with his head
When I was Pinhead
Could be worse or better
More or lesser
Something that would do you some good to remember
Before I lose control of my temper
And become Lecter
Against whomever
Thinks their clever
Whenever
During any weather
The surrounding suddenly became redder
Not concerned about opinions
A one man army on a mission
They wanted to give me a million
Endless medical prescriptions
And to persuade me with religion
But I wouldn't give in or listen
Because I am a villain
By: Dalton Ogletree
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
She has been sobbing all night for enduring the vicious fight, she has been sobbing all night for paying a daunting sacrifice, she has been sobbing all night for enduring attacks and punches, hits and bruises, the universe embraces her, and the heavens adore her.
She has a stern look on her face, since she dropped out of the race ambition kept her alive and courage made her go wild.
She has been enjoying every moment of it even though she was slowly falling off the cliff, she wanted to go the extra mile, but she had to pay a very high price.
So, she crisscrosses all the states invoking new energy in the place. The dress made a difference but the secret society with its laced-up shoes planted a dangerous vision in the sun forcing everyone to get up and run and the heavy-duty trucks rolling down the street create a myriad of fuss disrupting my heartbeat.
The skeptic could not see it and the skies had to reveal it, two hand clasps in one and the imaginary line running from east to west, north to south crying out to the universe to change the sweaty shirt and the chaos began.
It wasn’t physical it was mental; some people heard it and spoke boldly about it and so I listened carefully, but I could not hear it.
The night continues to bear it weight on its own shoulder and the night owl with its nocturnal eyes peeping from a distance radiates a strange energy in the environment.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it so I ignored it and observe the stars cruising around the moon and the ambulance speeding down the track with a man covered up in the back.
The surgery was about to begin, and the priest was getting ready to sing the final hymn, they crowd around the hospital bed, and everyone walked in to pay their final respect.
She went down the bowling alley, but the ball was extremely heavy, she could feel the dead weight in her hand, and she could not lift the ball and so she stuck two fingers in it and knocks down the targets in the pit and the doctor begins the heart surgery.
Paterfamilias gone since October 7th, 2020
The spirit of Boyce Brandon Harris
(mine papa) awoke
vested gentry coutured raiment
did don and singularly cloak
affecting haunting resemblance
to daguerreotype accentuating,
(especially his facial features)
as Semitic (i.e. Ashkenazi) folk.
Circumstances found yours truly stationed
(wagon ma figurative tale) outside
within close proximity to our parked vehicle,
a 2009 copper toned Hyundai Sonata
bequeathed to us (thee wife)
courtesy said male parent
approximately six months prior.
Though not necessarily
mechanically engineered
(like dear ole dad),
I know basic
vehicular maintenance tidbits,
thus rummaged trunk
for sought after portable air compressor
purchased when I owned
previous automobile - also
2009 Hyundai Sonata plus
similarly acquired thru
Enterprise rent a car.
After removing most all
miscellaneous paraphernalia -
including recycling materials
the missus regularly
drops off at Wegmans
subsequently organizing trunk in process
I finally located
two lightweight air compressors,
the more heavy duty model
bought years before father passed away,
plus said recently deceased parent
also kept portable battery charger,
both items a dog send
analogous to striking motherlode
of unsuspecting goldmine
ready to shout finders keepers!
Though yours truly
(i.e. me) skeptical dude
regarding existence
of benevolent invisible I allude
to sudden awakening to brood
notion concerning divine
omniscient essence,
which found local bummer
in an ecstatic mood
whereby, I did pray tell
(rather bellow) gratitude
Capital one stroke of luck
to discover (visa vis)
needful things to carry
to avoid being in misery stranded
out in the middle of nowhere
guided courtesy the shining star
tentatively headed towards desperation
resembling a black house
preparing myself (otherwise
known as lovely bag of bones)
for the long walk
into the dark tower of doom.
I live in Tucson, in a trailer court on the South side
All Mexican, except for me the old Gringo
I speak Spanish, can get along with most anyone
With all the Mexican border drugs, things can get wild
I am getting old and taking things slow
Was sort of a paradise in the Arizona Sun
The owner has lights, security cameras, claims to be drug free
Even claims to be a heavy duty born again
Not like us old folks and sinner on the South
After a couple of years of watching, seemed counterfeit to me
Said by him last weekend, "This land is blessed, sin cannot get in"
He is one of those feller, born with a silver spoon in his mouth
There has been a murder conspiracy after me for years
By the Old Witch and the Mexican Mafia that continues
Severel months back I could feel a change in the atmosphere
It was the old witch had moved in, with her bucket of fears
Trying to scare me and make me sing the blues
Make me think that my end was near
But then last weekend I saw it all, a crystal ball view
The owner lives in California, was in town
Fell on hard times and the park is empty
Went to the witch and money people, "Anything that is what I will do"
But soon the Devil will let him down
Only to add to his up coming misery
He sold his soul to the Devil, just for a little gain
And maybe when it all comes down, will end this conspiracy
A long story made short, to the court I will report
Set me free, for him will be eternal pain
For a man that sold his soul, God can give no mercy
There are no troops in his fort
Tried to take my last dime, leave me down and out
But I knew that God would not let me fail
I can over come this evil pair
With God, the Devil cannot run me out
You see if have sort of left a "Paper Trail"
"Joe you have sold your soul, you don't even have a prayer"
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