Long Hunks Poems
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EATING OUT
Seated uneasily at the edge tables, café males alone, silent -
Focused on eating, heads moving, looking around to defend,
Guarding their plates against enemies and, finished, quickly leaving.
Am I feeling different from these? Or not really believing?
This man, round-shouldered predator over a fresh kill,
Shoveling in untidy dangling heaps on a fork, devours his fill,
Bare arms laid either side of plate, his shaggy hair a lion-mane.
Salty meaty-stuff in great hunks : it’s feeding time at the zoo again.
Elbows-off-table, not for manners, but for speed,
That man’s cutting with edge of fork and filling his need,
Stabbing the meat like it was alive and needed subduing,
Levering huge pieces into his mouth and rapidly chewing.
In rapid action their jaw muscles ripple :
It’s a job of work to be completed as quickly as possible.
The chewing muscles in sync with moving ears :
Must finish it all off - before any enemy appears.
Café-females are nested in the central tables - to chat, to think.
In table-groups of two or three, discussing the food and drink ,
Sweet cakes’ crumbs carefully swept with back of finger,
They eat only incidentally, no purpose for them, they linger -
It is a process, not a product, an experience, an exchange of souls.
Select one from a plate of small sweet rolls,
With small bites chewed slowly, elegantly, with thought,
Sitting up straight the way mother taught.
Hands occasionally touching for spoken emphasis in speech,
Unhurried, they pause over coffee and talk intently each to each.
Heads move neither up nor down nor away to the side.
Over each other’s faces, appraising, their eyes roam wide.
I assess these people closely, and rub my chin-stubble in thought:
With the eyes of a poet I mentally note their features as I ought.
Drink up my coffee quick, and move to the counter for more meat pies
Before any enemy arrives.
Little munchkin dweeb
He whines all the time
about:
His Looks
The World situation
Reality wear and tear programmes
Rich and famous Celebrity Hunks and their -itches
He is a spoiler of good times and party animals
A goof with a pen protector in his shirt pocket
RADAR O'REILLY of the company clerk set
The pat and pansy of the awkward sect
They like to spite this little pisser
The GIRLIES all think that he is
a terrible kisser
NAH NAH,YOU'RE A 4-EYED WEENIE
YOU'LL NEVER GO BETWEEN A PRETTY ONE'S BIKINI
A dufus who can't see right to try and bridge the generation bright
Their knuckle sandwiches lead to another kleenex for his nose
He should crawl back upon the hill from which he came
Instead of causing us so much weary pain
A Piss Ant for the next Generation
Too shy to speak
who cannot express his inner frustration
Thus you have:
A tiny moron without TRUE AMBITIONS
Form:
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
I can still smell Mom's homemade soup on the stove,
she always had a pot simmering for us kids to welcome us home;
it was made in this huge soup pot which I inherited,
old, and dinged but it is one of my favorite possessions.
She did not invent the recipe for this homemade soup,
it was passed down from her mom, and her mom;
not a complicated soup, the ingredients simple to obtain,
but it had a secret ingredient called love that made it special.
Comforting on a cold Canadian day after playing in the snow,
or skating on the pond or having a snow fight with my brothers;
or after walking home from school I knew the soup was waiting,
I helped my mom making it sometimes, I was the perfect dicer.
It is an easy soup but has a lot of vegetables to dice up small,
like onions, celery, carrots, there could be other vegetables too;
but Mom kept it simple for us kids, we added four litres of broth,
Mom made her own chicken broth (I buy mine) that simmers a bit.
Next we added two cans of crushed tomatoes, stir, stir it up,
after a bit we added rice, how much, well you be the judge mom said;
and simmer, until all the vegetables, and rice are cooked and blended,
she also added some herbs like basil, salt and pepper, and that's it.
I guess the most important thing about the soup is the memory,
of mom in the kitchen with her stained apron humming away;
she was happiest when she was cooking for her family,
I am blessed to have these memories to keep close to my heart.
Memories of mom making homemade Tomato Rice Vegetable Soup,
in that big pot and stirring in the love maybe that is why it was good;
we would eat it with big hunks of buttered French Canadian bread,
delicious, a tasty soup, a lovely memory of a gone away time.
driving through streets of angst and apathy
driving to the place where I can actualize my desire
to eat a 12 piece bucket of chicken hunks
smiling at the coo-koo bird with **** exposed
the paper words speaking in a greasy cacophony
that sings louder than the top 40 rap from the car next to me
the all encompassing fried waft fills the upper quadrants
of my olfactory facilities
my pavlovian salivary stalactites are noteworthy in the rearview
the napkins that won't suffice tonight
whilst sipping new dessicated sanguine juice
later I shall roll in the fractured bones and discarded cartilage
with the glee of a lion licking the last remnants of flesh
from the femur of the sleeping zebra
driving with my portable fan to scent glaze those caught at the precipice
of another uncomfortable intersection smoldering with the anticipation
of another color
it's night and my eyes work like the retinas of an great horned owl
hookers flittering about within the shadows in the fashion of desperate hyenas
eyes reflecting red to further emphasize the craze
the urge/smell to press forward is overwhelming
the distractions are fantastic
the howls of maligned dogs echoes over the canopy of green neon
I am the great white hunter bringing home my quarry and
park this steely beast making its heart turn off
metal and flesh move at different vibrations that only appear similar
yes it is time to work the mandible with great passion yet
with empty thoughts as the world outside the den
makes the brain short circuit from its normal capacities
other than hunting for the best family meal deal
because down by the facsimile of a watering hole there are whole animal parts
compressed into small and workable units
It hardly seems a fair fight,
it’s like death has already won,
we’re doomed from our conception,
it’s over before it has begun.
We live our whole lives in fear
of when it will come for us,
spend billions to hold it off,
to beat it back is the cause.
But nothing ever tames the beast,
at least nothing we’ve found yet,
how much of life must we spend
in competition with death?
Its presence rules the universe,
a lifeless stretch of gas and rock,
we try to give it meaning,
but it’s all just words and talk.
Even amongst the sentient,
the rare beings in the know,
we see in the end we’ll be like
those inamate hunks of stone.
Not animated with the spark,
unmoving, with no breath,
we fill our days with franticness
to distract ourselves from death.
But the more that you think on it,
death’s deficiencies are clear,
it never knows, nor feels a will,
not for a minute of a year.
It can neither act nor do,
it cannot respond to stimuli,
death can’t do much of anything,
Because death never is alive.
It cannot write a novel,
nor can it paint a town red,
it can’t love, or strive, or achieve,
it cannot do much, this death.
And though it may come take us,
there’s truth enough in this:
While it may be our end,
It can’t make us not exist.
Objectively, it cannot erase
the fact that we were here,
that we’re sentient actors,
despite our weakness and fear.
Our life death can’t experience,
and that cannot be undone,
there’s no competition with death,
it’s a game we’ve already won.
**“Those that respect the law and love sausage should watch neither being made.” –
American Humorist/Author Mark Twain (real name Samuel Clemens)
Prestigious lawmaking bodies are comprised of solons*
Some find it hard to refrain from comparing them to cons
Few legislators know the ramifications of bills
And the way they’re rushed to passage can give the public chills
We don’t know what’s in bills or how they strip away our rights
And if we ask our lawmakers, they provide few insights
Piles of amendments are thrust hastily in political machines
Objections are made; no one successfully intervenes
“What’s that?” we ask later when we realize what has been done
(In Kennesaw, Georgia, all citizens MUST purchase guns)
Try to blend the conservative and liberal viewpoints
You’ll find the machine sputters with fat spewing from its joints
It’s like taking hunks of pork and grinding them into links
The process is messy and the outcome usually stinks
No matter! We are supposed to smile and just eat it up
Then we wash it all down with a sip from the lager cup
Pork barrel projects like Alaska’s “Bridge to Nowhere” confound
As on nebulous values of bills lawmakers expound
So beware if for common sense in these bills you forage
And remember old Mark Twain’s analogy to sausage
*Solons are members of any legislative or lawmaking body.
Familys complaining can ya hear em?
Uncle larry's probaly gonna puke dont get near him.
I kinda messed up sight.
Someone get Bobby Joe outthe street cause ya know he aint bright.
Christmas kinda blows around here.
So toss me a bottle and crack a beer.
Hey did anyone know how the tree caught fire?
No sweetie uncle Stan isnt a down on his luck actor.
He's really a drug dealer and habitual liar.
Is egg nog supposed to have chunks.
No baby it's not cool that your 13 on facebook asking
for pic's of shirtless hunks.
Great it's time to sit down to dinner
Yes sure is great Father O Malley showed up.
Who better to chasethe boys and drink up the whiskey
screaming at the hat rack it's a sinner.
Um it's hard to make snow Angels on the concrete.
No your son isnt spoiled.
He's just wearing more than i make month with his
seven thousand dollar sneakers on his feet.
Grandma it's kiss under the mistletoe no tongue.
Ya think grandpa would have slowed on the cigs after getting put in the iron lung.
Great a blizzard has snowed us all in. yippie im bunking with Little Tommy tinkles thats the
way the holiday goes.
I think freezing to death doesnt sound so bad.
Lord how Christmas blows.
Had to sugar coat this alot happy holidays stay crazy
Gonzo
~Merry, Merry~
Twas the night before Christmas and all around my house….
I heard loud footsteps,far heavier than even an overweight,mouse.
Irene, my calico cat,so high on good weed, snuggled in her bed.
While images of muscular hunks in speedos, danced in my old, poetic head!
When out on my lawn, I heard such a clamarous noise….
I wished and wished Santa brought me a sleigh full of boy-toys.
I decided to look outside and see what was the matter.
And, behold, the handsome fireman, who saved my life last week,
was climbing up the ladder!
The moon on his legs, gave off such a amberescent glow…..
I swear, it seemed as though I had snorted a big wad of blow!
He was so young, no grandpa was he, and not one wrinkle.
And those big, blue eyes, did far more than just twinkle!!
The crest of the moon on the new fallen snow.
Higltlighted,his muscular, gluteus maximus….
Far more, than you will ever be blessed to know!
He climbed down the ladder and inquired if I was alright.
I thanked him for the visit, and for my best ever,glorious,
Christmas Eve Night!
12/23/2024
A Mystery of Love
Who can understand. Why would a person
sacrifice himself in such a way. Spat on,
slapped, falsely accused, deprived of sleep,
given no food, unquenched thirst. Hauled
before Pilate the Roman governor. No guilt found
but crowd cried for Barabbas, a murderer and rebel, to
be freed. No guilt could Pilate find, but the throng
called for His crucifixion. Scourged by Roman whips,
hunks of flesh torn and blood flowing in rivulets.
Crown of thorn smashed down on His head, blood
streaming into His eyes. Purple robes of a false king
draped around His shoulders. Forced to carry the cross
beam of His cross until He collapsed. Hand forged spikes
driven into His wrists and ankles. Stripped naked and His
clothes gambled away. Hanging in the hot dry sun his parched
lips cooled by vinegar wine. He cried it is finished and gave up
the ghost. His side pierced by a Roman spear to make sure.
A mystery to me why anyone would allow this to happen.
The only answer has to be love. God loved us so much He gave His
only son to die for us. Only He would consent to this and His ways
are beyond our understanding. His life for ours.