Long Waitresses Poems
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Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.
The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.
From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.
False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
'tip-me-big' love spell.
he entered the room as if rice was about to boil over,
seeing faces of those he didn't recognise look as though
they were reading the last line of a book they never read
before, staggered, asymmetrically pensive in times during
coffee servings and bites from donuts, but, given that it
was only midday, the flavour of the waitresses grumbled
in overlapping office lunch hours. little did our hero, who
entered with arched cat-back whiteness, know, his un-
expected audience, delivering blank verse in motor-
cycle and side-car loads, were systematically only there
to make up the numbers, merely propping up the inward
burst of off the street heart attacks, the last hope of ever
thwarted reasoning and too the waitresses were cardboard.
A Little Train
Train, the train of my home, home of my heart, childhood, past
Past, yes, but lives. Hmm, yes, so good to travel here, and live
Live this air, this life, this feeling, this atmosphere, loved desire
I will come back again, I want to greet everybody here again
The people, the conductors and conductresses, and the neighbours
Shop assistants, waitresses, shops, pubs, and all the stations
All the roads, ways, trees, everything. Good to live in my living heart
This is the best feeling in this superb mind; this is not part of a country.
A country that is everything. Only one. Here is my mini farm. Live here
Live here, a secret mind. He has passed away, but he is always calling
Calling his memory my literature teacher, the grand soul of this land
Good to remember him, master of literature, hmm, why has he gone?
Little train, little train
Train of tales
From past
Help to live
Again
The
Lost
Friends
And past
casino thoughts
Sitting in a casino of the damned
Somewhere on the Las Vegas Strip
Playing the slots
Watching the crowd go wild
Watching the machines watching me
Drinking the free drinks of the damned
20 drinks too sober
And the gamblers on the gaming tables
Gambling away their fortune
Throwing money away
In hopes of the payoff
That somehow never comes
The pure decadent spectacle
The fake this and fake that
Phony this phony that
False New York
Paris in Vegas
Venetian canals, Roman forum
MGM Grand Lions
All fake, all phony
All deliciously decadent
The noise
The scantily clad waitresses
The men ogling the women
The women ogling back at them
The scent of wild decadence
Bad craziness in the air
The music – the lounge music from hell
The constant sound
Of money exchanging hands
It all overwhelms me
And I must sit down
And drink my reality drink
Drink it down and dirty
As I continue
To feed the hungry, greedy machines
Made in a workshop in hell
No doubt with child or slave labor
Imported from the third world
All my money
Is sucked into it
These machines from hell
The beast from revelation appears
Stands revealed in his hideous glorious beauty
Conducting this mad scene
And I am consumed by the greed
And the frenzy takes over me
All I want
All I need
All I desire
Is one more chance
One more shot
I scream
At the utterly unfeeling monsters
That ate my money
And chewed up my soul
And I know
The worst drug of all
Is the gambling fever
The gold bugs
I would sell my soul
If I had one left
For a chance
At the jackpot of life
Instead, I am reduced
To a pathetic broken down loser
Watching the world and Elvis
Pass him by
Viva Las Vegas
Imperial God of the American Dream
Goddess of the American Nightmare
Published in former people journal
The middle class here can't be saved
When 0.001% act so depraved
Their wealth without end
These royals* still pretend
Did not come from us—their
enslaved**
*The Royals: CEOs, Banksters, Revolving Door Regulators, The FED, Congressmen for sale, Lobbyists, Board Members of Big Corporations, Major Shareholders who vote for these Board
Members, Corrupt Managers, Dishonest Used Car Salesmen, Presidential Candidates with more than two Residences, Elected Presidents (and their lackeys who pretend to regulate but look the other way)
**The Enslaved: Workers, Career Regulators who are trying to protect the public, Honest Hard Working Citizens, Students--some with oppressive loans, Immigrants, Soldiers, Police, Firemen and Firewomen, Parents, Children, Orphans, Disabled, The Sick, Small Business Owners (who don’t hire lobbyists), Volunteers, Health Care Workers, Welfare Recipients, Inventors, Investors, Entrepreneurs, Actors, Artists, Journalists who do in-depth investigation (not like those with FOX News, ABC Radio or many other of the outlets where they mouth the status quo), Non Profit Corporations, Charities, Teachers, Transportation Workers, Waiters and Waitresses, Dishwashers, Servants, Farmers, Managers, Ship Hands, Cooks, Unemployed
Author' s Note: Have been at Occupy Wall Street 8 days in the past two months--which is why I haven't been here--plus I have to work. Miss you all, but it's for a good cause. I am very briefly seen on Conan's feature: Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at Occupy Wall Street if you are looking for some humor with a little umph.
These Hands, These Hands
I have seen hands like this before
In every size and color
Hands that are parched and withered
Strong hands, tired hands
Hands that can bear any load
Hurting hands that are calloused
And bent, yet these hands can be
Gentle as a kitten’s paw
Ready and able to hold and heal.
I have seen hands like this before
In upscale bistros and small-town cafes
Stashing meager tips
for the American dream.
I have watched as these hands
Hawk “The Herald”
For pennies on the dollar
Shovel coal into buckets
And black death into their lungs.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands of everyday heroes
Carrying bodies from burning towers
Pulling girder after girder
From twisted wreckage,
Hands that wipe away dirt and ash
To salute a tattered flag with pride
Determined to stand tall
In the face of terror.
I have seen hands like this before
Caring hands that teach and guide
Encourage and praise,
Motherly hands nurturing, holding
Rocking, gently disciplining
without ever harming,
Hands always willing to reach out
And help their fellow man
Always ready to volunteer.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands that create masterpieces
Deliver hope and build nations
Hands that with hard work
And determination grow stronger
Each time they reach out to others
To protect, pardon or applaud
Hands of the working man
Hands of the mother and father
Hands of teachers, doctors, nurses
Laborers, soldiers and farmers
Hands of waitresses, secretaries
Firemen and police
Hands that give comfort and aid
Hands that heal our pain
And join together in prayer
Hands that touch our lives
In simple but profound ways.
These hands, these hands
These loving, generous hands
Never resign, always giving
These hands are your hands and mine.
I'd like to step back in time a bit
And mention the dinosaur.
He lived two hundred million years
And then was seen no more.
The dino's demise is a mystery
That's hashed and often rehashed here.
One fav'rite hypothesis seems to be
That a giant asteroid crashed here.
Argued by clerics, and scientists,
And other great men of distinction,
Some clearly deluded,
Yet none has concluded
What actually caused the extinction.
What really occurred
Lies somewhere obscured
Amongst all those theories and guesses.
Some still do remain, though,
Like the crane and komodo,
And a number of interstate truck-stop waitresses.
When I stop and take a look at my life now that I am well past fully grown
I like to think how I’ve been blessed by all the people I have known.
Certainly there is my family, my children, my grandchildren and my wife
but what about all the others people who have helped to shape my life.
Some were with me from the start but are gone now…to my dismay
Some have been here many years…others merely crossed my path along the way
Some I’ve known by name others I never really knew…but I’m still glad
at what they all have given me…at the impact they have had
I’ve known mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters…aunts and uncles too
I’ve known teachers, students, and children who helped to mold my point of view.
So many people I have met whose influence I can’t ignore
from priests, professors, bus drivers to baggers in the grocery store.
I’ve known mechanics, fishermen, lawyers…waiters and waitresses galore
all who made me think a little differently than I had thought the day before.
I’ve known authors and musicians…I’ve loved their melodies….their words
I’ve been changed by every book I’ve ever read and every song I’ve ever heard.
I could go on and on because in my mind a host of faces are now blending
You might say when it comes to the people in my life…the list is never-ending.
And I imagine it’s the same with everyone
For no one ever lives their life totally alone
No…we are who we are today
because of all the people we have known.
Luce had a million ideas
Her mind ran ahead of her all the time
Capturing things others missed
Putting them into the recesses of
the corners of her dendrite fields
Luce was not afraid to share.
Or take a chance.
She was fearless, showing that being
right was okay, and being wrong was
just another way to figure things out
Another conquest to master.
Luce was not afraid to be wrong.
People did not laugh or make fun of her
when she made a mistake, for they were
in awe at how rapidly her mind processed
and spit out information in surprising
new ways.
Luce was known in her workplace for
her genius, her generosity, and her willingness
to share. She was welcoming and wise, and
it was not long before even the newbies
were in her office, throwing out ideas,
waiting to see what the thought.
The secret of her success? Luce was an idea person.
More importantly she was a great listener.
She encouraged each person she met to tell her their
story. Strangers on the street saw her eyes, and knew.
Waitresses and bus drivers opened up to her like she was their best friend.
There was a magical quality about Luce.
The key to her popularity was that she loved people, and their ideas.
The truth is that people think I am the best listener in the world.
I have mastered the face and the expressions of the most interested.
I can toss out the best impression of a person who cares.
I am doing it correctly, for waitresses sit down and tell me their story.
I scoot over for waiters, hairdressers and bartenders too.
A few well placed “hms”, “wows” and “oh, mys" make me fast friends.
Most are self-involved, care not if they learn anything about me.
They want my deeply empathetic hazel eyes to pull out their truths.
I am an actress, playing a role, giving them what they need.
Wondering why they are too selfish to ask me anything about me.
I am the world’s most notorious imposter of a listener.
Many times I am on autopilot, not hearing a word they say.
Sadly, they hug me goodbye and tell me how much it means to them.