AND THEY WONDER WHY (original poetry)

What happens when you mix a dollop of Bukowski, a pinch of Raymond Carver and a dash of hobo-era Tom Waits? Maybe you'd get this original poem? Then again, perhaps not.. You decide... And my apologies to fans of the Fab three above...

AND THEY WONDER WHY...
Back when I was seeing the waitress,
I met a ghost at the diner counter.
I dunno, it was three a.m. or so
-- that nevertime where tired
cranky and mellow
become one weird sensation.
Anyway, as I jotted some
meaningless notes into a
notepad full of lost ideas, I felt a
prescence next to me. He had the
entire counter to himself, but
he chose to plop on the
stool right five inches away.
It seemed that he needed the
company, so I placed my pen on
the nearest napkin and said hello.

It looked as if he’d been crying and
his shirt was torn with a bloodstain
streaming from his nose to his mouth.
Scratches all over his face, he was
just a plain mess. I looked around to
see if anyone came in with him but
oddly, I was the only one in the joint.
In fact, the staff was nowhere,
must’ve been scattered in the kitchen.

We talked for about an hour, over coffee
and a half-pack of Winstons. He spoke
of his wife – both sad and angry - gesturing
their argument from earlier that evening.
Every now and again, he’d repeat, “They
wonder why we do the things we do.”
He said that men had it rougher than
we’re ever given credit for. Then he asked about
my own situation and I pointed to
the waitress in a shoulder-shrug sort of way.
He smiled, but quickly, again found his
rant, “We can’t cry or
fuss or carry on like them. We have
to listen to their bullshit complaints.”

I fiddled with a toothpick as I looked
for my Zippo asking, “Whaddya gonna do?”

“Cheat,” he answered. It was a simple,
heartfelt answer that I found funny.
The two of us sat there enjoying its honesty.
I made sure the waitress wasn’t listening
or else I'd get holy Hell on the ride home.
But then my new friend got somber once again
and kept repeating “And they wonder why...”
I never saw him ever again.

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THE ZEPPO MARX OF THE BEATS

While watching my new DVD "What Happened to Kerouac?" (a Christmas present), I inadvertently discovered an awesome beat poet - Gregory Corso.

Check out this awesome short poem from the collection "Gasoline"

"Birthplace Revisited"
I stand in the dark light in the dark street
and look up at my window, I was born there.
The lights are on; other people are moving about.
I am with raincoat; cigarette in mouth,
hat over eye, hand on gat.
I cross the street and enter the building.
The garbage cans haven't stopped smelling.
I walk up the first flight; Dirty Ears
aims a knife at me...
I pump him full of lost watches.


Here's a brief bio:

Gregory Corso, the only major Beat writer to have the forethought to actually be born on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, was sent to prison on a robbery charge at the age of 16. He probably would not have made poetry his life's work if he had not met Allen Ginsberg in a Greenwich Village Bar when he was 20.

Corso met Ginsberg in the Pony Stable Bar, one of New York's first openly lesbian bars. Corso, only 20 and recently released from prison, was supported by the women of the Pony Stable as an "artist-in-residence". Corso was writing poetry there the night Ginsberg arrived. Ginsberg, cruising bars, was immediately attracted sexually to Corso. Ginsberg later said, "The Pony Stable was I think a dyke bar... I just wandered in and I remember he was sitted at a table, and he was a very nice looking kid. Alone... So I thought, was he gay or what was it? Maybe not." Ginsberg was even more struck by reading Corso's poems, immediately realizing Corso’s talent. "One he showed me...blew my mind instantly...and it struck me instantly that he was... spiritually gifted." Eventually Ginsberg introduced Corso to the rest of his inner circle.

In their first meeting at the Pony Stable, Corso showed Ginsberg a poem about a woman who lived across the street from him, and sunbathed naked in the window. The woman turned out to have been Ginsberg's girlfriend during one of his forays into heterosexuality. Ginsberg introduced the young and virginal Corso to the sunbathing woman, and in a panic, Corso ran from her apartment. Ginsberg and Corso remained life-long friends and collaborators.

In later years Ginsberg’s initial assessment of Corso held. During an 1996 interview for the documentary film Corso – the Last Beat, Ginsberg claimed, "I think Gregory is the poet's poet. Certainly the one poet I learned from most now. Gregory, I think, in some respects is a poet superior to myself."

He went on to become one of the most well-known and widely-read Beat poets. He has an anarchic style similar to Ginsberg's, though his favorite poet is Shelley, a Romantic poet who was much too flowery for most Beats. He does not write with Ginsberg's massive intelligence or protean poetic power, but then who does? He once wrote a love-poem to atomic weapons, 'BOMB', in the shape of a mushroom cloud.

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AS WE MOAN...

It's funny how some poems (or stories for that matter) can start with a single image. In this poem's particular case, it's a series of churches engulfed in flames. I started to think about how and why and this is what spewed out. The more I thought about it, the creepier it became to me.

AS WE MOAN
From the peak of the reservation,
I watch the churches burn.
We all do. I stare at maybe
20 or 30 scattered cathedrals
in the distance, as they
smolder into the night.
The carroty sun of dusk
blends into the crimson flames
peppered through the horizon.
No one ever saw this happening.
Not now or here. As the first one
burns through to its frame, the
weeping begins. We weren’t safe
anymore. None of us. Ever.
As they begin to plummet,
the moans grow louder and
louder and then just stops.
Suddenly.

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THE SECRET SOCIETY OF BOURBON DRINKERS

On this day of Thanksgiving, I give everyone this odd, original poem about a little boy and the creation of a future drunk.

THE SECRET SOCIETY
OF BOURBON DRINKERS
Every other night they convened
to talk about whatever.
Be it the Yeti,
price of Gold, horses
or who was on Carson,
they’d yap it up together.
And all over Kentucky’s sweet nectar.
I was about eight or so when I
attended my first gathering.
My uncle snuck me into the back
door of this backwoods juke joint
and plopped me in a torn corner booth
with a folded up Richie Rich comic.
After visiting ‘Ol Phil at the bar
my uncle gave me this sweet red drink.
At the time he called it a “Popeye”
but let’s face facts, I was riding
the Good Ship Lollipop.

After making sure I was settled
he patted me on the head and joined
the fellas. I just stared.
They all seemed so very loud.
One of them kept flicking his
suspenders every time he laughed.
Another didn’t say a word but just
pointed in agreement every time someone
made a point. The leader, or so it
seemed, wore a monocle and every five
minutes or so would look over to me
and nod, making sure I was still with them.
About an hour -- or three Popeyes later,
I was called over to the men. The leader
had me sit on his lap and I looked
for my uncle who was in the two o clock
position. All I really remember now is the smell
of the place – a pungent concoction
of talcum, cigar and tobacco, musk
and bourbon.
Lots of bourbon.
He told me that it was a special night
because I was becoming a special member
of their sacred club. He poured a small
amount into a shot glass and, in an almost
slow motion, slid it over to me.
After the hellfire of the spirit slid
down my young throat all I could think
about was getting another one of those
godforsaken Popeye drinks. But I was now a
member and Phil would have to listen to
me for the rest of my life.

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THE FULL READING (poem)

In celebrating the Lounge's 200th post, I give you this original poem. Somewhere up there - in that great beyond - I hope that Chuck Buk isn't laughing. While I would in no way fancy myself a poet, I will say that the form itself is a wonderful way to tell a short story. It's slightly abstract and perhaps a tad mystical. I hope everyone enjoys.

THE FULL READING
The mystic told me to stay away
in that cold way they do.
I didn’t know if she truly
did know anything but
shit, she certainly sounded
like it, looking at me
all suspicious and
knowing. Like she had one up.
What a gift, to be able
to see through people
and all of their bullshit.
I wish I had that. I’d know
if I was wasting my time
here or there.
As she spoke, I kept looking at the
ocean, onto the horizon, wondering
how far it went...
But I did hear her.
Stay away, she advised once more.
She kept asking me odd questions as
if I knew what she meant. Then she
asked if I wanted the full reading.
After asking what it entailed, she
broke out a beat-to-shit deck of
tarot cards. I remarked on them
and she told me they were a gift
from her aunt,another mystic.
She dealt my hand and all sorts
of weird shit popped up. I thought
I’d have a better chance inside at
one of the casinos, but what did I
know? I’m the one sitting here.
She told me things I didn’t want or
care to hear. She drudged up
old memories, feelings. Images.
And then I could swear I smelled
the smells of ten years earlier.
I panicked. This was a mistake.
The full reading, I mean.
And then she turned her cards over
and asked me for my fifty dollars.

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