Sudden St.

Moving. Found this poem among the detritus. An old xerox from high school era. Forget the author. Gary Snyder? Not sure. Any help?

Now I am One

Poem, Untitled

We are the ghosts of needlessly deleted words,

denied even the blanket of liquid paper

backspaced over, swallowed by deletion, only to be replaced by doppelgangers,

identical in every way,

yet imposters,

depleted of the original thrust that spawned us,

that spark of inspiration—

 

We are the ghosts of needlessly deleted words,

and we will keep you up all night

with our chanting,

our whispering,

insensate,

incomplete,

and unwilling to forget

 

You, who made us

Who delivered us into this cold world—

You should have seen the light—

You should have left us

as we were

Where the Name Came From

Mr. Clean's Old Girl
  by Benjamin Reed

Mr. Clean tore outta Gonesville,
like a tombstone on Sudden St.,
threw his filthy rags in a bag
and beat a mean retreat,
whipping that dead horse
'til it frothed and screamed
panties flying from a lynch-tight valise,
leaving only screams,
locks and chains,
and calls to the police.

He had skin so black,
all the boys called him Coffee
and She was his Cream,
his daughter, or lover,
or so it would seem,
or just a girl he met in a dream,
skin so white she'd get a burn
if you said 'Sunshine'
twice in the same sentence.

Cream, who found me on the corner
and said I looked like I needed a ride.

So I got in her car,
and flew by a world of chocolate 'smores,
past piers and mores,
fives and fours,
and a full-on gaggle of $20 whores,
Clean's photo scotch-taped
to her cracked dash,
bald pate on a hot plate,
gleaming in a sun served up boiling,
with a small slice of exodus
and a garnish of sweat,
beading sweet,
driving that last horse hard,
whipping reins knotted
with soiled underwear.

Now he's dead, or so she said,
so no more trips to the pharmacist
to get his 'scription filled,
nose powdered,
lungs baked,
or liver pilled,
his future set like a zip-lock condom,
or a fetus killed.

Miss Cream's heart wears a bad disguise,
but that's o.k.
'cause she's got green eyes,
and I smile
'cause I like the way she drives,
with my eyes on my hands,
dirty fingernails curled in my lap,
white-socked ankles
criss-crossed under corduroy cuffs
silently, cursing myself, silently,
absorbing the openness of the open road,
and the hum of the old engine,
running,
like a shiver up my legs.

Chairman of the Board
Poet of the Issue

I finally got one into the Chronicle. Oh, victory, where is thy justice?
They condensed it. To make room for an advertisement... for the bread factory.

Here's the original form:

Binary Phrenology:
Fueled by wine
Pacified by sex
Enraged by the softly chiming music box
We sit, loaded, waiting to go off
Two brothers
Trapped in the same bone colored room
A window each to look out
A shared table to sit at
A warm meal divided
So we can at least eat
While we look away from each other.

 

I Hope This Doesn't Jinx Me

Just in case my plane to Chicago crashes tomorrow, I want to let you all know that I have achieved an illustrious new level of fame: a poem of mine will appear in the Litera section of the Austin Chronicle next week (or maybe the week after). Finally, lit pays. Now only if it paid money.

In other news, the fine editors at Redivider (Emerson College) have in their hot little hands a newly redrafted version of an old story, Floater. No, it's not about poo. It's about my friend Tim, with whom I (briefly) worked on the docks in San Francisco during and after high school. Actually, it's about the corpse he found floating up against the pier where we worked.

Except, of course, that all resemblance to actual persons, places, or things is entirely coincidental.

Read it here:  Download Floater.doc

Bombs Over Baghdad, Bombs Under London

Upon Landing
at Heathrow International,
one week after the bombs:

So far, London is calm

We take the crowded Underground
to Shoreditch
smuggle into rush hour morning

The young men we see
carry attaches
and dress
to a silk fault
in pink shirts and pink ties
under wool as gray as morning
white iPod earphones
jacked into their ears

A voice says
which stations have been closed
which lines have been cut
but the smell of hair gel
is deafening