Point Of Reference

I thought
If I could
Find
The little dipper
I could
Locate
The north star

While I sat
Under a palm tree
Drinking a beer

Waiting for you
To give me a ride
Anywhere
But here.

Bailing

It's been raining
All week

Time is running out
On a long hard night

If I don't make a certain amount of money soon

I won't be able to play golf
On my day off

I believe
A lot of people
Are in the same boat

With a hole in it

And that further
Complicates things

Lucky

The last time I saw you
I said,
“See you around if you’re lucky.”
You laughed,
“If you’re lucky,”
You said.

I am at cards
I won a hundred and fifty dollars
The first time I played poker.
Then again

I'm as alone tonight
As I was last night
And probably will be tomorrow.

Richard Jackson

Richard Jackson’s poems are about
War
Literature
Getting sick,
And his best one was very funny.
The poem he wrote
For his sick friend
Sounded almost like a love poem
And that made it more interesting.
The poems Jackson read
Made him seem intelligent.
No one wants to hear
A dummy read anything
Much less his own manuscript.
You never know
What you’re going to get
And it is always refreshing
To be surprised
And Jackson's poems
Go in a direction
Shift
Come back
And dart away again.
And that's
No mean feat,
To say the least.
Every one of the selections
He read were worth hearing,
And that’s hard
To pull off as well.
Poetry can be boring.
Jackson is an artist.
Most poets aren’t.
ASU was lucky to have him.
I would have
Bought his book
If I had 10 dollars,
So be it,
Not good
For either of us.
Free food and drink
Is a nice touch.
I should probably
Start paying attention
To the good things
This place has to offer.
Before
It’s too late.

Dilly Dally Blues

Shoot out that spotlight
Before I go blind.
Kris Kristofferson
Wrote that line
About forty years ago
Or something just like it
On Spooky Lady Sideshow
A great underrated album.
Anyway do it
Before I go insane
And get the bar
A round on me
I'm flush for a change.

I'm pretty sure you're not coming.
I'm half drunk.
Hank Williams Jr. is singing.
All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)
Makes me sad.
And I'm pretty certain
You are long gone
Somewhere
Over the Rainbow
Splitting someone else's
Heart in half
Because you can't stand being alone.

Under The Big Black Sun

Underrated
Seediness
Hanging around
My home town

Dive bars
Street corners
Cheap motels
Piss stalls at the bus station

Average house
Typical street
Circle K
Parking lot

Brother
Can you spare a dime

I can
I don't

Watch it unfold
Like a Rolling Stone

Story

I read on a plane
On the way home
From somewhere
I never wanted to go

Wherever that is
It might not exist
If it once did
I forget

Something
Over the horizon

Like a painting
Hanging

In a Fort Worth
Museum

Nothing lasts forever

Hangovers burn
Hearts shatter
Luck runs out
Dogs die
Dreams as well

Song For Cate

She crawls
She walks
She cries
She talks
She pulls
She grabs
She fails
She tries
She bites
She kisses
She lies
She begs forgiveness

She's the Hoover Dam
She's the Amazon

She's that rainbow
You
Are
Standing
On

She's a sawed off shotgun
In
A
Pinch
She'll wear you down

She's a little fish
You
Will
Never
Catch

She's a Jackson Pollock painting
She's my favorite song

She's a mouse
She's a cat
She's a goose
She's a swan

She's an old gray barn
In
A
Midwestern
Town

Fading
Gracefully

Fifty
Years
Ago

One
Hundred
Years
From
Now

Nothing

I have nothing
Have
Nothing
I have nothing
So be it
Be
It
So be it

Drinking Whiskey

My father said
(While we sat in a bar
Drinking whiskey
And smoking cigarettes
Back in the good old days
When you could smoke in a bar)

That the art of creativity
Is a mystery to all.
Many men have tried
In vain to reveal
To us the process.
The closest accomplishment
I have found is
The Art Spirit
Written in 1923
By the American painter
Robert Henri.

Did you you see the Packer game yesterday?
I asked.

For What It's Worth

My English teacher at ASU
Was addicted to television.
She made us write poetry
About our dark side.
(Mine was coal black
As the darkest night
In the deepest woods.)

She had us use words like
Fibrillate and palpable.

I didn't always agree with her
But she brought out the best in me.

Sometimes we smoked
Together during break.

She wasn't that interesting
Or good looking

But I read one of her poems
And it was quite good.

I fell in love with two girls in her class
And they thought I was a pretty good writer

But they wouldn't go out with me
Or maybe I never asked them.

I haven't seen my teacher
Since the last day of the semester

But I think about her sometimes

And when I do
I am grateful
To her for not wasting
Too many of those required
Friday afternoons
When I could have
Been playing golf
With my friends.

Back Stage Pass

My drummer was sitting in the corner, nursing his second bottle of whiskey, and mourning the loss of his left eye in an ill-advised bar fight. My bass player was dead, or asleep, I couldn't tell. I was sitting next to a girl who said she was twenty, but she could have been twelve. My wife was in Milwaukee raising two kids she claims are mine, I wouldn't know, and to tell the truth don't much care although sometimes I wish I did. I'm hungry, she said, and yawned. There's food over there somewhere, I said. You're not as interesting as I thought you would be. Life's a bitch. It's not that bad. Do you want a blow job? I thought I wasn't interesting. I guess you're interesting enough. See if you can raise him from the dead. She tried. He didn't even twitch. Maybe he is dead, I said, and threw a full can of Budweiser at his head. Fuck, he said, and rolled over. At least he isn't dead, she said. He's a fine bass player but he can't drink worth a shit. He's kind of cute. Come here, I said and she did. I put my arm around her and said let me tell you a story about the night I wrote a song with Dylan but I couldn't remember the good parts. I should just go home. You're probably right, I said, and away she reluctantly went.

Talkin' Grave Digger Blues

After a hard day
Digging graves
For the Army

My old friend Jim Crow

Was sitting in his garage

And he had an idea

To set the world on fire
With a song

He wrote for his ex-wife
A thousand years ago.

So He played the song
A hundred times

Didn't get a spark
Smashed his guitar
Against the wall,

Killed a bottle of Jim Beam
And flung it out

The window,

Lit a cigarette,

Fell asleep

And at least burned
His house down.

My old friend woke up,
Walked outside

Looked up
At the pretty star filled sky
Threw up

And said to himself,
I'll be damned

It almost worked.

Phoenix

A skinny toothless woman walked up and grinned. You're not him, she said. A half woman-half pig said, can I smoke back here? A middle aged man asked, how's business? It sucks, I said. An ex-solider said, can you wait? He gave me twenty dollars and walked into a crack house. The valet said, do you have an extra cigarette? My friend Mike said, I've been thinking about this a lot and there are only ten people in the world that I really like. A fat old lady asked, do you know where I live?

Another One Of These

Last night
Rain fell horizontally
A tree fell
In the backyard
A dog barked
The power
Went out
(I never know
What to do
When the power
Goes out)
So I thought
About you
Leaving
Last fall
A couple days
Before it got cold
I came home
To an empty house
And an odd
Sad note

Ode to Stallone

i was reading
the bell jar
in the hall
of bravo company's
barracks
guarding
the floor
i was the first
one some sergeant
found after someone
failed to show up
for duty

i sat there
for hours
finished the book
looked out
a window
and prayed
for rain
in the morning

eventually
i was relieved
so i walked
into the woods
smoked a joint
and saw rambo
at the jam-packed
post theater

(every time rambo
killed somebody
the theater exploded
like our high school
football team
scored a touchdown
in the state championship game)

it’s surreal now
looking back

first blood at
fort benning

Scat

Last night
Too tired to read

Stare out window

Crosswalk sign
Truck I can't see around
Tunnel under a road
Bottom third of a green glass building
Sculpture of a ram on a mountain top
Streetlamp
Tree
Some bushes
People passing by

Listen to talk show host Mike Savage
Scat about Jack Kerouac's
Reaction to the ground zero mosque

Savage's assumptions
Might be correct
And they might not be
Probably
Somewhere in between

Anyway who cares
What someone
Thinks about
Something
He couldn't possibly
Know anything about

Besides Kerouac
Doesn't need
A talk show host
Putting words
In his mouth

Don't want to listen to
Jack Kerouac
Become a stooge
For a political agenda

Change station
Journey singing
Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'

Change back
Kerouac in any forum
Is better then
Bad rock music

Let it roll
Over me

Close my eyes

Waiting
Can wear you out

Grasping At Straws

I wish

I could write

Eloquently

About sunsets
Over mountains

And trees
And flowers.

I always
Have to throw

A drug addict

Into any setting
I create.

Or a guy
Stalking a girl,

Or shooting
A cow,

Or setting fire
To his house.

Sometimes
I wish

I could
Write like a girl.

I need depth.

I'm Pretty Vacant

Like the old
Sex Pistols song.

Turf War

I tried to walk around a homeless man
In the parking lot of the used bookstore
On Thirty-Sixth Street and Indian School Road last night

What are you doing here
He asked

I bought a book
I said

What book you buy

Many Are The Hearts

Who wrote it

I looked at the cover
Richard Goldhurst

Who that

I don't know

What's it about

I haven't read it yet

Everyone who buys a book reads the flap

I read from the cover
It's about the agony and the triumph of Ulysses S. Grant

Imagine that
Do you have any cigarettes

I gave him one

He pulled a book of matches out of his pocket
Kid at 7-11 gives me these
A man needs to start a fire sometimes
Like now
He lit his cigarette
This is my turf

You can have it back
I'm going home

To read that book

What difference does it make

All the difference in the world man

I turned my back to him
And walked away

Hey man
he yelled

I turned around

Greed is the goose that laid the golden egg
Remember that
And don't come back
I never forget a face

Ode To A Poet

Instantly
After
Truman
Capote
Sucked
My
Dick
I
Sighed
Cried
Said
My
God
Right
On
I
Can
Finally
Write
Like
A
Fag

Dream Job

I plucked the moon
From the sky
Like an orange
From a tree,
Took a bite
And tossed it away.

Or maybe it was a basketball
Rolling down
The street.
I scooped it up
Dribbled behind my back
And between my legs.

Or maybe I was just sitting
In my cab
In a deserted
Parking lot
Reading
The Thin Red Line,

When she walked up
And asked if I was busy.

I don't want to go home, she said.
Where do you want to go? I asked.
She sighed, I don't know, she said.
Well I have to take you somewhere.
Just drive around in circles.
So I did.
For a couple of hours at least.

The Water Inside The Water Is Cold

An angry red curtain
vibrated
back and forth.

“What's wrong with you?”
She asked and tossed an empty
can of beer into a plastic garbage can.

The curtain
scared me.
“Get me a beer.” I said.

“Get it yourself and while you’re up grab me one. ”
I did just that.
What else was I supposed to do?

“Did you get the mail?”
I did not.
“There was none.” I said.

It was snowing
and the wind was blowing
hard.

I didn’t want to go outside.
“It’s pretty cold
out there." I said.

“Do you think the car will start?”
“I doubt it.”
“Go and warm it up.”

“I said it wouldn’t start.”
“So it probably will.”
She smiled.

“In a minute.”
“I don’t have all day.”
But she did.

“The roads will be pretty bad.”
I said.
“You’re such a little girl.”

“What’s wrong with the curtain?”
I asked.
“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’ll tend to the car,
where are the keys?”
“You had them last.” She said.

Fresh

I'm taking a chance
Coming here tonight was not my idea
And frankly I'm concerned
That no good will come of this endeavor

I have an extremely early class
My dorm is a mess
I smell something
What is that

Somebody should call an ambulance
I'm leaving
I have cab fare
But I was hoping you would be a gentleman

My mother told me
A smart girl always has cab fare
Because boys are unreliable
And most men are creepier than they look

Digging A Hole In The Cold Hard Ground

Tom and I were chain smoking dope and drinking whiskey and writing a song about a broken radio and John Prine and I guess we were in it too somewhere. Tom's wife Kim walked into the room and told us to keep it down. I'm trying to talk to my mother on the phone and by the way you guys sound like shit, just like you always do, she said. She ain't wrong, I said. But she's a bitch, Tom added. Kim came back. I heard that, she said and took the joint out of Tom's hand. We're one line away from a classic, Tom said and he wasn't wrong, and we still are twenty-five years down the line.

Grind

Nothing
Screams

I hate
My life

Like an overflowing
Sink of dirty dishes

While you're trying to
Smoke a little dope

On a otherwise uneventful
Tuesday afternoon.

It's a minor tragedy. An avoidable calamity.
A Goddamn disaster.

By the time you notice
You are way past screwed.

So you
wait.

And it gets
Worse.

And then it's too
Late.

And you still have to do
Them.

A Short Quick One (for my mother-in-law) About Your Daughter

If this particular night went on forever
That would be
Fine with me.

I could sit at this great big round table
And
Drink and
Smoke
And Talk
To you

About your family, your cat, your job, your girlfriends and your secret drawer.

(Don't ever mention it again. I repeat: don't ever mention that damn drawer again.)

You make it all sound so
Seamlessly
Interesting.

That is hard to do.

When you smile
I feel like I've
Accomplished something.

When you touch
My hand
I think
I can do
Anything

And I
Have
Been around
Long enough
To know
That ain't true.

And if this
Is all
A dream
I guess
That's alright
Too.

Division 1

I started two years NC two A and I was pretty good. I was efficient, never got burned - that was my thing. I Picked off a couple passes here and there but I wasn't great and I played on a pretty bad team. I was a good enough athlete to get by without having to live breathe and die football football football. I knew I didn't have the genes for the NFL. Yeah, I would have liked to play pro and yeah, I know there's always some little slow white fuck that never makes a mistake and you can bet your paycheck that guy's livin' and dyin' football and that ain't me, but I ain't stupid, and I know my limits - that's one of the reasons I was as good as I was. But what I really wanted anyway was the twat in the tight red shorts and the little top that showed off her tits and football helped me get her (and her sister and her even hotter best friend and it's still paying off). You can't buy that kind of confidence or steal it or sell shit-loads of dope to get it. I've never had much money but I always have a girl on my arm and I've never done time. A real man doesn't need much money or a gun. What a real man needs is women, lots of them, or at least one good one.

A Far Cry

I'm a far cry from dead
Like old Townes said
But he's long gone gone
And I'm down for the count
Tonight.
I need someone to tell me
It will be alright
Even if it's a lie.
I would sure appreciate it.
The truth
Usually sucks
Anyway you cut it
Slice it
Or spit it out like chaw.
Fuck it
Let's have a drink.
I think I see a bar.
As I said
I'm a far cry from dead
And I need something to look forward to.
So shoot out that street light kid
And start walking
Down the boulevard
Of twisted dreams.
I'm in the mood for company.

Cracked

Rain falls lightly while
Through a cracked window
I watch her brush her horse.
She's wearing
A red cotton peasant dress and
With her long hair
Hanging down
She looks like a Goddess.
My daughter thinks
She's a princess
But she's just a cute girl
I met in a bar two weeks ago.
She has quite a temper,
She's smarter than I am
And makes more money than I do,
Managing rich people's money.
I knock on the window and wave.
She smiles and waves back.
I read her lips
Through the broken glass.
Get in here, she says.

Forgive Me

I have always been a bastard - that doesn't mean I'm not sorry - for things I did or didn't do to you - tonight - when you just wanted to have a few drinks and after a little fun - with a pretty good looking guy - so I am a little sorry now - looking down - on you laying on your bed - bleeding a little from places you wouldn't have let me see - had you known - what I do and don't do sometimes too - you look beautiful - that makes me think - maybe I should have done the hard work - I have always been reluctant to do - It's too easy to be a bastard - I conclude - as I put a blanket over you - lock your door - and walk to my car - things could have been different - if you hadn't looked so cute - shooting pool with your fat friend - I might not have noticed you - or wanted to do things - no one should want to do - but - that doesn't matter now - as the dark night - turns gray - I forgive you - and everyone else too.

Mountain Pass

About a month before I joined the Army my brother and I stood on a mountain pass and watched a storm approach. My brother rolled a joint, lit it off the end of his cigarette and handed it to me. I asked him about the Army. He said it isn't so bad. It's a lazy man's job really, he added. That sounded pretty good to me. I gave him the joint and looked up at the clouds zipping across the dark sky. It's going to snow, I said, sat on a rock, gazed down at an empty road and wondered how many cars would pass before someone gave us a ride.