the hiding game
pity the poor Yuppies
no free money
flowing into protected bank accounts
no summer in St. Moritz
can’t get that wax job
to do away with unwanted hair
we know our place -
at the bottom of the food chain
sucking on the fumes of profits -
wishing & hoping for a week off
to mow the lawn
or paint the Suburban
hovel with some
off color bargain priced paint -
our sons & daughters
conscripted into wars
we don’t give a shit about -
priests watching their asses
in fear of being found out
fudge packing
boys & girls too young to know
right from wrong
one paycheck away from Death -
no net to catch the falling bodies
of PEOPLE who only want to work -
smoke a little weed
watch a movie
eat something other than Spam
they get from the internet or kitchen
life trickles away
from the side of the mouth -
spittle of Humanity -
spum unused to fertilized
eggs not ready to
accept humanity -
I wait for REASON
to help me decide
whether I should kill you or not -
are you on the short list?
growing up
the last time
my dad took
the razor strop
to me
I stopped his hand –
a wrist twisted
with sinews & muscles
from
moving sides of beef
in a cooler
at the neighborhood
A&P –
& told him
“don’t do that again”
& he looked into
my eyes
& understood
I finally grew up
& even adults
make mistakes
once & awhile
we co-existed
in a house ruled
by my mother
& the real enemy
wasn’t me
or him
but the marching
towards growing up
& we were both
caught in the
cadence of life –
he in wanting to be him
& me wanting
to be someone else
I’ve seen the strop
in the basement
hanging on its hook
a zillion times since -
an old friend
brittle from age
growing old like myself
I never took
a belt or strop
to my sons
never threatened
to tan their hides
when I got home -
you either know
right from wrong
or you don’t
& no amount of leather
can show you
the way
you just have to
pay attention
once & awhile
& believe in the
words of someone else
also stuck in this rut
fucking strangers
is like dark streets
without light
showing you the way
into your heart
above me
dust & fog
obscures the moon
to be in love & loving
are two different things
fucking and making love
are two different things
like foreign countries
breathing the same air
unable to understand
the translation of
Being
or a fear of taking chances
& losing again
the room is pitch black
the skin warm & yielding
hiding the light within
afraid to let rain or snow
extinguish its glow
exposing feelings
tender from abuse
faceless fucking
nameless bodies
except the one
you can never have
that is etched
into your brain
& not in this bed
cold with ghosts
stiff sheet from
other men’s semen
the body weeps within
& waits
electronic warfare
it’s easy to express
your feelings over the ‘net
no hassle with a warm body
in front of you
no wondering what to say next
no giving of yourself
unless you run-off
into the inner workings
of a sick mind
sick from protocol
in dealing with Humans
I need the warm body
in front of me
or alongside
of me sometimes
but this cold medium
doesn’t connect
the head to the body
doesn’t offer you
the relief or release
the flesh gives you
when you have to be
honest with them & yourself
this is artificial life
so sterile & safe
nothing given up except time
people compartmentalized
into bits of information
faces you long for but never realize
human beings need
the touch of sight
& smell & real time sound
to be a part of life
deny this & everything becomes
a secondhand thought
an idea stillborn
of what it is to be alive
push broom
what a life
pushing a broom
for nine bucks an hour
cleaning something
that will get dirty again
like your teeth
like your body
everything gets dirty again
even space or maybe
because of space
we are dirty again
maybe the only clean thing is dirt itself
maybe we should stop cleaning
& let it bury us in its depth and age
& then millenniums from now
to be uncovered by some
green bug-eyed archeologist –
a frozen thin dude with a push broom
in his fossilized hand
immaculate & pristine
with a look in his eye
of it doesn’t get any better than this
now I know why there are unions :
they don’t want anybody
to know how good this is
& if everyone knew
then computers wouldn’t get programmed
wars wouldn’t be fought
& life would grind to a pleasant stop
sometimes pushing a broom
is a handy thing when trying to figure out
what is clean & what is not
buddha had it right
we are just too stupid
to catch on at times
& when we do it just doesn’t matter
shit
I missed a spot
hey blockhead !!!
I’d like to apply
for a job
what kind
would you like?
any kind
what kind?
I don’t care –
working in a
factory
or cutting the nuts
off bulls
in Mexico
or making dildo’s
in Poughkeepsie, NY
let me check
our Mexico office
you’re missing the
point blockhead
I NEED A FUCKIN
JOB NOW !!!
I walk out
wanting to say
the above
I have ten bucks:
two for cigs
eight for beer
I walk into
a bar &
order a ‘Rock
a guy comes
in selling fake
Navaho shit:
roach clips
with feathers
(from China)
bracelets made
of copper & plastic
Lapis Lazuli
he says he is
out of work
I tell him I’m
in between jobs
he orders a draft
& says times
are tough
& are you sure
you can’t
buy anything?
HEY BLOCKHEAD !!!
suddenly my mind
is clear
if he doesn’t
shut up
it won’t be bulls
missing their
nuts
