THE ESSENCE OF COOL
Just look at that bird
sitting all blue and pretty
alone on a wire
gazing at the dawn
a lonesome lazy yearning
while the slow vague glow
While the reels of industry wake and turn
and grind away at the waking
The clock storming down the freeway
combing his hair with one hand
eating a McGriddle with the other
all freaked out on time
steering with his knee
And all the while
that big blue bird just don't give a fuck
He's lost in swirls of glowing gold
deep wet pink
amazed at heaven
This poem represents a magic moment. Having given up smoking for Lent, I arrived in Austin one month clean of tobacco and ganga. The first three days there I stayed good to that. Then I realized I had to break the fast if I was going to work as much as I intended. Not having smoked in so long, I got perfectly stoned, and set up on the corner of Seventh and Congress.
My first request, "The Buffalo Lounge", came from the four folks in the photo below. The Buffalo Lounge is an art collective from Oklahoma City. Their passion and love for their collective was obvious in their telling. I have to say I loved, very much, the picture they were painting of the collective. I dream of being part of some such community some day.
So I started composing. Without me realizing, a fella walked up behind me to watch me work. When the guy with the short black hair, David, noticed him, he says, "Doesn't he look like the guy with the Buffalo Tattoo?" So I look up to watch this guy lift his elbow to the sky, revealing a buffalo tattoo on the inside of his triceps. They all freaked out!
Turns out, I think it was the black haired guy, David, who designed the buffalo as a logo for the Lounge. This man apparently love the lounge, and/or the logo and got it tattooed. They had never met the man before, they'd only seen a photo of him online.
There was a lot of angel love in the air. I sort of knew right there that 7th and Congress was my spot.
A DOG, A RIVER, AND A TEXT
the one with the offer
with the trading card sensibility
"One Mickey Mantle is worth three Reggie Jacksons.
What ah ya say?
Text me and let me know."
That text makes me miss having my dog
with a warm river breeze
I'd rather pick up dog shit in a plastic bag
then give you one of my Jacksons
though you know I love Mickey Mantle
What a bat!
But your an asshole
and it makes me miss my dog
These two ladies are a duet from Germany: Boy. They didn't tell me anything about their music, about themselves, or the name they choose. So the poem doesn't reflect any of that. It's just me riffing on Boy, which is what they wanted.
tire swings under forts
capers and secret codes
The imagination of the boy
will kill you with a stick
and bring you back to life
with the wave of a hand
King of the mountain
surrounded by smoke
the sounds of men wounded
and girls crying through the flames
but he's all big chested
demanding the assured victory
Those guys grow up
to power chord the fuck out of a place
shake the walls
and make all the kids go crazy
but it anit bad
Music music music
a face of every sort of happy
wholesome hyjinks here in Austin
and I just keep thinking of you
I keep inserting you into every room I enter
There you are
in every conversation lull
at every apex of music
when I open menus
there you are
Your such beautiful company
I'm thinking of giggles
some golden coo feeling in the belly
with the little ones
those moments when it's clear they're angels
How many kisses in ten years
how many times entwined
like a Celtic tapestry
something that wrapped the queen
when the valley was full of peace
So this is an example of Poem Guy willingness. I was just setting up, its about noon, which is terribly early for me and poems, and I haven't even sipped my coffee yet. As Im pulling out my typewriter, this Latino women saw my sign and stopped. She didn't speak English very well, so with the help of the young women with her, she asked for a poem for her brother. Their four year old child was dying of leukemia. He will die any time, today, tonight, tomorrow, soon.
My first poem of the day is, typically, exactly that, a stretching and yawning poem, in search of circulation; so this was a real wake up call.
I love this man's pazaz. He is wearing shorts, by the way.