An old man with eyes like dead sparrows
is telling a story at the next table
in the restaurant of the Quality Inn
in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, something
about the price of scrap metal after the war.
Suddenly he lowers his voice. The Jews,
he mutters. My wife and I look at each other.
Meat hooks. Gas chambers.
Our daughter notices. What? she asks.
I shake my head. We finish eating
and go up to our $74-a-night room
and all lie on one bed and watch TV.
The studio audience is laughing.
than Christmas with
a half naked girl with
tongue down his
throat while the
record stuck on
Elvis’ Blue Christmas.
When he forgot the
language he couldn’t
remember how it
seemed, only how her
leg caught his lips
on the stained sofa
you could smell
ancient sex smells rise
from like fish egg
smell over Orleans
where the sea’s blue
in the mirror was
less blue than her veins
I know this brother
……….Even during the big storms the color of the sunset sky
on the platform from ten years ago
……….over California’s coastline at its best
was a little more Rasta back then
……….a crisp and healthy hue of gold
with the serape and the leather cowboy hat
……….with the occasional slash
and the hot and wild hair trying to jump off into the universe
……….of purple and red but never
making him much more Bob Kaufman than ever before
……….with the kinds of profusion
I take great hope in that and he is going to San Francisco
……….like the skies
He is praying and he will be warm
……….while I stare down the crisp, golden green San Francisco skyline
in the Mojave desert at sunset
read enough world history
from multiple
perspectives.
on top of that
walk around
eyes
pinned open
brain
unfurled:
we’re standing
on a
billion plus
years
of
sifting
change
&
not one drop of
forward
progress:
those with the winchesters
call the shots
those with the megaphones
sometimes manage to get hold
of the winchesters.
but all they do is
raise a different
flag.
These words
born of women
and men long gone
to dust
arrive through centuries
of darkness
to bring me light.
I hold the pages
in my hands
and dream of things
much bigger than death.
I do my best to try and
write some poetry
I am up and
down from the desk
pacing about the room
with a mug of cold coffee
dancing
to Charlie Parker
in my skull and
crossbones shorts
I sit down
type a line or two
then get up
and dance some more
I look out the window
and there’s a man in a lizard suit
across the street
outside
the party store
he waves
I wave back
it’s a funny life.
My heart is sad
and full today,
longing for something
to break upon.
I wander the streets
of this fabled city
and can only wonder,
where are the beautiful,
where are the mad?
Every face I meet, looking
as if life were never born;
the music of existence
everywhere
and no one singing!
This echapbook entitled The Annie Poems is being featured and presented with ISSUU and best viewed by clicking on full screen mode at the site. Click on the arrows to flip the pages…
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_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wolfgang Carstens lives in Mittinhed, Alberta with his wife, 5 childrem, 2 cats and a dog. His poetry is printed on the backs of unpaid bills.
Wolfgang’s book, the drama of flesh, is forthcoming on epic rites press in 2010.
Woolgathering sweater girls
play tag in the electric dark
live animals their fur, growling ears
caught amazons in baby fuzz
stamping instant tattoos.
dueling with their blood
rituals of a fiery lampoon
jism ghosts on egg-ships stitching infant cross-outs
enigma igloos giggling to your work-a-haulic robotics
bubbling in on popsicle skyscrapers’ nod wink
grail-flag tucked in, adhered to the thread of its knife
cookie-cutting medieval order blanks & nunnery safe-deposits
let’s get a backfield of wicka roadmaps, handsome rivers
tolling see-thru opaques, embers’ leprechaun
therapy advancements big into fast
ringo mailbox, haptic crib, eyes, black pearls
Stephanie entered the factory
like a golden apple of Discordia
creating a tumultuous flurry
of combed hair and clean shirts
like the golden ring of Sauron
wedding bands were pocketed
facial hair sculpted, trimmed
or shaved off all together
at breaks, Stephanie, aloof
talked lovingly of her fiancee
engaged us in polite conversation
and ignored prolonged eye contact
outside the factory walls
we might not have noticed her
her quaint face and narrow hips
nose a bit crooked, eyes too big
inside the factory walls
we talked constantly about her
trading scraps of information
creating facts in lieu of truth
we thought about her at night
trapped in the Mordor of matrimony
fantasizing about freedoms
ten, twenty years behind us
later, talk turned to disappointments
she lined the cups of her
fiancée’s empty promises before us
we competed for the chance to pour
Stephanie radiated sex
began flaunting her tattoos
the cat’s eyes at her belt line
being my personal favorite
the strolls past her machine
progressed to an hourly procession
our eyes acclimated to
her factory beauty
her fiancee receded to punch line
our wives lost factory reality
when the dust settled, Jon,
the barrel welder, became her lover
news of his impending divorce spread
he discovered his swagger
we cursed his name and
wished testicular cancer upon him
Jon and Stephanie’s first night alone
Stephanie’s jilted fiancee
blew his brains out his ear
with a .38 to the temple
we treated Jon as though
he had pulled the trigger
punishing him for his one night
and the resulting factory swagger
Jon claimed innocence
looking as guilty as any man
who’s ever rode in a white Bronco
pistol pressed against cranium
a week after the funereal
Stephanie returned freshly tattooed
two ravens perched on a tombstone
bearing her fiancée’s numerical margins
we laughed and said if she’s
going to get a bird for every man
she buries in an early grave
she’ll end up a flesh aviary
I would like to be a
brightly colored macaw tattooed
on her left ass cheek
I think when she smiles at me
