Archive for the Man Cave Category

Man Cave–The Poetry Series with F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright, Man Cave with tags on May 1, 2011 by Scot

SULTRY & SOUTHERN

she may be a lady
but she ain’t no
southern belle
‘cuz there’s just enough
sin in her veins
to make her naughty
& hotter than hell
almost as good a ride
as a built-up tricked-out
Harley-Davidson motorcycle
but I remember ridin’ her
down near the bayou
that came damn close
she was hotter than that
Louisiana summer night
so hot there was Tabasco
sauce drippin’ from the stars
above by the time she was done
fuckin’ this ol’ wore out biker.

____________

I FELL IN LOVE TODAY

I fell in love today
Maureen
a tall drink
of water
beautiful
shapely
personality
her long dress
that she hiked up
to just above her knees
as she sat down

I could tell by her
well-shaped calves
that she had racehorse
legs thighs filled with
thunder

when she caught me looking
at her legs she smiled
as only a beautiful woman
with no ego or vanity can

when she stood & walked
her body absolutely
shimmered beneath
her long blue dress
that smelled of summer
& days when I was younger

the dress reminded me
of the tropics
but not Hawaii

somewhere more exotic

& I made her laugh
a woman’s laugh
with something I said

yes, I fell in love today
but I know she didn’t.

____________

MOJAVE GREEN

I’m out here
somewhere
in the Mojave
desert
about 50 miles
from Barstow
high on peyote
spinning like a whirling
dervish
looking up at
the sky
marveling at
a spectacular
light show
the stars are putting on
for me & only me
I hear ominous
rattles shaking
vigorously
& I know it as a
Mojave Green
rattlesnake
it is dark
& I can’t see
the motherfucker
but I know he’s too
close for comfort
but the peyote
has me in it’s grips
& instead of feeling fear
the music of the
rattles makes me spin
faster
as the peyote paints
a goofy smile upon
my face.

____________

A CHRISTMAS POEM

I watched the beardless Saint Nick
Throw his 5 & dime bell of the
Armies of salvation into the
Gutters of resignation, wipe his
Nose upon a raggedy sleeve & send
His reindeer laughing into the no-
Christmas Harlem except for Rudolph
Who entered Pink’s Place in the Big Easy
With Mrs. Claus, six elves from the North
Pole & Mr. King (dressed as a snowman)
To watch a fat, sexless go-go girl shaking
Like a bowl of jelly & proclaiming to be
The Christmas Angel fornicate with a
Christmas tree that looked suspiciously
Like the Easter Bunny who had previously
Been fucking the Tooth Fairy & I couldn’t
Help but wonder how many children would
Have cried if they’d known the truth of
What Christmas is supposedly all about
Though I have a feeling most of them
Wouldn’t have given a damn.

____________

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN TWO POETS

last night at Dodger Stadium
3 Giant’s fans were taunted by
2 Dodger fans in the parking lot
after the game ended

though they tried to separate
themselves from their antagonists
the Giant’s fans were attacked

two managed to escape but one
was caught, beat savagely by fists
& kicked in the head when down

the father of two suffered serious
head injuries

he is a paramedic from Santa Cruz

it should have been two poets
from Santa Cruz instead

because there are not
enough paramedics
& too many poets.

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The Man Cave featuring Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin, Man Cave with tags on March 10, 2011 by Scot

Adult Delinquents

I
want
to listen to Bobby Rydell
and drink fucked up
Chinese beer
with Lucy Hell

but the other moms
drop by …
and they want to chatter
about school
while they drink
merlot
and gossip
about their children
after
spying on them

squawking
about
the evils
of social networks
and how kids
will never get
decent jobs
or go to college

because
their permanent records
are marred
by unruly behavior
in public

as the Devilgirl
climbs
on the kitchen table

swinging blonde hair
and dancing
to Britney Spears

I can see her hot stuff
panties
and they make me feel
like my vodka
is soaked in LSD-25

wanna
throw the ersatz-Christians
and quasi-hippy bitches
to the street lions
but they seem hypnotized,
ducks in the road

torn between
mind control mythologies
and the spiritual
weight of a lobotomy
that wants to
unzip itself

I tell them
I want to travel in outer space
like Walt Disney
and Ray Bradbury
and you
and me
and all the open doors
of children
who fight the formula

the good babies want to
touch the cracker thin hem
of the universe
and spit in the eye
of the alien invisible

while
their secret Nazi mothers
pretend to be once
upon a time
pot smoking liberals

ever plotting
how to fit round bodies
into square holes

but I think
the malt shop music
is getting to them

there is a Watusi
once forgotten

the murdered teenagers
inside the grown-ups
want to play
and laugh
and tell the world
to fuck off

so
sometimes they don’t say
goodbye
when they leave

but they always
come back,

and sometimes,
they even drink
the Chinese beer.

_________________

Country Girl

I unbuttoned her
blue jeans
in the kitchen

during
track 3
of some
Carrie Underwood album

kissing her,
sliding my hand
down
between the
tight jeans & flesh

and she said,
“What the fuck
are we listening to?”

So we put on
the Dixie Chicks.

__________________

When the Ghosts Wake me up at Night

watching
the dark and strange mystic lights
swirling …

same ghost energy
I saw as a kid
haunting
reaching out to my mind
and forcing me to
remember
I am home

and not in some Navy brig
locked up
trapped
or in the Santa Monica county jail
or the Sacramento country jail
or the Long Beach landlocked
federal prison
for lost sailors

in that lonely bunk
surrounded by losers and
nowhere to be found friends
and I am very pleased
not to
be inside the tiny Filipino jail
in Olongapo city
getting screamed at in Tagalic

never wanted the cells
just the bars

missed my dead mother
guilt, conflict, swirled emotions
drowning in rum drink
cocktails …

I wanted to feel something
wanted to make the burnt heart
pump real blood

and when you feel like that
you know it’s only the ghosts
listening,
and laughing,
haunting your undead stupidity

until a wild female takes
the bait, the gamble
past the lightning and the fear
touching bones with
soft feminine alchemy

my head filled with
Saturday morning cartoons
golden cornflakes
and love songs from AM radio …
laughing
not so much from fractured mind
but good circus of crazy

and the clones of love
came along
children
brilliant beautiful maniacs

as the
strange mystic lights
swirl

and I am not alone.

The Man Cave featuring Frank Reardon

Posted in Frank Reardon, Man Cave with tags , on February 13, 2011 by Scot

RIDING IN A CAR WITH S.A. GRIFFIN

everything
was
closed up
when he
swerved
& weaved
between
the cars
with his
old brown
Volvo,

my hands,
gripping the
‘ Jesus Christ Handles”,
in total panic
&
holding
it all in,

then he
stepped
on the
gas
& everything
opened
up,

like
canned
sunshine

laughter,

finally .

______________________

Falling Down Hills In Kansas (for John Dorsey)

i remember it here & there
drinking those dark mysteries
like children in water balloon play
who scored smiles from underneath
those pimp-hats of     oblivion,

i felt it like a string of Christmas lights,
with their rapid succession of changing moods

until
the great composer
cried with only one hand over his face,
because the other one
was too busy strangling
the hearts of the weak,

& we drank Christ off the cross
until Revelations made sense,

until our throats
our veins
our hearts

began to feel like an empty house
with a lost bird inside
banging against the glass
of a locked window

________________________

WEAR YOUR MISTRESS LIKE A BADGE

being alone
is not
the absence
of another
person,

it is
a badge
of honor,

given to
us by
the gods,

but you’ve
got to know
how to
treat it
properly

you’ve got
to play
it music,
pour it
French wine,

light its
cigarettes,
lay around
on the couch
all day
with it,

cry into the
darkness of
the void
with it
write to it
without fear
of death,

& when
you need to
speak,
respect its
wishes,
& slam the door
while screaming
because
it
might not
ever want
to come
back
to you

again.
_____________________________

GO 15 WITH THE TYPEWRITER BEFORE THE GODS RING THE BELL

it wont smile at you
before landing a haymaker
so keep on your guard,
keep the gloves up at your chin,
& learn how to counter
with all of your might,
wisdom & courage,
if you don’t
you’ll never be able
to go toe to toe with
it,
because it dances the mat
with a mighty fury,
jabbing,
crossing,
hooking,
leaving you bloody
& lifeless,
but if you wanna go toe to toe
with it
have a lot of stamina
because if
you can keep up
you’ll be dipping & punching
with concertos,
weaving & uppercutting
with the heavens,
& when it goes down
for the count
it will be
because you
landed the most
beautiful punches
you’ve ever
thrown…

________________________

EARN YOUR STRIPES IF YOU WANNA SWALLOW THE EARTH

People
tell me
that I am
lucky,

because
I am 36
& without
much
responsibility

they say
that
I just
bitch,
moan
& write
all day

what
they refuse
to understand
is the massive
amounts
of wars,
madness
& loneliness
I’ve had to
go through
to get to
that point

& that alone
should be
the most
responsibility
any human
should ever
have to
deal with.