Archive for the Mark James Andrews Category

the Pig won again by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags , on November 25, 2016 by Scot

democracy is hard
democracy is ugly
in amerika
the amerika that wallows
in ignorance
in racism
in sexism
in the one religion
in gun love
ah, ignorance
personified in the heartland
with voters voting
against their own needs
against their own interests
a sick throat cutting
& capitalism?
it’s a greedy Pig
that’s got to be fed
& the Pig knows
the fear buttons to push
to keep getting fed
in the Kingdom of Fear
the Pig won again

haiku Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags on July 8, 2014 by Scot


Farmer lights his smoke.
Horse whinnies and takes a shit.
Stinkfinger hayride done.

A Praying Mantis Entered Our Minivan by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags , on June 3, 2014 by Scot




I had finished pumping gas
slid in the driver’s seat
& a praying mantis entered our minivan
& landed on my clenched fist
white knuckles on the steering wheel
safety belted in the Captain’s seat
chomping at the bit
to begin our American journey.

The mantis swiveled his head 180 degrees
fixed me with his monster wide set eyes
& told me I was dying
that my wife in the passenger seat
digging in & inventorying her purse
full of life in tank top & cutoff jeans was dying
that our 3 kids in the back seat
laughing & sucking at Slurpee straws
flipping through super hero comics
diapering baby dolls
fingering plastic worms & fishing lures
were circling the drain
on the fast track to pushing up daisies
or the convenient crematory reduction.

I snatched the swivel headed bastard
& shot him to the outstretched fingers
going “Gimme Gimme” in the back seat
waiting to pass him around & inspect
gripping the slim long thorax
going eyeball to eyeball with him
jamming him in a plastic cup to get cooled off
in the last of the red shaved ice.

The praying mantis survived the family vacation.
I don’t know how but he did.

I was through with him & his sorry reminders
but the kids confined him to an unused aquarium
on an aged leatherette playing card table
in a damp corner of our screened summer porch
40 gallons of empty algae glazed glass & red gravel
where he was confined for the duration of summer
standing statuesque on a grid of branches.

Through most of the day the praying mantis was alone
& I would sneak peeks at him staring back at me
proud & defiant with his portents of death
but in the late afternoon or early evenings
he was visited & sustained by neighborhood hordes
led by my offspring & heirs with their presentations to him.

At day’s end the children caught honey bees,
yellow jackets, bumblebees, & sweat bees
in jam jars, Dixie Cups, any available vessel
& released them through the screened flip top
that imprisoned their silent & rigid pet.

The captured bugs fell in the glass box dazed
for they were rough caught & stunned senseless
but gradually they came back animated
& totally unaware of the stick figure
with the recumbent spiked grasping forelegs.

The mantis never failed to stop praying
when frantic weakness was on display
flying or crawling within his range.
His response was lightning quick
& he was always successful striking out
with his leg hands no longer posed in prayer
always making good on his word
as the laughing cheering young looked on.

American Senetence by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags , on February 4, 2014 by Scot

Hard yanging the soft yin abated as I have whiskey dick for now.

1958 by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags on July 8, 2013 by Scot

Hardboiling in Harlem:
Coffin Ed Johnson & Gravedigger Jones
pissed off with all the red tape & ass kicking
take Breakfast at Tiffany’s uptown.
Upper East Side.
American Geisha.
3-Way with Holly Golightly.
Cigarette holder & all the accoutrements.
You can leave your hat on.
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.
You can’t give your heart to a wild thing.

Halloween and the Delivery Boy at the Go-Go Bar by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags on November 5, 2012 by Scot

I was delivering pizzas for Dino at Roma’s on Halloween Night.  Driving my Dodge and wishing the radio worked. My job was to feed the hungry.  I wanted them to be filled, to be satisfied. That’s about it. Tonight I was the Catcher in the Rye on the look-out for the little beggars stepping off curbs into oncoming traffic.

The parade of angels and demons, soldiers and hippies, ghosts, witches and vampires into the pizzeria was mundane to me.  Like Santa Claus.  Like the Easter bunny.  Skeletons?  Bat Man?

Dino had baked waffle cookies, pizzelles, to give out.  3 platters stacked high.  Word got out and they were gone in 20 minutes.

“Fuckathis.  We give out pennies now.”

Finally a spark.  Something.  I had a run of five pies to The Duke, the neighborhood go-go bar.   The caller was Mack.  Each pie ordered was different and not the sort to be coming out of our neighborhood.  Mack’s orders were precise and unique in his demands for toppings and arrangements.  Plain pizza with heavy sauce, extra oregano and no cheese.  Number 2 with extra pepperoni, anchovies on half, artichokes on half…

Dino prepared the pizzas for The Duke with loving care, boxed them up, stacked them high and stapled the ticket to the top box with a flourish.  He handed them off.

“You gonna get some spicy tip on this one.  You gonna go over there and sneeze in the bush.  You gonna come back with a cobra snake down there.  You gonna get bit by the snapping turtle.”

“That’s all?”

Dino’s laughing exploded into a monster fit of coughing.  His beady brown eyes were tearing up.  He quickly lit up a Kent.  He smoked them religiously because they had “the micronite filter.”  So he wouldn’t get “the cancer.”
Continue reading

Waiting for my Relief by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot
The Dodge Dart procession was eternal
each with a taped on check-off sheet.
I had a black marker in the pit inspecting.
The clock punching was the first hard lesson
followed by the incremental bells and whistles
inside the matrix of the dynamo hum.
Robert was back in the space suit again
and like old times fingering down in my boot
searching for an airplane bottle shot.
“They got me being relief man now
easy skating up and down The Line
but this here 15 minutes is a bitch.”
Robert took a good hit of Hennessy
strapped on his canister face mask shroud
ready for the hand-off of the undercoating gun.
He disappeared into the containment pod
after the new guy Ali hurried out
stripping off his space suit glaring at me.
I really didn’t know why he bothered to strip.
He only had 15 minutes.
I ducked down waiting for my relief.

Revolution was about pussy by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags , on December 27, 2011 by Scot

Revolution was about pussy
more pussy
strange pussy
better drugs
more drugs
a free spot to crash

All night strategy sessions
Mao’s red book
working Che into the conversation
nodding to the awful obvious music
these rituals were to be practiced
to be endured.

The worst were the mass movements
the tribal gatherings
sit-ins were preferable
to the awful marching
the signs and slogans
chanting in unison.

And now wandering this Occupation
Grand Circus Park in the 3-1-3
faces are again young & sensual
slumming & kinky in tent city
a new wisdom permeates
ignore organization
abandon philosophy.

A sleeping bag is hung in the wind
bodily fluids are drying
a young male in a Sherpa hat
sidles up to a young female
bowing to cell phone texting
silently weighing his chances.