Archive for the Sissy Buckles Category

A boxcar in July by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags , on November 28, 2016 by Scot

 

In the 60s we were babies
her son and me now it’s 1988
and 5AM dawning in his
mother’s living room
“a poem is some remembering”
said Robert Bly and I’m
trying my best not to look
at a strange fat man’s
naked tootsies
on the spotless rug
in Rancho Bernardo
the community part of the
old Mexican land grant
issued in 1842
Conrad’s heart of darkness
in pink wake-up feet
clean socks and loafers
a powder blue striped leisure suit
with a matching pastel matron
upright dummies picking teeth
in a vinyl booth
smeared with Denny’s
coffee shop grease
from the senior starter
eggs/hash browns
underdone soggy white toast
rancid margarine
en route to the Tijuana aeropuerto
and a flight to Acapulco
chauffeuring his well-bred
mom & her beau taking a
vacation to visit our friendly
neighbors in the south
I forgot my beaded handbag
bought at Purple Heart Thrift Store
in her locked car
w/the bumper sticker
‘a woman’s place is in the mall’
the old mans’ wet
strawberry slicked lips
hanging open
amazed
that his house in Peñasquitos
was broken into twice
a year to the day
almost apart
now he keeps his Cadillac
in the garage to guard
against birdy doodoos and
dirty day labor illegal
migrants living in the nearby
hills & arroyos with their
thieving plastic bags —
in the newspaper I’d read about
eighteen of them involved in
what the authorities called
a bungled smuggling attempt
and violently perishing in a
locked steel-walled boxcar
they boarded at El Paso
90 miles northwest
of Sierra Blanca on the
brutal Texas-Mexican border
the guy supposed to
unlock it at the end of the line
missed his queue while
fierce120 degree heat
sizzled their lungs
dirty nails claw iron sides
convulsions
shitting
screams
fighting each other for air
a lousy peso a job a hamburger
some goddamn fucking hope
the 19th survived by desperately
punching a hole in the
floor to breathe —
he keeps big grey boxer shorts
under his widow girlfriends’
bathroom sink
along with his favorite treat
oreo ice-cream sandwich cookies
raw w/freezer burn
in the gigantic new fridge
her son and me made it
kneeling cum spots on her
silk brocade couch
among Illinois farmwives
knick-knacks preserved
without dust on the shelves
homecrafted dolls and crystal
handed down if I had a bomb
I would blow up R.B.
all this kink
is getting me nowhere.

Stupid fucker by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on July 4, 2016 by Scot

yeah that’s me
alright, walking around
with my love
blinders on once again
wishing that his desperado
yackety yak
has just gotta be
bona fide like that erstwhile
beau of mine, Hawk
(whose real name was Jim) and
always reminiscing
about old kicks and grins
back when he proudly flew
his colors to impress
the chickadees at
Dumont’s tavern aforetime
proprietor Eunice got his felony
conviction and a prison
sentence to boot,
ironic painted flames
crimson licking the
crumbling plaster facade
outside the very same building
on El Cajon Boulevard
two doors down from
their clubhouse that the feds
blew up a few years back;
then, too high on weed
and trying to push me off the
back of his bike while
riding through Anza-Borrego’s
arid wasteland for some
bogus paranoid
reasoning filled with
illogical fallacies
and loosely cobbled
ancient biker grievances and
all the while thinking
you’ve actually seen a man
who could by God stand
on his own two feet
how high the moon?
But I have no ill
feelings in my
heart honey, I know
it’s a rare
individual who can
face the stark
accusations of the
callous world and look
I completely
understand your fear
and trembling dread
when the outlaws
challenge your precious
status quo you know
I can be sympathetic
as hell but man, don’t even
try to gaslight me
so you come out smelling
like a rose.
Shit won’t fly, that’s it
yet, so easy
just to be cool
with things but it’s
always the same sorry
con story, folks
dragging the world down
to feed their own
repressed trip,
stealing joy,
bleeding offal and crap
merrily along
the moral highway the
bell tolls
for thee cholo
Kell Robertson’s
trigger finger
is more renegade
than you’ll ever be,
and class politics
aside you should have
just treated me
like a queen
I don’t ask for much
how truly simple
could that not be?
But this morning
I woke up
fiercely Greek as
Aeschylus’ Clytemnestra,
refreshingly vicious,
grimly unrepentant and
emancipated in her
grief surveying the
wreckage she made
all by herself,
I’ll show you transparency
pal, one more nail
in my coffin, see don’t
you understand
my life is a fugitive
train and I’m just trying
to get it back
on the damned rail
the word ‘traitor’
on the tip of all their
filthy tongues and always
waiting for the next hard
rain to fall, still
wondering what I do
so bad
just acting
free
like you,
some infatuation costs
way too much,
and hyperventilating sweet
relief palpable
rushing from my dark
blonde roots to
chipped blue polished
fingernail tips pointing at
the next right indicated thing
is to plug in my 1980s
vintage Peavey garage
hair band amp
and ebulliently
shake up
the neighbors again

A loser on my own terms by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on February 29, 2016 by Scot

 

And that time I was so mad
I actually cried because you went
with your high-toned white entitled
power elite political crowd after the
muckety-muck press conference
where everybody had to stand up
from the intimidatingly long banquet table
when their name was called
evocative of da Vinci’s Last Supper
and all the fancy dinner parties
that you never have always
spouting off about the proletarians
like you really know
something about struggle,
the group ending in an upscale
organic veggie restaurant
in the trendy part of town
and dropped a grand on lunch alone
so ticked off I steamed chirping tires
like a righteous smoking bleach burnout
downtown on the noon work break to
my favorite grungily conserved
1950s diner off Broadway
the one I sorrowfully recognized
that you’d never go to with me
because you don’t eat meat
feverishly plopping down on a
cheap cherry red Naugahyde booth
disheveled as usual in vintage shopped
beaded cashmere cardie and
leopard print rockabilly creepers
ordered cup of bitterly hot black coffee
served in chipped old white crockery
and innocent small talk
from the sweet and skanky
manic-panic cotton candy pink-haired
waitress with the dangling
skull earrings and kanji tattoo
on the inside of her wrist
who smiled conspiratorially
and first pulled out a smartphone
from her pocket and showed me
a photo of her kid smashing
a birthday pinata and told me about
the louse of an ex who left her
for a younger beautician before
bringing me a medium rare
junior cheese burger in a basket
with dill pickle slice and piping hot
crispy beer-battered onion rings
fried light enough so there’s still
a bit of a snap then smothered
in Heinz ketchup on the side
my only companion a dog-eared
City Lights pocket poet book
and scrawled up spiral journal
set next to mismatched silverware
and a white paper napkin on
the timeworn formica table
my mind’s eye already sketching
the suited up people scurrying by to oh
so important places through foggily
begrimed front picture window
along with the woebegone gang of
temporary comrades huddling
together at the counter
slopping down greasy hash house
wonders, propped up by baked
from scratch peach pie under glass
because buddy, we’re all
sad and empty inside,
and here I sit, still wincing
from the withering sarcasm
you reserve just for me,
soul-crushing, cutting
my thoughts off at the knees,
leaving me with just one,
that maybe
the fucked it up again club
ain’t such a bad place after all,
now feeling resigned, clinging to the
small and silly consolation that
at least I have a nice ass,
ate the whole shebang like Marilyn
polishing off that fried egg breakfast
in Huston’s 1961 film The Misfits
Clark Gable honestly admiring
her robust appetite “Hey, you
really go all out don’t you?
Even the way you eat, I like that”
then it’s back to the old treadmill
not forgetting to tip an extra
ten bucks to my hostess for dishing up
some much needed soul food
along with her generous hospitality.

Will you still love me? by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on July 27, 2015 by Scot

Is there a line
that must never
be crossed perhaps
some night if you had
to work late
or be out of town
on important business
and I really do appreciate
how very much
you love your job
and as a general rule
‘keep the ends out
for the tie that binds’
but if I were
to get hankering
for some eight-ball and
walk down the street
with my vintage
linen wrapped cue
in the brass-hinged case
and hang out at some
fantastic new workingman’s
saloon I’ve yet to discover
you know how I need
to connect with my old
blue collar vibe.
And what if I happened
to drink that one glass
of wine too many
attacking you
in utterly abandoned lust
(as I do all day
in my mind anyway)
when we finally
hit the sack my mouth
a sangria bruise
crushed to yours
would you give me aspirin
and fix mineral water
with baking soda
in the morning
for my upset tummy?
Or if I should get gloriously
lost for hours in
poetry and music
and revolution
at the downtown public library
maybe bust out
my dusty old crony the
Oxford Anthology of
English Literature Volume I
for a tonic of Chaucer
playing defiant hooky
from work forgetting
the shopping list
or cuss up a storm
riding in redneck pick-up trucks
raise a little hell with
my denim clad girl crew
at the rodeo sporting a
Sex Pistols tee and saddle shoes
and Lord help the man
who tries to take
my gun away
sweetest little Smith & Wesson
686 plus .357 seven-shot
snub revolver
helluva kick but fits slick
and perfect
in my petite hand
bought at the
Del Mar Trade Show
after bozo #3 threatened to
burn all the hair off my head
and break my face
on a curb, I learned early
it’s a brutal world
six separate assaults
on women alone
in my city
just last month
make no mistake
about it California is
still the Wild West
shoot they’re even talking
secession up north
Jefferson Statehood Project
so it’s staying, too
put that in your hat
and smoke it
hopefully with me
and really, drilling
down to the heart
of the matter
sometimes it sucks
to be one of the last
honest women in America
(besides that crazy bitch
in San Antonio)
and say honey, por favor
while you’re at it
will you pass
a lousy beat poet
the lime?

Unveiled by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on May 23, 2015 by Scot

And now looking me
dead straight
in shell shocked eye
the SDPD officer’s last
two words
before handing over
the DV pamphlet were
“be safe” and
blown away that a
mere stranger would
care enough
expressing to me
the consideration
that you can be beautiful
and untouchable
at the same time
coexisting with
the fragile art
of knowing
who has your back
even cold-hearted
statistics report victims
leave and return
an average
seven times before
the final
estrangement,
while in Afghanistan
the shelters are filled
to the brim with
desperate runaway women
seeking sanctuary,
maimed mutilated broken
by the very ones
entrusted to protect
their innocent souls
from harm in collusion
with hell-bent authorities
perpetrating crackdowns
on women wearing
“bad hijab”
one sixteen year old
young beauty’s face dissolved,
once proud Pashtun nose
disintegrated from
corrosive acid flung by her
own mother and
don’t bother inquiring
what she did to provoke
having her perfect skin
melt from delicate bones
I’ve been asked that question
all my life however
I think we can all agree
the brute capable
of such atrocity
has a heart as arid
as Meursault alone
on that barren stretch
of Algerian beach
with the Arab and a gun,
another girl survived
an horrific attack
hunted down by
ax wielding brother who,
after slitting
her beloved’s throat,
took to chopping her up
like a piece of meat
in an abattoir
she’d committed
the ultimate crime
and escaped from an
arranged marriage
with a vicious old man
sullying her families honor
‘I was like a thing
that they sold
he was beating me
with everything near to him,
with his glasses,
mobile phone,
with wood and stones,
his rough bare hands”
and as for me,
you can believe it
there were a lot more
hard revelations
to be had one long ago
sad and bloody
Sunday afternoon.

Mardou Fox sitting naked on a back-alley fence in the Frisco rain by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on January 28, 2015 by Scot

Naturally envious of
those intrepid
self-assured folk
who always seem
so certain
‘them that’s got
shall have,
them that’s not shall
lose’; sublimely
preferable to
stranded
perpetually adrift
shackled with
historical shambles of
modern ambiguity,
to be a Twitter brand
or not to be
is that the burning
new question
and the very real
possibility
that it’s entirely
too late
to make the world
a better place –
what do, where go?
Perhaps cultivate
a soft spot for
Jean-Paul Sartre’s
The Roads to Freedom
trilogy, be proud
to raise that Olympic
flame aloft
or consider F. Scott’s
adored flappers, were
they really all
beautiful little fools
and pretty please say
fuck yeah
to midcentury Beckettean
absurdist nobodies
and I’ll never deny
my desolate
messed up wandering
downbeat heroes.
Should I then emulate
Anouilh’s ceaselessly stubborn
outsider Antigone
digging in her heels
sticking it to
The Man
preferring death to
compromise
the play premiered
in 1944 Paris under
Nazi censorship, but now
tell me plain
are you willing
to know
a woman who writes
odes to forlorn
seedy pool hustlers
and venerable bowling shoes
stinking of victory,
at least one of us
has a reputation
to protect.
And if it’s notorious
to do nothing but
count flowers on the wall
and smoke a late
meditative night cig
or two
once in a lonely
blue moon, well of
course I would completely
understand, dearest
after all
I didn’t just fall off
the rust patina
turnip truck.

Two Poems by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on July 20, 2014 by Scot

Barefootin’

I first met Mike Hodges,
surfer extraordinaire,
when I moved from downtown to Mission Beach,
lucky enough to score a cheap cottage right on the bay
had the hots for his bod from the start,
we were young, who wouldn’t?
Perpetually tan and broad-shouldered
always barefoot even in winter
predictably called his dog Shaka
his dad Ralphie was a Little Rascal
from the old Hollywood movies
made enough money to buy a couple million dollar
beach front homes so Mike never had to work,
surfing was his job,
and fucking around customizing wild bikes,
had a silky-curled son one year named Blue
with lovechick Cali girl,
dabbled in meth from time to time turned annoying
so we didn’t want to see him anymore
almost burned down his own house once
left a candle in the attic like a dumbshit,
but he was always cool
when he sold little bags of mexi schwag.
I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d died
drunk crashing his cougar girlfriend’s Mercedes
coming home late at night from partying
and I still expect to see his handsome brown face,
whizzing by me with a nimbus of gold hair
barefoot on his skateboard down the sunset boardwalk
Shaka intent, keeping up behind

____________

Dishing the dirt

I know some folks were wondering
if I really did talk to God.
Truthfully the answer is yes.
In fact all the time,
strange as that may sound
and I’m not ashamed to say.
But.
He talked to me first.
I mean like He wasn’t
even on my mind
you know I was thinking
of riding my bike down the
boardwalk at the beach
buying some avocados and papaya
at Sprout’s Farmers Market for lunch
and maybe meeting the girls later
for pool playing and beer down the street
on Broadway with the rest of the
assholes at Dirk’s Horseshoe Lounge.
But if you could spare
one little unused moment
in your day to try to think
outside of the box here
suspend your disbelief,
and okay let’s do call it an
Apostolic type experience
umm and in perhaps really
just a literal manner,
“see me feel me touch me”
so to speak,
I can dig The Who
once in a while,
and what the hell
if you can’t even reach down
into your pocket and hand
a fiver to a downandout grimy guy
in a suit and tie sitting on an
overturned bucket with a sign
saying he lost his job,
I don’t care how many
fucking believers follow you
on Facebook your art
is irrelevant to me.
I think these miracles happen daily,
I really do
and a Carmelite nun
I happened to meet
in a completely random manner
prayed hard for me
and gave me a lit rainbow candle
as a last present the year
before she died unflinchingly
of melanoma cancer,
could you call that luck,
who knows? Somebody
leaned down and I felt
his hot breath reeking of
fish, honey, blood and yeast
whisper earnestly into my ear
“Remember Me”
that was enough and so
now what, I’m going to
just ignore Him?