an argument between drums and horns

down at the jazz factory
            landlord keeps the beat
steady
steady
               slow
this is landlord’s parade
            and this is how he plays it
his sticks are tight, the music tight
                       this night feels
                all right
landlord hits the cymbals
                        and it starts to rain
shh-tat-ta-tat-tat-splash
                        just a little sprinkle
shh-tat-ta-tat-tat-splash
and the horns walk in, start jumping
                              into puddles
trombone is the backbone, the big brother
do-whop-a-whop
                                 wah-wah
do-whop-a-whop
                                 wah-wah
trumpet is the poet of the family
                              he pours the coffee
beh-dee-deet
            da dee-deet
beh-dee-da-dee-da-dee-deet
and the girl
            with the whiskey fist
and the rose on her lips
                        blows him a kiss                                   
so he talks to her
                                    beh-dee-deet
da dee-deet
            beh-dee-da-dee-da-dee-deet
time gets loose and thin
but landlord snares it in
                                             so tight
shh-tat-ta-tat-tat-splash, shh-tat-ta-tat-tat-splash
do-whop-a-whop
                                 wah-wah
do-whop-a-whop
                                 wah-wah
landlord punched the clock
            and we start to rock
beh-dee-deet
            da dee-deet
beh-dee-da-dee-da-dee-deet
landlord is pounding
                            horns are laughing
pounding and laughing
                              laughing
and pounding
                        all of a sudden
                                                            the music stops
all is
 
quiet
 
silent
 
like
holding your breath
before a storm
and landlord says
                                             “time to pay the rent”
boom-boom-splash-boom!, bah-boom-bah-boom! bah-boom! ric-a-tic-a- splash!
boom-boom-boom! thump-a-thump-a-tic-a-tic-a boom-bash-boom-splash!
boom-splash! boom-splash! rat-a-tat-tat-tat-boom, bah-boom! bah-boom-boom-
            splash! splash! splash!
boom-boom!
                        splash!
boom!
            boom!
                                                boom-splash!
yeah!
and then the trombone blows up, and the trumpet blows up, and the room blows up
and the moon blows up, one whole city block blows up, and all of harlem
                                                                                                         shakes
and all the whiskey fists and red rose lips screaming “drums have won! horns have won!
                                                                                                         all is one!”

just the way i like it

posted for Shay's Word List #7

posted for dverse oln #307

posted for poets and storytellers united

salute

to the year that has passed, with all its happenstance

so long

 

to the battles i lost and crosswords unsolved

farewell

 

to the sky that does not know if it wants to snow or shine

may you find peace

 

to all the leaves now fallen from the sycamore tree

i wave from my window

 

to all the dead batteries in the back of the desk drawer

i’m sure we’ll meet again

 

to last year’s new year’s eve seven layer dip

still on the bottom shelve of the fridge

sorry i let you down

 

to the empty gum wrapper blowing around in the gutter

live long, live well

 

to cable news and the loons who scream on the bus

good show

 

to all books with dusty dust covers that i plan to read

but never do

have faith

 

to all the potholes on east alameda avenue that never get fixed

stay true

 

and to the new year that approaches and all of its verve

i say

ok

 

happy new year everyone

attack of the babbling acrobats (2nd draft)

(for all the fringe artists out there feeling a little beat-up)

 

acrobats

damn those goofy fools

and their rubber bones

who drag their wild weather

wherever they go

so ferociously flexible

so transcendental  

so rude

 

acrobts are the leading cause of jungle gyms,

giggle-ism and restless leg syndrome

 

acrobats are like sugary snacks, they’ll ruin your dinner

evil playmates who eat birthday cake

all year long

 

worst of all, acrobats will steal your tv, so easily

and so completely, you won’t remember owning one

 

all acrobats wear bullet-proof jackets, just in case in snows

all acrobats wear ugly hats, except those who don’t

 

acrobats prefer their rimband served raw

with three kinds of wine, none of them french

 

acrobats make and trade the most horrible things:

chinese finger traps

left-handed puddle shovels

egyptian ice cream forks

poetry and totem poles   

and worst of all, nun flavored chewing gum

 

all acrobats have loose screws, which makes them rattle

like spare change in the dryer

some call it music, some call it inspired

songs that sound like lunatic finger-strumming rubberband lips  

 

nobody like lunatic acrobat music, except those who do

 

acrobats like to feed baby ducks on the grave of dee dee ramone

beloved king of acrobats

 

               and worst of all

we need to build a wall, to keep them contained

some kind of acrobat habitat

 

but what is it exactly

that makes them so dangerous to cardboard cutout society?

too quick with a joke? too fast on their feet? too many tricycles on flimsy highwires?

dancing on beach balls? running around thinking their own thoughts?

 

damn them! damn them all to kansas!

 

and how do we defeat them?

some call an exterminator

some scrape away the bad brainwaves with a hot coat hanger

some bang their heads on church bells

some cuss out the waiter and leave one percent tips

some get their yawn on, and try to forget

some bury their heads in suburban homesteads and wallow in comfortable sorrow

but not me

i’ve got acrobats in my attic

and couldn’t be happier 

 

posted for shay's word garden word list

red truck in bookstore (2nd draft)

 

the artist calls it

red truck in bookstore

like

still-life

like

white flowers in vase by window

or

pond with clouds over mountain

stuff like that

but different

 

inspired by the red truck that crashed into the old capitol hill bookstore last night

on the corner of colfax and grant

soon after, people gathered to gawk

just looky-loos  

but some of them were painters

and some of them got excited at this rare opportunity to paint

red truck in bookstore

and set up their rigs

 

and look here, the artist was clever

under the right front wheel

a children’s book with a cartoon red truck on the cover

 

sadly, some can't shake the universe

and catch ripe fruit falling

some can’t look directly at

red truck in bookstore

and turn away, instead they paint

old honda with flat tire

or

broken bottle in gutter

or

stray dog pissing on dumpster

 

as for method and technique, it was a fortunate disaster

imagine the exact moment the art happened

drunk teenagers texting in red truck spinning out over median and crash into bookstore

imagine painting that!

 

imagine the glory, imagine all the art critics wetting their pants

imagine the headlines:

last night, a red truck crashed headfirst into another red truck inside the capitol hill bookstore 

one real as red steel, the other a fairytale, witnesses claim “art copies life”

no fatalities reported, rescue crews and postmodern art students working around the clock

 

personally, i like

red truck in bookstore

its brave, its original, its like, both urban and quaint all squished together

its colorful, if you like endless layers of red

yes, i really do like

red truck in bookstore

just not on my block

red truck in bookstore

 (from cbs news 7, denver) 

ziggy's spoken word museum - test start

Miguel - by Carl Hancock Rux

Ok, so this is a project i am working on:

showcasing a wide range of poetry through the medium of “spoken word”, that is to say, any poem that is spoken outload, sung, chanted, cried-out or howled. This is a database of sound recordings and videos by Spoken Word Artists, in their own words, modern and old, all styles and modes, for your listening pleasure…

Including: Maya Angelou, Jack Kerouac, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, Joy Harjo, and more, and I’m still adding more

Listen to poems from poets you would not normally think of as “spoken word”, hear them from a new perspective.

ziggy's spoken word museum of mind-blowingly badass poetry  

it's a working title =)

and i am always taking requests, any poet or spoken word artist you would like to hear, please stop by and make your request.

ziggy's spoken word museum of mind-blowingly badass poetry 

friday writings #2 seven dogs

late to the party again, i was working on a poem for the prompt theme, but it's not going to get finished in time, so i offer this instead. also, i saw the new badge thing, how does that work?

seven dogs 

i drank nine beers in nine bars

a tribute to nine women who done me wrong

walking home i walked past the red house

over yonder

same one i’ve walked pass ninety-nine and one-half times before

i stopped right there and thought, how drunk am i?

so i did the math

nine bars, nine beers, nine times nine is eighty-one

in nineteen eighty-one i was nine years old

and in the nineth hour of the nineth day

of my nineth winter, i walked this very path

with the same nine mailboxes on the sidewalk to the left

and the same nine garden gnomes in the garden to the right

ninety-nine and one-half newspapers piled up on the doorstep

of the red house over yonder

and that’s when i saw what i saw

the thing that haunts me forever

i saw seven dogs fighting in the alley

for a leftover chicken bone

seven brothers forgot their bond and surrendered to the hunger

i saw their teeth grow long and their eyes grow sinister

i saw mortal fear up close and personal

and then i saw the blackest crow i ever saw

swoop down and steal that chicken bone

then perch up high on a steeple, seven tail feathers pointed due east

i saw seven dogs in disbelief

seven dogs, one dead chicken

and a tax collector in the blackest crow-feathered trench coat i ever saw

nine creatures total 

2021

posted for poets and storytellers united

caligula’s razor (a crash test dummy love story)

 

this poem turned out way better then i thought it would, when i get some instruments, i'm definitely doing this as a spoken word song. 

here’s my head shot

here’s my bio

here’s a list of all the parts i play

these are the monsters i slay

this is what the hero likes to eat for lunch

don’t make me wait

is this a mystery? is this primetime crime?

where do i park my new sports car?

hey you, go put some wax on my car

and my ass is ready for a close-up

with your lips

 

listen to all that honey drip:

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(dance around on caligula’s razor)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(i forgot the plot, tell me again)

it’s a crash test dummy love story!

 

yeah buddy

 

here’s my head shot

here’s my bio

here’s the address you can send my fan mail

is this the script? someone rewrite it

with words i can swallow

till then, i’ll be in my trailer

is this a mystery? is this primetime crime?

someone tell the director his vision is weak

and get another close-up of my teeth

i’m the king of make-believe

and you can kiss my ring

 

and the groupies gather and sing:

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(dance around on caligula’s razor)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(look at that, i just won another oscar)

it’s a crash test dummy love story!

 

but really i’m just like you, im lonely like you, i’m a lowlife just like you and

my knees shake and i can’t take a joke and my soul is bankrupt and broke and

this life is a beautiful lie i wear like a hat, i wear it in the rain and never get wet

but i’m all dried up inside, i need a friend and, wait 

                                                                        what’s my line again?

 

            …dance around on caligula’s razor

 

it’s a crash test dummy love story…

 

…coming soon

 

to a wasteland near you and all the angels sing:

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(here’s my glass slipper, lets drink champagne from it together)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(here’s my autograph, go sell it on craig’s list)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(and someone get these fucking fans away from me)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(seriously, i can’t be real today, i’m out of blow)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(hey, did you hear me? i’m not happy)

if some is good then more is better!

if some is good then more is better!

(there’s a dead hooker in the limo, can somebody do something about that?)

it’s a crash test dummy love story!

it’s a crash test dummy love story!

(it’s a crash test dummy love story!)

 

 2021

posted for the sunday muse

credo quia absurdum

so my last poem ended in a very negative place, so i need to bring balance back to my universe. this is an old poem that perhaps answers the question "is humanity worth saving?" from jalopy dreams of a mothership... credo quia absurdum

(the hoax)

so these scientists these crazy what’s wrong with you scientists

put an ancient vase on a record player, applied a laser

and some super science, digital scanners, noise filters and

crossed fingers

(f.m. – frequency modulation – funky magic)

set up wine glasses and crockpots with little cocktail weenies

and held the world’s greatest strangest séance

 

they made sculpture giggle

 

                imagine their surprise

six-thousand-year-old young girls laughing so loud they leave grooves

                not gods

not wizards, just girls, children of clay, born of flesh, translated to breath

expelled from happy lips and pressed back into clay on a potter’s wheel

i want to believe

because it’s so absurd

because i want to know laughter is eternal

             in the fossils and footprints of my ancestors

in the homemade toys i slingshot into the future

                i want to believe in that grace

and i want to dance with the shy blond girl

                in the white dress, in the frieze of life

                feet splashing

in a garden of green paint, laughter thick as plaster

            and spin her till her dress falls off

and i should rescue this princess bohkara

reclaim it from this cold thrift store

                too precious to leave on the floor

listen close and hear mothers teaching daughters eternal knots

this will be my blanket, and i will sleep and dream

                in the footprints of elephants

and i can stare hours and hours

                into vinny’s whirling stars, big wind fist

                punching the moon

my eyes go all rapid cycle dream-optic oscillation

all those brushstrokes screaming blueblueblueblueblueblue!

i want to live in a museum

                                                i want to lick all the art

i want to eat their hearts

                convinced they’re made of cinnamon rolls and raspberry jelly

                porkchops and cheesecake

                and the psychic breathmint of eucharist

and i want someone to drink this poem, taste my fever

                my tire fire, my words wide open leaping into

                                                                frequency modulation

 

imagine

space and time never forgetting a single note of music, every echo

                                                                                                endless

ocean in a seashell

 

highway in a hubcap

 

                giggling girls

                                in a cookie jar

                                                                imagine

somewhere in a distant future, deep in the long-gone of mankind

                travelers from a more flexible universe

bubble-headed paleoacousticologists on safari

                some crazy what’s wrong with you alien race

                finding our remains

finding this world a dead relic, a lazarus bowl, soul jar bursting with ghosts

point a record player needle at this mess of human milieu and discover

                the human voice:

 

rose is a rose is a rose is a rose

 

and e pluribus unum

 

and today is a good day to die

and i’ll have a blue, blue-blue-blue-blue christmas

and mr watson come here

and this puke stinks like beer

and the poets lie too much

 

and frog leaps – sound of – splashing

and i want to fuck you like an animal

 

and a pocket full of poems, ashes, ashes, we all write poems

(and remember, this is just a hoax)

 

and everything was beautiful

 

nothing hurt 

2011

"the frieze of life" by edvard munch

"princess bohkara" photo by unknown

"starry night" by vincent van gogh 

posted for d'verse

big deal (2nd draft)

get myself all worked up

bang my head against the world

no big deal

 

i need a soda

so go down to the store and buy a soda

need a beach house

so go to the beach and buy a house

no big deal

 

i see your future, i see your gravity

i see your eyes your face your smile your blood

and bones and flesh and all your molecules crushed into a tiny

neuron, baby, you’re gonna be a star!

no big deal

 

all the scientist’s make a fist and pound the ground

a pack of lips proclaiming apocalypse

can’t solve the equation without piles and piles of remainders

no big deal

 

and i’d rather be a lover than a fighter

to love the love and fight the fight

but fight for love and love the fight for the love of the fight

and i’d rather be a fighter than a lover

either way, i get rolled to the gutter

no big deal

 

and when it gets to be too much, cause it’s always too much

much too much, i pull this ripcord and watch the world fall

away, wave goodbye 

no great-big-goddamn-deal

 

and it’s a race to save the human race 

case by case and collectively altogether

and we see how these human beings treat each other

and all the other others, the bird race and the lizard race

and the modest little mouse race

i think about saving this inhuman race and

i don’t think it’s a good idea

 

god looks down, and he doesn’t smile and he doesn’t frown

god looks down like its no big deal, he can always make another

this universe recycles itself and dirt is cheap

god looks down as the prayers go up, everybody pulling ripcords

and god isn’t here and he isn’t there and he isn’t everywhere

if he’s anywhere, it’s a beach house and he just sits around drinking soda

lifts his soda can and makes a toast – go save yourselves!

 

except

he doesn’t use the word

save  

anymore 

i love modest mouse, one of my all-time favorite bands, and love this song:

posted for the sunday muse

the sunday muse #185

the drunk asshole next door just started throwing furniture, which means it’s nine-thirty-ish and i need to brush my teeth and get to bed, i don’t wear a watch, which makes the drunk asshole next door somewhat useful

now he’s throwing bottles against the wall which means i need to leave my shoes by the door, make tomorrow’s lunch and wash some dishes, It must be nine-forty-three now cause he’s screaming out the window, spitting his nastiness, but it’s in spanish, so it sounds like the most heartbroken thing no human being should ever have to sing

which reminds me, as it does every night around nine-forty-nine, i need to buy a guitar, not any stick with strings, but a pawnshop guitar, something once beloved and then throw away (something that sings and screams and cries in a way no human being could ever comprehend

but always feel, and then wail-away the night with my drunk-ass neighbor) we must be closing in on ten-o-clock cause the cops are pounding on his door, and the only mystery is will they haul him to the drunk tank or can he talk his way out of it, i find my earplugs and crawl into bed, look at my alarm, it says eleven

and i’m confused

then remember i forgot

to adjust for daylight saving, good thing the drunk asshole next door keeps a tight schedule 

posted for the sunday muse