$$$'s in Hand

wanted a hooker
didn't have the doe
buddy says
go give it a throw
down the block
round the corner
they pay for you
to play the horner
so there I was with cause
in hand
with nowhere
for the whore
to stand
I flipped the pages
and pulled
to a tune
They threw me out
said I made too much noise
that's the last time
I'll try to sell my boys

Olympic Flame

I thought I smelled of shoe polish
but it was fish
it was all around me
last nights dinner
and it worried me.
The Olympic flame
was to pass through town
in the AM
and I
would smell like fish.
I might be caught on fire by the torch
or attract dogs
or even horny old men.
Certainly, the entire celebration
would fall at my feet.
They would all stare
even my grandmother in heaven
would scorn me
in proper British tone
The ice would melt
and the flame would go out
in the six feet of water.
The crowd would roar in
frustration and humiliation
and I will have killed it all
by smelling of shoe polish
although it was really
fish they could smell.

Tonight

And he left
with her panties
stuffed soggy
and
smelly
in his back pocket
with
a smile on his
face
and pride
in his
step

Helter Skelter

She bends
to blast vocal scream
howling
pushing her pelvic
to be eaten
by the hungry crowd
she moves my skin
rippling
like her hair
throwing her hips
into a voo-doo trance.

The Classifieds

The newspaper
I sit to read
the houses for sale
the girls for tail
the chimney services
and cleaning services
the floor refinishing
and installations
window cleaning
and window cleaning
and dreaming
and how to dream
and drag queens
and mobile parks
and electrical sparks
and how to stop a fire
how to spot a liar
duplexes and storage space
cars domestic
and auto finance
rooms for rent
lower suites
and autitoriums
multi storage
and the lung association
join the fight
stay up all night
and cancer collection
and how to give
an ox an erection
where to go shopping
and selling
cattle droppings
how to look young
and retain your age
the AA meetings
and holiday greetings
how to kill your wife
and funeral homes
where to shop
for garden nombs
and finally
Bob's little recipe
on how to get through life

Feeling Good

Pubic tuesday is dead and gone
it's nearly thursday
with no word
The phone rings
all have drank
themselves to sleep
in the mild
January heat.
Not me I drink alone
just getting started
from our bed she says
"that's nice"
it's the way I farted.
Oh who will give
a rats ass to hear of this
it's not about my wife
it's the poetry I miss.
She likes it
says its good
man it's all about feeling good

River Banks

Face silhouette
sudden dark hair
her name graces
the river banks
"Delta", I call from my
bottle of beer
I can hear her
strumming song
"When it comes to faces
why are they always made
to look like someone else.
When it comes to personality
they can leave it on the shelf.
From the first light
on the river banks
till the last train passes
in the setting sun
When it comes to faces
why are they always made
to look like someone else"

tonight

I'm ecstatic and elastic
with my underware and my old
Odd Jobs T
drinking and listening to raw Bukowski
and drinking
and falling
falling away from today
and tonight

Manifest your destiny

who are we and why are we here?
I mean really what are we here for
to be recognized for something we've achieved along the way
or something we strived for,
something we half completed or something we wanted to do
I don't know if it's mid life or my zodiac
but I question all of that.
Is it all something someone will say at our funerals
or a reputatation for one thing or another?
something we've left behind
All I know is that it seems I am trying harder now
to identify myself than ever before.
Not the many outlets through the free time I have
but one thing, just one explanation
will it ever come
and who will I be?
Will it be the things I tried to hide
Will it be something that's died
will it be the fact that I never figured out
or just the stuff I left out
Will it be something I've forgotten
or will it be something rotten
Will it be all the weight that I've gained
will it be a song that I wrote
will it be a bag that I held
or a story that I've told
A friend I never met
a debt I never paid
or a girl I never
got to know
all I know is I'm uncertain
why I'm alive
and what I'm to do
it's a shame
I have not a clue.

Appledale

In reading Big Sur, I'm reminded of my own beatnickish past of bumming round Winlaw and that great little city called Nelson, years back with Fraser and that Shtinner dog of his. Him always with guitar in hand and me with tea. Sleeping on the cold old cabin floor huddled next to nothing and dreaming of East Indian girls in my sleep.. And running into Tara on the streets of Nelson, her tall and beautiful. talking about a party she is going to in the valley, that turns out being the very floor on which I've been sleeping in that cold cabin out near Winlaw. Fraser's brother has gathered jars of weed and guys and girls and is unannouncedly bringing them to surprise us in the day of cold spring, When we rendez-vous back out the valley with open bottles of wine and Nelson's best tall beers Fraser's old Chev with armstrong steering slowly bending way through the Koots with van loads of people in tow, rounding the same corners wondering why Fraser's driving so slow, him with Shtinner licking his face standing tall in the middle of that bench seat breathing fog onto the window and me trying not to get too much of his hair on me hoping to get close to one of these beautiful girls of the Kootenays. Blowing harp into the warm West Koot evening with the fire blazing and the little condemned cabin busting at the seams with joy and happiness and Fraser lands some honey while strumming that old guitar as people sing Grateful songs and night falls deep as morning rounds the corner all but I have partnered up and I sleep dreaming of East Indian women. The smell of burning tea and coffee in the morning and slow moving people arise to the new day blessing the spring morning sun we run to the river and I jumping in on March 26, and swim two full strokes beneath, arising to turn solid pink on the frozen edge of the Slocan River down in Appledale not far from that condemned cabin that by nightfall will be cleared of all other than Fraser, that Shtinner dog and I, as people have all hitched rides back to that grand little city of Nelson with bellies full and minds at ease. I stoke the fire as Fraser asleep on his bed and I nestle into my corner huddled next to nothing, to dream of my east Indian Goddess.

Sweet Rags

He's become comfortable
in that
black pullover top
What would complement that mess of hair
would be some real tattered
sweet rags
and a sage cigarette
a bottle in his hand
and a book in his pocket
A hobo at heart
a drunk by night
and a rambling pain
Tired and old
before his time
Studying the greats
Bukowski, Tom Waits,
William s. Burroughs and Hunter S.Thompson
Kerouac and John Steinbeck
Drinking scotch
and Cockspur rum.