Ten Commandments

Five thousand miles.
The voo-doo angels
dissipate into thin air
Bob Marley, Neil Young and Dylan
start the day.

Went to Savannah
for the crabmelt
beneath her belt.

Spanish moss
falls in the afternoon
onto cobbled back streets.

South Carolina to witness
the Atlantic's slow motion.

Return to Florida
where Jerry
works on me
about my
lack of creativity.

I confess
by breaking
the ten commandments
unable of
reciting Hail Mary's.

Saw a Baptist church
on Devilwood Street
Hallelujah.

Time to Exit New Orleans

It was time to leave
a haze followed us
across the bridge.
Somewhere I'll return
as all is inscribed
tattooed in mind
I can never compare
past nor future.

New Orleans

The Empress Hotel

I'm at least a week late posting this due to technical difficulty.

Crossed the lazy lady
where she runs wide and brown
Checked into the
Empress Hotel
into a room so small
they can't all read at the same time
so he sits in the corner
drinking his way into
New Orleans

Angels setting up shop
on the street
with broken wings
and old bicycles.

With worn boots
and holes in his socks
only a sip of beer
in his glass
his feet ache with age
and 200 plus pounds

His knees ache
and it's about to rain on his parade.

The French Quarter
never sleeps
the party never dies
Larry Flint's girls
on swings in the windows
of temptation and lust.

She calls to him
through rotten teeth
as she reaches for the dance pole
she gives up
to pool on the stage.

He awakes red eyed and red faced
on the floor
of their 12x12 hotel room
Hungover
in shit to his knees.
his only recollections
Bourbon street, The Hustler Club
and a girl on their balcony with
a hula hoop

Born empty
and stolen identity
and stumbling hard
he eats alligator and nearly pukes
His teeth float
all the way to Ursuline street
back to the Empress
where the girl in the foot tall heels
walks away
where he sleeps
on a deflated mattress
on the floor

Red eyed beneath a voodoo doll.

Chops

Kisatchie Bayou

68 degrees at 2:29pm
down the Cane River
past the Yucca Plantation
where
Saxon, Steinbeck and Faulkner wrote
Where
Clementine Hunter painted
her collection of daily occurances
on a plantation
through the eyes of a black woman of slavery
To where the Kisatchie Bayou
ripples across logs and stone,
where small rapids arise
as a rarety in Louisiana.
The south, Cajun country lies
but 50 miles south.

9:56 in the bayou.
2nd night
The hard booze is gone
14 beers left
4 for Redz
and the rest I'll drink by sundown

3rd day in the bayou
Rain falls on Lucinda's rooftop
We stay in our barracks till 12:40pm
as the rain eases
we venture out as the last camper leaves.

I can still catch a flame
as the last piece of wood
was that of a large stretch of green oak
that I managed to split throughout the day with my little hatchet.
I foraged the bayou for more firewood
as our supply has nearly diminished.
Rain falls soft over
the sounds of cannon fire and
automatic rapid fire machine gun.
We initially believed the cannon fire
was thunder
until the late afternoon
or as we found out differently

Was getting prepared to make dinner
with 8 beers left in the cold water
when a red short box step-side P.U.
enters the camp.
He pulls in and abandons his P.U.
to enter the bayou.
We tend to the fire
and put dinner off
while we sit back
and enjoy
the success
of an actual flame.

When the stranger returns
to his P.U.
we secretly watch him
as he is clearly not camping.

He returns to his truck
turns and leaves
the parking lot
and pulls into the dirt road
then hesitates
and turns his Chevy off.

I've been chopping wood
so I have
my trusted hatchet at hand.
The young man
in his mid-twenties
dark haired
comes running
back to our van.

At this point
the hairs go up
on the back of my neck
and I aggress toward him
axe at bay.

Says his name is Matt
he's got a flat
wants to know
if we have a tire pump.
Sure I reply
and retrieve the pump from the van.

His truck
is parked
just beyond
some bushes.

I feel
I have to witness
this flat tire
first hand
to reassure
my curiosity and fear.

Sure enough
dead flat
and I am happy
to notice there is no passenger.

Says he has no spare
so we plug in the air pump
the slow procedure begins
filling his tire.
We locate the hole
which is really a rip
and contemplate how to repair it.

Do you have any duck tape?
Sure
so I return to the van
where Athena has Japhy
and herself
along with the axe
locked in the van.

I reassure her
that it is a legit flat tire
I inform her
that I have my knife on my belt
and that she shouldn't worry.

I find a nylon patch,
a small piece of rubber inner tube
and the roll of duck tape
in which
I return to Matt's truck with.

We managed to fabricate
a considerably secured patch
and he offers to purchase
my small air pump
I sell it to him for 20 dollars
although he wants to
offer 30 for it.
I won't take it though
so he
smiles at me
with a bunch of rotten teeth
and says
bet you'd like to have a good time
once in a while
Say what?
I ask him
and he replies
like them left-hand cigarettes?
And I take him up on his offer.

Then he
goes into stories
about what one should look out for
here in the bayou.
Says the army's blowin' up everything
tanks just through the trees
training for Afghanistan
says that's the loud explosions you've been hearin'.
Says there's lot of them hogs out there
some's them
mix with them Russian boars
ken tell by the colour of thems hair,
and gators get bad here for swimming.
We have to chase them off our docks
'fore going fishing
yep them and a lot of boars.
My friend he shot 17
in 2 days flat.
So what if I see one
will he come at be
or run away?
Don't rightly know
best be fixin'
find a good tree.
To climb?, I ask
Probably jest run 'round it.
And he starts scurrying in a circle
with his hands out
like he's holding the trunk of a tree
red dirt scuffs off his running shoes
as his excitement
and animation employs me.

What would make the hog go away
I ask
Well I don't go nowheres
'thout my gun.

The tire fills with air
and off he goes
with a half-filled tire
and my heart in my hand.

Texas

Dead coyotes and skunks litter the edge of East bound Interstate 20.
Lucinda's 351 Cleveland, howls as she blows around like a set sail
she holds tight rubber on asphalt.
The winds blowing frigid
have plowed semi tractor-trailers into the soggy snow wet ditches,
where sheriffs and their deputies dodge oncoming traffic
like cockroaches running from a collapsing mine shaft.

Hooked up with my nephew and his family for dinner at a Tex-Mex diner.
We all pile into his Texas sized Ford as we laugh through the night.

Billy The Kid

Stayed in a town named
Truth Or Consequences
Stood on a hill made of lava in
New Mexico
Walked through the red mud of
Lincoln County
where
Billy The kid
lived and died
Looked into the sky of
Roswell
And watched pantie lines
alive and well
as I dined.

Good Ol' Boys

Crossing the Line

At twelve years of age, she was constantly running for the Mexican border to do the things bad girls would do. For the next four years she found herself dancing and offering herself to the night of Mexican lust.

It was the day she was being released. They had tried her as an adult. He wore fat pants that hung low as did all the boys his age, he thought himself a gangsta. Just shit in a trailer park with a strong tempered dog.

He had the day planned, she'd be getting out at around 2:00pm, plenty of time to walk the mutt, beat off and shower. The masturbation was so he'd last longer with her.

She came out at 2:15 looking frail and a tad thinner than the day she had been incarcerated. Her blond hair resembled dry straw and her demeanor was slight and shy.

He had left the music playing loud to impress her upon their return. He was full of himself, pumped on speed and images in the mirror. His ripped stomach cast shadow on the sanded driveway. The dog had been left in the trailer drooling on the lino floor stinking the place up.

She was proud and impressed at the same time. She had never had a strong man in her life and this punk represented manhood.

He had bought hair dye and convinced her that she would be stronger as a brunette. She believed in her boyfriend who indirectly placed her in confinement.

Tuscon

I've seen you around
Yah I get around, he says
Not like you've slept with everyone around, she says
Yah, I've slept around
but I'm not like a male whore or anything.
I had a friend who was one, she says
stumbling off the cracked sidewalk.
And with that
he led them into the night
passing shadows
as he
draped his languid arm
across the blade of her shoulder.
That was the first and last
the homeless boy saw of them.
He was occupied
holding onto the tether of the
two dogs
as they scratched and pulled at
the length of their rope.
The other one had gone for water
and had left him
in charge of the dogs.
A young woman
in a short sunset yellow orange dress
unbuckled herself
from the restraints of her seatbelt.
The drivers door ajar
the homeless boy
peered into the Jeep
to witness the
rise of her skirt.

On The Go

Feb 8th
Lets start with 1.75L or rum for $17
That's the shit

A direct hit before Cranbrook
rock meets windscreen.
Deer Lodge @5:45
Amber Bock, taste great.
Really fucking cold here
Free soft porn on the TV

Feb 9th
Lucinda rolls out off
cold Montana leaving behind
the confines of the
Old State Prison
dating back to the 19th century

Roll through the low cloud and snow glazed hillsides
of Idaho

West along the 84 to Twin Falls
where Evil K. attempted to jump the
Snake River.
She tells me of a place
where town folk party
called
The Devil's Corral

Feb 10th
Lucinda's a thirsty girl
@ 12 miles/gallon
she's sucking back the gas
on the high passes in Nevada
Two passes exceeded 7000ft
Seven hours to Las Vegas

No UFO's @ area 51.

Feb 11th
Up early
Rolled through Vegas
@ noon

Bernice led the way beautifully.
Hoover dam for a dump
and on to the
crack capital of Arizona
"Kingman"
every other guy is a dealer.

The long arm of the law
found me on the route to "Oil Can Henry's"
An illegal lane change
while the streets were asleep.

Lucinda is purring
with a motor full of fresh oil
and a full underside inspection.

Unoccupied roads of Nevada
a sheer joy.

Two jugs a whiskey
It'll be cold
out there
That's when we need it
Piss just behind
the rear wheel
no one will notice
So I piss and smile
and act like I'm retrieving a bag of ice
at the front tire

All I want to do
is drink in my van
and piss outside
into the
thirsty desert sand

The train passes
as the dealers
lick their
drug soaked lips

Tempo's and Topaz's
taking them to the next fix
headbands and untrusted smiles
shaking like
vibrators
and fucking themselves to sleep
no conscience
and crumpled $ bills
Kneeless jeans
and toothless smiles
untrusting jesturing
now I understand
why America packs heat

Feb 12th
And tonight was a length of today
Route 66
ands my boy makes five bucks on the piano
He's such a part of it all
and sensitive to our needs
He's Superman without flying
He's Johnny Cash without age
He's Amazing Grace without religion
and he's all the shit

Feb 14th

It's crazy in the park
Old drunk ladies and neon

Simple fraud
I've become David Ross
from Kingman
to gain a Safeway discount card

Inside our van we are kings
and queens

Pure and simple
we are headed for the
Deep South

Lord it's good to
drink on Sundays

Deep South

The light
a din haze
of orange
over a Crown Royal blurr.
It hadn't all been
this good.
The Southern music
lay awaiting the trip.
He hadn't wrote in weeks
nearly a month
since paper met pen.
Hoping to bring word to life
in Jacksonville.
A long drive through
the Deep South.
It was what he needed,
it would be medicinal


At the top of the cliff
the sign read
"Suicide Louie"
It wasn't the handle he had chosen,
yet it had stuck to him
like
a preacher at
a
Boy Scout meet.


Candles burned
in memory,
as he drank Tequila
in Hell.
In Hell
there was no heartburn,
no heartache'
no one to remind you of
anything


For he had become
"Suicide Louie:"
and that would
explain it all.


He left a black
skid mark
on
the
hardtop
of life.


Something to be remembered by.

$$$'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.