how do i manage to write

I wear to many layers and when I write, I slowly pull them off as my sweat stings my flushed cheeks and as my inner bunny says “fo don’t write that, people will know you desire carrots and long pieces of chalk,” but I ignore the little bunny. Most people think the little bunny will help them get ahead, ( and they are right) but the little bunny won’t help you make art. You have to do that inside a cardboard box, alone. You can’t let anyone in until your done gnashing your teeth and screaming, “fuck.” Then the art becomes alive just like the bunny. And the bunny grows to accept it. And you, the hand, learn to do it. Pretty soon that’s all you can do, and your locked in your cardboard box gnashing and breaking bones until you no longer desire to get out, until you decide to just fall asleep. That’s when the words and pictures begin. That’s where your friends and family visit you, that is when it hurts the most to be friends with a bunny. And yes to make art, you have to hurt, on purpose, all the time, you have to carry the galaxies inside, and wear enough layers that no one notices your insides are exploding. You have to say “Bunny, it hurts to love you and make art, but I’ll do it. I will. Want to spilt a carrot?” Of course reading the classics is a good start, but you need to tame the bunny before the bunny will guide you in and out of the cardboard box, or like most people say, the bunny hole. I find that term to be offensive though, and so does the bunny, so never say it to the bunny or else, you will never be his friend and he will never lead you to the cardboard box. And you need the bunny to find a box. And a box to do your art in

Hungry Christmas

 

 

 

Somebody gotta wring their pans

against large rimmed plastic glasses.

Make pay for heat in poverty stands.

Get the bunnies out of the jars of molasses.

Ride through the winter snow

and stop at lonely city trees to

ponder new worlds, ever aglow.

 

I am in the cardboard box

under the little bridge. My nipples

have long frosted off and are probably in

someone’s fridge. Everything I whisper

is a raspy fart on other’s tongue.

 

The fairies bring me wintergreen

but I cannot eat. It all comes up as bible pages

and anti beef propaganda cheat sheets.

Where is my dead Shakespeare and the wild

strawberry patch. What happened to the thing

that used to pass the sandwiches on down

and ding the bells of Saint Mary’s on 2^nd street.

 

If you see me and you think boy, there goes

a fallen treat, you are right.

I lost everything to fried meats on a name

something night. I miss the yellow potato soup

from the hospital. She tasted like home

but was warm with sweet onions and toasted breadcrumbs

 

The monkeys fling by, the gypsies shout their way,

the troubadour sings of lost battles, and I

follow a holy rats tail of cheese and hunger

 

I may be the lowly cane of poverty

but at least, thank the red and green gods,

for this coal coat and golden rifle. 

If I can’t get a crow, I’ll get a wallet.  

Smell Of Sulfur

Smell Of Sulfur

 

I have traced the arch of your back

the slender curve of your chin.

I have held your hand.  Touched

your strawberry hair and wiped the

snot bubble from your sleeping face.

 

In the morning nothing was said of

of my strong hands or wet eye lashes.   

I wrote you a thousand love poems

but you were too busy to hear even one.

I molded my lines in your shadow and in

hard work, for you, for a freak chance

of heart on heart contact. I am sick

of living in my head -red devil. 

Jump out of my mind and stand where

I can smell you.

 

Merry Something

 

Merry Christmas. 

I hope all is well with you and your family. 

I’ve been avoiding blows to the stomach and have been standing

for periods of ten minutes or more without problems, so things

seem to be on the up and up. 

Next week husband has an interview in Madison. 

I have been helping a friend with his contracting

business(tiling, drywall, painting, too many safety meetings).

 

Daughter has her Christmas concert tonight. 

I put a little tree up and there are three presents.

 

Its an odd time now.  We don’t if we are moving or robbing a bank 

(ha.. not so funny after its done… help I’ve been shot). 

 

This year has tossed a few white elephants up on top of us.

My brother Matt has psoriatic arthritis, which is genetic, and painful. 

My brother Peter is recently married and is preparing for his next tour of duty in Afghanistan.

 grandmother is on her deathbed. 

 mother is going to Russia to feed orphans for the Holiday. 

 

So I don’t know where I will be or what I will do for the Holiday,

but know without a doubt I will be thinking of you, and hoping

that you are surrounded by love and joy.  

 

The months roll on dear friend, and I grow strange and lonely. 

O, life is hard.   It is all nuts and sawdust. 

I hope to see you, and put my fatty arms around your choppy

body.  Wishing you pie, meat products, and old wine.  

If Only I Was Born In Cuba

I mourn my own hands. These hands

that made love, made art, wiped the snot of  my son and daughter. 

That have roofed a house,  and driven down highway 41.

I have psoriatic arthritis.   With theses arms and legs

I have no insurance.

 

 

I carry a white elephant of symptoms

but I am more concerned  for the collection of polar

bears my family greets.

I am  a father, and a better one than they

will ever be. As the provider, I’m a welder at a factory.

The news is bleak and old suffering

turns her rattling eye on me.

It is a time to pray, but I have no faith.

So I desperately pray to a god I think

long has stopped living. 

 

 

There are pills that are too expensive

for me to buy, that only slow down

the process if luck stops by.

If  psoriatic arthritis cripples

me, there will be no one to wipe  family’s tears.

No one to draw them near or pay the bills.

 

God may I be strong, may I stand, despite

the pain and fear, may I be hard, and carry

this. O this is the meaning of catch twenty-two.

I wish this prayer came from my imagination

instead of  the ache of my body and frustration.  

My hands are already starting to cramp

up and I feel the warm tingling

in my joints. I will hide the pain until I can no longer

 The pain is already almost unbearable. 

 

 

I live in U.S.A and here, there is no hope for

poor and sick,  for middle class and sick. 

O if only I was born in Cuba, or Canada or France

or the UK, or anywhere where medicine was given

based on need, and not dollars.   Not dollars  

-Don’t tell me this is the result of  inner poverty.