we all share the moon but are still drawn to our rooms (a poem)

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we all share the moon but are still drawn to our rooms


i like reading historical markers.
i find standing near "you are here" maps

to be oddly reassuring & metaphysically satisfying.
quite often i find myself in a state of spiritual &

emotional bankruptcy. i mine this discomfort
for poetry & laughs. I have vowed to always

keep it simple & direct. if i ever make an oblique
reference to a mythological character in a poem -

please kill me. i firmly believe that whoever
remains childlike the longest, wins. In 36 years

i have slept with 11 different people with varying
degrees of luck & pleasure. sometimes i need

time to grow into things. as i get older i find that
sex has become more gentle & joyful. however

i still strongly endorse the redemptive nature of
good old-fashioned furniture-bustin' monkey love.

i find that engaging in small acts of subversion
is one of the few remaining glories in life.

the love i feel for my fellow man is most intense
when i am alone. i wish that was not the case

but apparently those are the cards that i have been
dealt. i understand that we all share the moon

but i am still driven to my room. i am occasionally
moved to tears by old photos - by the singular faces

of all of the people whose stories have gone untold.
i think that everyone should tell their story.

(from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1998)

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happy hour at the doomed romance bar (a poem)

happy hour at the doomed romance bar


she jacks off a coors bottle
& the label peels like sunburn.

you lean toward the heat
when whatever's been hanging
like a tire swing
from your right nostril
releases,
then crashes,
onto your wall street journal.

like the great wall of china
it just sits there.


(from the chapbook STUNNED BY THE MOMENT, 1990 - also published in Slipstream (i think))

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Floor Show At The Gemini Lounge (a poem)

Floor Show At The Gemini Lounge


I suck slowly
on a pisspoorwarm
four dollar beer
while the guy next to me
looks lost,
studying my crotch
like a map.

"New York, New York"
blares from the box
& when ol' Frank hollers
"start spreadin' the news"
this partial blonde head-
line act strolls to the stage
& delivers the evening edition.

I can tell right off the bat
that the news ain't good.


(from the chapbook STUNNED BY THE MOMENT, 1990 - also published in Slipstream (i think))

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"A Man Walks Into A Bar . . . " (two jokes)

As a number of you (seven) already know, I have a theory that there is no such thing as a bad "a man walks into a bar . . . " joke. As the kids say nowadays "it's all good."

So, in an attempt to challenge my own theory, I made up these two jokes whilst shoveling snow and ice this morning (they're new to me anyway - if you've heard them before let me know):


A horse's ass backs into a bar,
talks non-stop for three hours.
The bartender says:
"why the long tail?"


Amanda walks into Abar.
Abar kicks her ass.

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Me And My Organ (a poem)

Me And My O
......................r
. . ...................g
. .....................a
. .....................n


me.

alone.

with my organ.

and a blank stare.

the blank stare of love.

a love not found.

and therefore.

unfound.

love.



the.

n.



p.

s.

:)

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Ruthless

I apologize if some of my recent blog entries have been ruthless.

Ruth is currently on family medical leave.

We hope to have her back in the office by mid-February.

Thank you.


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... . . . .Ruth


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MISSING: Man, Kind

. . . . . (PHOTO #1 - Smith as idealistic youth . . . "have you seen me?")


. . . . (PHOTO #2 - possible Smith sighting circa 1984 w/singing accomplice known only as "Andy")


. . . . (PHOTO #3 - possible Smith sighting last summer w/accomplice known only as "wiley rice-man")



. . . (PHOTO #4 - actual *very recent* Smith sighting in deepest East Dayton)



THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

**AMBER ALERT**


I would like to take this opportunity, and use this forum, to report that I (from here on referred to as "Kevin Smith" or simply "Smith") am missing.

Smith has been sort of missing since his early twenties (photo #1), but he's *really* been missing for the past couple of months. He has used three different disguises over the years: 1) gray; 2) grayer; and 3) grayest.

As you can see from the 4th photo, Smith appears to have evolved into a somewhat scary and humorless old coot who doesn't take much of a liking towards anything anymore. Smith has also become somewhat challenged in the area of cranial accoutrements. This is believed to be intentional as he feels it is a simple way to avoid eye contact since nobody would look at an idiot wearing stacked hats. Smith pretty much hates this bastard that he has become and wants to have him evicted from his inner premises. But the cocksucker won't budge.

In a word: it's not-

In three words: it's not pretty.

As you can see from the bottom of photo #1 the name "Kevin" is taken from the Celtic language and it actually means "kind," so this new-fangled "bitter old fuck" version of Smith is having some problems living up to that first name, even though he was fairly recently described as having "the kindest smile I have ever seen" by someone, who for the sake of this report, we will simply refer to as "the loverly Sarah."

And an old friend, quoted in the past, tensely, once mentioned: "the one word I used to describe Smith at the time was 'kind'."

And Smith's recently deceased sister stated *in writing* that he had "a kind heart." But of course instead of reaching out and touching someone (oh . . . let's see . . . ummm . . . maybe someone with "a kind heart" perhaps), she immediately opted to take her mind off things by spray painting the interior wall of her closet a very troubling and nightmare-inducing brain gray color that clashes terribly with life and the living.

So it appears that the judgment of Smith's sister may have been a little bit impaired on a couple of different levels.

But anyway, about this word "kind" that Smith was born with by translation, has been used on several occasions to describe him, and that Smith is having trouble living up to today. To paraphrase the great Spanish philosopher, Inigo Montoya, from his masterpiece The Princess Bride:

“'Kind' . . . You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."


But back to the Public Service Announcement . . .

Smith is lost, but wishes to be found. Which is a fairly odd sensation for someone who doesn't go out much. He would also like to be found in one of his previous states of being (see photos #1 - #3 above), but beggars can't be choosers.

Despite Smith's desire to be found, officials still would like to warn citizens:

If you see Smith, you should reproach him with considerate caution, as he is bedeviled to be harmed and cantankerous.

As Smith reportedly told his last victim, an old friend:

"I have rancor, and I know how to use it."


Thank you.

THIS CONCLUDES OUR PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

**AMBER ALERT**

"hide all yr secrets

.inside of yr jokes
.but yell the truth when it festers"
.(a. smith/k. smith)

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"hey friend - you got a light?" (a re-worked poem)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "lighthouse at night (light on)"


. . . . .. . . . . . . . . "lighthouse at night (light off)"



"hey friend, you got a light?"


the love i feel from you now is that of a sister
or a neighbor. i gaze at your hands expecting to see
a revolver or cookies.

you have the look of a soldier returning from
a 6 year tour of duty. a lighthouse keeper
about to see sun.

and with a condescending nod
toward my unconditional love
(of mixed metaphors & bad puns)
you have the look of a seamstress
who has jumped ship in midseam.

i walk away with a bitter taste
that i selfishly season to suit my palate:

a dash of spite,
a pinch of anger,
and for good measure -
a smidgen of rhetorical flair.

nothing is expected now.
you have flipped everything off.

you have hit the last light.

from your side
a dead bolt slides
and from mine
this final line.


(from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1997 - originally titled "the gate is sealed," re-worked in 2009 as "hey friend - you got a light?")
. . .

Animals (a poem)

Animals


I guess she was pretty
except for the crooked tooth
& that damn smell. Why she
wanted to wear leather pants
& a rabbit fur coat in seventy
degree weather is beyond me.
The fuckin' thing shed all
over my seat covers.
Maybe that's what caused
the stench or maybe she
was just sweatin' bad -
hell I would of.
I don't know but whenever
I got up close something
smelled really horrid.
Later, after the movie,
I cornered her on the porch
& tried my damndest to sculpt
through her makeup,
like a beaver I chipped away
trying to reach her neck,
the whole time sniffing
the dead rabbits, till finally
pinning her against the door
& finding her not in season,
I growled a goodbye over her giggles
& headed for the car.


(Second place winner in the 1982 Sinclair Community College Writing Contest and my first published poem.  Later published in a small press magazine that I can't remember.  Also included in my chapbook Stunned By The Moment (1990). FYI: the crooked toothed girl was studying to be a fashion model, the movie was "An Officer And A Gentleman," and the I, as per usual, was me)

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Today's Subject Is . . . Friendship!

(l to r: The J-Dawg; Version (2.0) Mary; Rev Kev, 54-year-old fat baby; JoePop)


Today's subject is . . . friendship!

My good buddy from "back in the day," Saint Jerome (aka The J-Dawg, pictured to the left above) would like to weigh in with this little nugget of wisdom:


"The friendship that can cease has never been real"
. (S. Jerome, 374 AD - 419 AD)


Food for thought, Jerry . . . food for thought indeed.


Won't you all please return tomorrow when the Rev Kev's subject will be:

"When the going gets tough . . . get the hell outta Dodge!"



. (for more on Saint Jerome . . . visit your public library!)

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Five-Years-Old (a poem)

Five-Years-Old


Carrying you to your room,
the dead weight of sleep
in my arms & in your eyes,
you are an infant again.

Blonde, top-heavy
head bobbing to &
fro, your hay fever nose rubs
then rests

with one deep
full day's play breath
on my shoulder. Above
the bed I hold you

knowing that for this instant
you are safe. For this brief moment
you cannot brush aside my kisses
for the attention of a friend

or race fearlessly down the street
peddling feet all in a flurry
laughing & screaming
"Dad! . . . no hands!"

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published in Flights)

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A Grandfather's Prayer (a poem)

A Grandfather's Prayer


I have seen the snow
fall for eighty winters.
I have rolled my eyes back
to see the details of a dream.

I have seen children grow
in the belly of my love.
Felt the dust of fields
settle in my lungs unwanted.

I have walked empty shores
and felt the draw of the moon
in my heart and in my heels.
Felt the fire of whiskey

burning holes through the pain,
the lash of rumor shot from the mouths
of fools, and with whitened knuckles I have
drained anger and drawn blood.

I have seen brothers and sisters
seeking the balm of sleep. Sons
forever looking for fathers. And now
I see this feverish bed as a beach.

And as I watch my body slowly turn
against me, this conspiracy of cells
tunneling into my bone, I do not cry out.
For I feel the undertow of the night

pulling me close. I feel the hand of another
like ointment on my soul
and I see the light of the morning
in the tips of the stars.

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published somewhere else but I can't remember where)

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i see jackals (a poem)

i see jackals

at the gates of graceland
a million fingers in a million pies

i see shackles on the hands of children
sons feeding mothers through a factory fence

tonight the moon is a flashlight beam
a wafer
the eucharist
a host

i hope for a handle behind it
maybe even a hand

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1995)

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Brothers (a poem)

Brothers
(for Dad and Uncle Tub)


Even then you were in his corner.
Under a county fair tent,
Tub going toe to toe
nearly the full four

till finally being rung up
by a ringer who through a right
when Tub looked left. You watched
him freeze, sway, then crumble

like a tower, ankles & shins tucked
awkwardly underneath, eyes set,
oblivious to the cool towel &
your brotherly cries for acknowledgment.

Now fifty years later
at his bedside, the bout
is replayed for you. Heaving
& gasping, eyes set again,

you see the wind slowly taken from him.
This time not by a roundhouse right
but the deliberate punches
of a malignant liver & lung.

And this morning
as they lower Tub
your face is dry & distant
but the smile you flash to me

is betrayed by the arc of your shoulders,
collapsed & sagging
under the weight
of a closely observed fight.

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published in The Heartlands Today)

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"Noogie" Time Is Coming!

. . . . . . . . . . . (pictured left to right: noogee, nooger)



The Collateral Damage Caused By The "Friendly Fire" Of A Violent Suicide Can Be Quite Immense or - Why You Should Never Kill Yourself Unless You Want To Receive Some Serious Noogies Once Your Siblings Catch Up With Your Lame Ass In The Great Hereafter (Part One)


Seven weeks ago, my sister and very good friend Peggy, stepped into a closet, put a Smith & Wesson snub nose .38 caliber gun to her temple, and took her own life.

Since then I have been trying to take mine back.

They say that when a mother loses her son in battle, two people perish. I do not know if the violent suicide of a sibling approaches that level, but the collateral damage from the "friendly fire" is still considerable.
During the day I jump at the slightest noise, while at night it's more quiet than it has ever been.

I am a 54-year-old man who stands 6 feet 6 inches tall and weighs 260 pounds.  As of this past monday I am sleeping with every light in the house turned on.  I do this because I am afraid.

I am not certain whether I should feel humbled or humiliated.

What's next?

Size XXL superhero underpants and pajamas to ward off the night-time evils?

Fear is the last thing that I expected to be experiencing at this point.
It's not just the fear that comes in the middle of the night, but also the general, depersonalized fear of the day.  The fear that any pint-sized punk-ass East Side kid could walk up to me on the street and cause me to curl up into the fetal position just by looking at me wrong.

There appears to be very little structure left.

The house of cards has not only collapsed, but the deck has been shuffled.  I don't even recognize the dealer, or know the game being played.  And yet everything about me, and everything that I am feeling, is on the table.  And with each passing day I feel obligated, or expected, to participate in some way, by placing some kind of wager or investment in the goodness of life.
Since Sunday, November 16th, I have had close to a dozen nightmares about handguns.  Before that date I cannot remember ever having a nightmare, or even a single dream about a gun.
I dream in layers now and I don't know why.

Last night I cried myself awake after cowering to my knees and begging for mercy when a cop walked up to me and pointed a gun at my head.  Except instead of truly being awake I went into the next dream "layer." The cop and the gun were gone, while I was just walking around crying. Then I finally really did wake up - sobbing like a little kid.

The only way that I know for certain that I am awake anymore is when I hear my cat outside the bedroom door meowing away, wondering what all of the damn racket is about.

Let me tell you something - this grief crap is some seriously weird-ass shit.

Here's the part that I don't get: it's bad enough that I lost my sister.  Why do You have to go and rub my face in it with all of this other stuff?

Huh?

Yeah - I'm talkin' to You.

No comment, eh?

I figured as much.

"Supreme Being" my ass.

How about "Supreme Bully?"
Here's an idea for You, Big Guy: why don't You go and psychologically bitch-slap someone your own size?

[Asshole.]
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No Big Deal . . . Another Day, Another Accolade

. . . . . . . . . . . [click to enlarge . . . the photo that is]


no big deal . . . just another cover and more accolades for ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS and their album "Goodbye Ohio"

(this is *not* a big deal)

also - "Goodbye Ohio" was picked by the dayton daily news as the [ahem] "second best" local debut album for 2008.

once again . . . no big deal.

just another day at the office for ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS.




GOODBYE OHIO . . . now available on EBAY and @ GEM CITY RECORDS

hear it . . . hum it . . . sing it . . . believe it.


http://www.myspace.com/andrewtheprettypunchers

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