Humphrey Bogart
Hell Is Square

~Summer 2005~
My Wings are Tinted, Shiny
The Breeze Comes By
How It Felt To Deliver the News

Humphrey Bogart

I am too old in here.
Do you see the posters

On the walls in my head?
Do you see Humphrey Bogart,

Tapping his fingers on the bar?
Do you hear Django Reinhardt,

Slamming the vase
On the restaurant table?

Maybe I’ll paint you sometime,
You’d look good in a hat.

There was a time when I could
Get away with a hat,

But not now. No long coats,
No hats.

Just ball caps and pullovers.
Someday that will be quaint,

But that’s not all I’m after.
There’s an art to scotch and soda,

That I am just learning.














Hell Is Square

And it’s surrounded
By an 18 inch white line
That the damned
Have to scrub--baseball caps turned around--
Until it is as white
As baby’s teeth.

There are no winning teams in hell.
Only folks
In scuba gear--
With faces that point out
At odd angles.

print available at art.com

collage by jkvanburen

Summer 2005

My Wings are Tinted, Shiny


We were born, unsalted, un-ground,
Un-browned beef,
Brought in from the tower on lion’s
Feet.

We fought the devil with our sharp
Toothpick swords and
He set our hearts on fire.

Burnish the very silk of our silence,
Drape the holy tears across
Our dismantled breasts like lettuce
On the grave of a rabbit.

There are no gods here,
Only hobos and whores,
Chitterlings and nothing.

From the silence we can provoke
Plagiarisms so grand, hands shaking,
Black and biased against the
White walls, hatted with clouds,
Rivulets of bird shit racing towards
Their bases, seeking absolution.

I can’t seem to provoke the frog king,
Can’t seem to provoke the frog king,
Can’t seem to find him in his pond, un-serene,
Fucking she frogs and smiling like a
Kid-fed Buddha, slapping his hindquarters,
Deep fried and snapping.

You are full of shame, shining, barreling,
--Bronze-soled and waiting--Our prayers
Can be like oxygen, we can be remiss,
We can digress in this grandest digression
Of all,

We can input and move on,
Because three years past is three years
Past.
Start playing the trumpet today,
Because have I got a solo for you,

To blow your mind,
Open, On a wide blue canvas,
Your thoughts like stars.





The Breeze Comes By

The
breeze
comes
by,
Muttering
beneath
Its
Breath.

But I have become skilled
In ignoring it,
Chomping at its gum,
Wiping it’s feet,
Its dirty, dirty feet
On my walls,
Tussling my hair.

The
breeze
comes
by,
Muttering
beneath
Its
Breath.

But I don’t hear what it’s
Saying beneath it’s breath.
Why bother I ask,
Are you happy to know
Just to know, that I know,
That I know that you
Are here?

The
Breeze goes
Out
The window,
Back,
Back into the hall

And it’s cool kisses
Are missed,
They’re missed
On the back of my
Neck.