The Father, The Son

my son will never amount
to anything

forty and bald
he spends most nights
locked in his room, emerging
like gregor samsa
(only at feeding time)

and i know what you're
thinking: what does a
dirty old man know
about kafka?

well i'll tell you:
he was miserable
too

peter's mother gave him
to me that summer before
the year of continuity

when everything changed


she was a pretty
thing, smart as a whip,
distributing pamphlets
like some girls collect
diamonds

when i left her, swollen
belly and all, she called
me a coward

said that those papers
were like firewood and
should've been burnt


he was crawling
the first time
i saw him

it made me sick,
watching him,
having him see
me

crawling too

and there,
with blood on
my hands he
sat on my lap,
fussy as all
get out


she never forgave me
for leaving

some nights
i'd wake the whole house
with my screaming

i could feel her lying
tense next to me, still as a
body

i'd scream louder, she
told me, until she
touched my hands and

"shhhh," she'd say, "shhhh"

and in the morning
jonah would
come in, jumping,

as though there was never
a battle

to begin


you can take a life
but you cannot
unlive it

union fees, mowed lawns
groceries and whistles and
dusty books you'll never
read

maps you've marked with
all the places you'd like to go

you will grow old,
i promise you
and you will hate
yourself for it

i became old in the dead
of sleep, waking to find
my son creeping over my legs,
no more promises,
stealing my pabst blue
from the buzzing fridge

"stupid old drunk," i hear
him say

swallowing the ribbon

but i am not drunk, peter,
not now

i am watching you

i am watching what
you have become

I am Peter

well thirdworst - you know me... life through contradictions and all that. I think it's mostly because of the Gemini thing. I mean, I don't believe in it, but it means a lot to me. so anyway... I wrote this in response - thanks.

I am Peter


I am Peter. Well, that’s not my name, but
I am Peter. I had a bag of Chee-tos and scrambled
Eggs for breakfast. Last night I drank two of my
Old man’s beers. Now I will tell you why I
Hate the world.

Everyone always said that I should do something.
Everyone always said that I should do something.
I got both kinds of grades in school. I liked a
Couple of girls who didn’t like me. I got in
Fights because I talked slow and most
Everyone hated me. Then
School was over and I didn’t want any more
School. My mom coughed a lot then
She died. Everyone was so damn sad and
My uncles yelled at my grandma. My aunt
And cousins from New York New York sent me
A card that I couldn’t read because they write
So sloppy. You would think for once they could
Print or something. Everybody in my
Family writes ugly. That’s why I don’t write.

My old man works a lot but he tries to take me to my job some
Mornings because I hate the bus and I complain about
It a lot.

My old man works for the union and makes houses. The
Union sucks. They take all his money just for nothing
And he gets nothing out of it. He could make a hundred
Dollars more a week but they won’t hire without the stupid
Union. I hate the union. I’ll never work for the
Union. My old man sleeps in his chair every night.

When I look everything has a glare. It’s all dull and fuzzy.
It gives me headaches but if I breathe through my
Mouth it doesn’t hurt as bad. I hate work. But I have to
Go because I get paid money so I can buy something
Somebody told me about. I think I have insurance, so
I don’t have to pay to see the Dr. or if I fall or something.
I hate all the customers. I made the store give me a new
Name tag because I didn’t want anybody to know my name
Because I hate them. I wish they could buy everything
On the computer so they wouldn’t bother me. Then I could just
Get a job on the computer. My uncle that lives with us
has a job on the computer. We used to have a dog.

There. That’s why I hate everything. I want
Everybody to shut-up. And if I said the rest of
It, then you’d just tell someone else. And they
Wouldn’t give a damn but they’d tell someone
Else then everyone would know. And everybody
Would want to look in my window and talk to me.
Well I just want the shade down and everything fuzzy
And to drink my old man’s beer after he’s asleep and
The warm world quiet outside the door outside the door.

-ds

It's an oldie... I don't write much anymore, sorry...

Any input is welcome... I'm trying to get back into being creative and my brain has become quite rusty indeed.
----
Stranger

He smelled of cigarettes
And laundry detergent
And of memories…

Watching the sun set
From the loading dock,
Painting pictures with words.

Late nights spend holding Coffee,
Watching a blue screen
Through a drugged haze.

Early morning risings
Chilled with dew,
Walking through puddles.

He smelled of meetings,
Friendships, and blurry-eyed
Good-byes of another time.

And he was just some stranger
Who happened to smell
Like memories…

The Ride Home

Swollen brains, adrenaline buzz.

Desolate city warehouse district
abandoned storefronts, hand-painted signs, "we bay and sale'
broken glass, flat tires,

derelict cars, people and buildings.
City stench

Refinery tanks, rusty and foreboding fences.

Young man, survivor, driving him home.

Young man survivor;

The fall, the moves, the abandonment, the poverty, heartache
heart ache, the endless cycle of new home, school, best friend-leaving.

Single teen-aged mother, two mismatched shoes on her feet, she found them in the warehouse dumpster.The shoes, not the sons, they fit.

All day long, they face their death, riding the Griffin, holding hands, silent screams end in thunderous laughter, SURVIVORS.

Passing silvery tombstones now that shimmer like minnows in a still ocean during a full moon. The endless sea of silver minnow tombstones.

Young man survivor rides his bike past minnows and fences over broken glass and sink hole streets ; to go to school, to get to work, to survive.

She asks him if he is afraid when he rides late at night past the minnows.

He wonders what their lives were like and what finally took them, he is not afraid.

Taking young man survivor home.

the whitewash

there is nothing
i can say to
make you
understand

the boxes
the intangible
loneliness

of lysol, white
walls

and jackets

crammed into
boxes

like st. helen

there is no
excitement
here

only anxiety
& fingers cut
to the bone

and the knowledge
that outside
everything is
the same

that it is always

the same.

linoleum & dust

peter stood at 5'6
a stout thing
with little legs

balding, too,
(adding insult to injury)
and worn plastic
glasses that slid
down his nose

his fingers were
thick, and round, with
nails trimmed by
teeth at
laser precision (just
before the blood
line bursts)

i watched those
fingers drag
the red bicyclette
across the machine's
eye

head down
glasses retreating

he stood watching
the customer bag his own
groceries

not so much refusing
to help, like bartleby,
but rather like a soldier
without the legs

to run


[shoulders caved in,
eyes that camoflage
with linoleum &
dust]


"sir, i'll need you to swipe
your card again"

he interrupts his own
quiet, palm on
pad where everyone
enters their secrets

(kids birthdays,
high school graduation,
virginity lost)

standing there, watching,
my stomach re-invented
itself

thinking of my nephews
and all i hope they never
become

it's not the checkout
or the employee i.d.
engraved by some
corporate entity
that bothers me

but that look in
peter's eyes — those
eyes blurred through
dirty lenses —
when he finally looked

up

(and then down again)

oh, peter,

i imagine once upon a
time you, too,

stomped on your shadow
& made your mother a valentine,
scrawling your name
with the sort of pride that only
a five-year-old knows

this is not what i want
for them

that look, peter,

that look

i see it, again, exiting the store

the man waiting for the bus
the old women hobbling through parked cars
the people who gather and honk

(demanding they hurry along)

it's everywhere, peter,
isn't it?

that look

i see it in me, too,
slamming the trunk
lid

staring into
eyes i scarcely
recognize

opening the
car door
and slouching
into my seat

as if becoming

(again)

a slave to

myself

©thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy, 2007

two old poems

the infinite
(after reading “mescaline” by ginsberG)

i will wait
& watch &
contemplate
think lofty
thoughts &
be a revolutionary
(like giovannI)
i’ll put some
mardI graS beads
in chrisT’s hands
& put a few around
his neck i’ll take a kinG
cakE & put it at his
feet that will be my sacrifice
(that is my offering of penitence)

i’ll stand in front
of a mirror shirtless &
obscene i’ll observe
myself see my stomach
(pink with birthmark) move
as i breathe i’ll see my unshaven face
& my blue/grey eyes my nose
(it fits my face) chin
(genetically dimpled)

these things i’ll see & contemplate
for good or indifferent
i’ll take them i suppose
because from what i understand
a beggar is loathe if he is a chooser

eight haiku


writing to clean me
poetry: bitch of bitches
mind vacant & pure

thoughts of happiness
ideas gone to a bad end
mind-prison: lock-down

mental graffiti
rumors of greatness abound
mind's eye: blank canvas

ideals: destructed
thoughts stricken from the record
poet! take your stand

silence deafening
prisoner to poetry
not wanting freedom

written word unleashed
literature uncorked free
expression: still born

from my hand words flow
writing equals free thinking
poetic soul scream

out! free! not silenced
forget your fear be alive
be now satisfied

DWC 1999

another side of the animal

Yes

Yes Jesus walked on water.
Robes above wet.
The crest bowed.

It was shining
From the arc.

I watched on his knees
Him sit,
The weather heavy
On.

- Short breath into
Drive wind.

And press fingers against the
Coat of water.

And fought the jackal gods of egypt.



The blue virgin

The blue virgin,
Heavy with God
Weight in the desert. A
Sky full of clouds. The starless.
And the small deus came out
In a red wind.

This Jesus, blue from mom
And cold, opened without sight, dark over
His eyes. The weeping crossed his
Chest. The trembling moved him
Down her lap, into other hands.

Lions snorted at the soft god.
Some men stood in a ring.
Morning took its time to come.

Repeat twice and end.



Whale Song

The red. The sound,
Distant, sound of bread
Falling behind the boat. The
Heavy exhale when the whale comes
Up, grabs sobbing crust, dips. You there,
Breaking bread against the sunset,
Fish bleed on the deck behind
You and two streams run under your
Feet. They rill slow and
Sink in the water. Red sunset blurring too.
Red water red gunwales and red
Kissed by the glare
When she surfaces, grabs sobbing crust,
Dips.

The boat is always ahead.
The bow and keel nodding windy.
The whale catching rye and
Breathes of thick red water.

She followed the boat until she rubbed her
Belly going down. Until she felt
A breeze in her eyes. Until she washed in the
Shallow lapping on the stones. And I am
Sure that bread was dropped
Up the beach up the hills
Into the sky where gulls got heavy with it.
The boat does not know
Water from sky.

But what sea journey has
Become a tired whale on shores?
Yours or mine? We are all the same, and
Have followed ourselves to here and man.

all for now. have good weekends.

ds

Call for Submission Calls

I know, I know. I started this blasted thing, and I've yet to curse it with an actual post.

But this unpacking jazz is serious business, and I'm a bit overworked in that regard. It's 1:30 a.m. for crying out loud, and I'm only just preparing for bed.

But I digress.

All to say if I'd like to create a "link list" here that links to poetry magazines, journals and the like that accept submissions — or, more particularly, the exact page that offers the nuts and bolts of submission information.

Feel free to e-mail me any useful links you have; I hope to put something together in the next few days, though we can add/subtract from the list at any time.

as promised, promises.

recents...


The Work in the World

Me with my body, and you with
Yours; we will make each other happy when the
Wind pushes through the window.

It was a long day, and I worked below the
Trees, making the ground new. I have carved a
Channel from the creek to make our work easier this
Summer. It is not all the water we will need, but
It will help. And I could hear the farmer already
Across the woods cutting furrows. His engine was
Louder than the birds. I will meet him
Soon, and we will have friends. Tomorrow the morels
Will be up like we expected.

At noon I sat on the ground, already tired. I
Thought of you. I drank water and saw the
Dirt on my hands. Dirt makes the shovel
Easier. Here it is, before June, and I am already wishing for
Help. But tonight will be cool again.
The wind will blow.

I came to you early this afternoon, with supper still
An hour away. My excuse was to water the animals again, to
Save you the trouble. I wish my whole life to do
Small things for you. When the wood is cured I will
Make you a table. I have spent good
Money to buy you plants that will flower each year, and the
Seeds you brought from your old lawn are coming up. See,
This place will always be beautiful.

At the end of night is the place I cannot take you. The pans
Hang clean in the kitchen. Everything will
Be under sleep. But my eyes will be in the field, in the
Rustle of life that's always alive. It will be a giant
In my ears. It will move around us and with us. It will
Replace us when we have forgotten it, when we are gone to the
Flowers rising up from beneath.


Continued Studies

The grass is cut short, and will not lie down
Against the sound of the wind.
But I can barely see this. It's after eight. It's
Almost nine. The world is tired with me.

Every sound in my head is the same sound. The
Trees and voices and streetlights are all
Jazz. The key changes once a minute as it stretches out.
The drummer keeps getting slower and slower. He's
Switched to brushes. The trumpet has no mute and is
Blowing from center. Piano is water
Faucet. I see empty tables and empty bottles and
Slow people dancing. The music sits around
And comes to me slow.

All this evening I know nothing. Thinking is for the
Edges. I'm in the center, with trumpet. Look
Outside again. Dark enough not to see. People
And the edges are gone. I'm right up by the spindle, made a
Cushion of rotation.


Sequence

The usual somber and quiet, then all that
Ending. A low plane over the woods. Two
Propellers pulling the wind over shape
Of the plane, and doing it loud.
All the movement in the top of the woods, stirring
Down into the low. Everything alive knows it
Without understanding.

The sound streaks away like faster
And faster, to where nothing can catch it.
Then goes away, and is gone. And last
Of the wind goes too. Resume somber. Resume
Quiet. All things back to life in normal.

In night, the always chance of rain comes.
It comes in on drizzle, and tightens to a pour.
Every moving bends against it, but shakes it off in
The hour before dawn. Then only dark and quiet,
When all the meanings are invisible.


that's all for now... sorry thirdworst about breaking your pg-13 rule.

ds

Welfare Mary (My fav)

This evolved in my mind more than 10 years ago; it is still my favorite and never published before so here goes:

WELFARE MARY


Mary was a welfare mother

Joseph was a kind hearted man, even though the kid wasn't his, he stayed with her.

Jesus was born in a skid row, cardboard shack on the darkest night of the year.

apologies and introduction

had intentions of posting only on the eggshells of
spontaneous and new, but have been out of
eggs (and new). and thought to post
something recent
instead. then lugged a disc across two computers,
but now faced with incompatible invisible
formats. I understand almost nothing.

so... apologies. when I can understand I
will post recent. I have beautiful things
somewhere that I cannot
find. surely this has merit. misplaced makes you
feel human.

and am now ashamed. have written about
invisible difficulties. I do not believe in
difficulties. but invisible is important.
so apologies again. even this I intended to be
short, but have come to long. all this with angry in
my legs and headache in my
teeth. so I will go and go. with luck soon and
soon I will understand one thing.

now off the eggshells...

ds

to the good life

i have a need to
disengage

to turn off
to go blank
(for a while)

too much reality
is a bad thing

& trust me,
there is too
much reality right

now

i read an article
in a magazine
recently about group
suicide in japan &
how-- in some weird
logic-- suicide is almost
noble

made me want to cry as
i whistled "suicide is
painless..."

the country stopped
for three whole
days & became blank faced
when some madman shot
two dozen plus seven on
a college campus in old
dominion

that kept our
attention for three days
(& that was good for us)
until some overweight
washed-up actor screamed
invective at his daughter
over a cell phone

honestly, i think we
were more shocked by that

troops are dying in places
i can't spell for
causes i don't quite understand

& others are killing
in the name of gods
that i have never heard of
& couldn't pronounce if i tried
(not that i want to, mind you)

the hand carts are cheap
this season, its
the hell that is costly

(hey brother, can you spare a
10 spot, i need a gallon of gas)

my credit is
almost maxed
yet, i need more
more more
more

i'd like the gold plated
cart with platinum deucie-deuce
rims

can i get that
with a seven year
(itch) loan

it'll stop
eventually--
some day

& the piper will come
with hand out
collecting on our
past dues

DWC 2007

Virtual Girl

Every morning she boots up, power in her veins.

Link to link, site to site, commenting along the way.

Reports, taxes and clients, will have to wait.

Virtual girl

a poem in pencil/a work in progress

i marked the poem
with the only thing
i had available--

a scrap of
toilet paper--

i folded it over &
fit it into the
binding of
the book

to mark the place
where eternity was
explained &
defined

it seems ironic
in a strangely ironic
world that the
symbol for eternity
& infinity is
a dead 8 rolled on
its side

DWC copyright 2007

In the Beginning

this page
intentionally left blank

for
poets &

word thieves

for empty-toothed words,
for smoke-filled words
for words arranged

like p's and q's
illogically reversed

twice before

repeating

Blech. OK, so if it's not a silly haiku, I'm a bit rusty when it comes to poetic verse. And I won't even claim this page was crafted to get me back into the habit — it may very well be too late for that.

Rather, I had the grand idea for an open poetry forum after a poet friend left a few comments on my blog that were, by far, insanely better than my original posts. Seemed a shame to let such words shuffle off into the ether.

Hence "Numb Benign" — a fairly simple page to which any number of folks can post. If you're interested in co-authoring this joint, hook your tin can up to mine and let me know. I hate to resort to cliches but, well... the more, the merrier.

And while I don't want to let my true schoolmarm colors shine through, there are a few rules:

• Keep the content PG-13 (i.e. safe enough for folks to check from work computers without incurring the wrath of Big Brother)
• Feel free to re-post any poems originally on your "other" page to this one — maybe use this as an opportunity to increase your readership. If that's your thing.
  
• If you wish to repost anything you see here, please ask the author for permission first — because we're all about giving credit where it's due.
• Keep personal details to a minimum — particularly if you know me (if you know me, you know why. If you don't know me... then you have nothing to worry about).

Or in the words or my high school study hall teacher: WHEN IN DOUBT, DON'T.

But then again, she called me by the wrong name for four years straight (regardless of the fact that the roster was correct), so she may not be the best guide in terms of etiquette. But you get the idea.

Also, while this is designed primarily for "new" creative material, feel free to post the occasional poem or two from your favorite wordsmith — just make sure all the proper credits are there.

Numb Benign may disappear if activity is too infrequent, non-existent, or just all-out embarrassing.

And on that note... pencils up.

You may begin.