Friday, May 29, 2015

Bad Chimichangas

photo by Jakob Montrasio

Where two asphalt rivers intersect
the street corner pastor's gone home
to restoke the brimstone
                                     but left his soapbox
because cleanliness & godliness
never lay together
                             (at least not in scripture)
someone has to Father
                           the gutter children
as they crawl from the womb of their mother
but that takes more than sperm
        in the twinkle of the lamp posts
in the night air,
                           -bound angles set to illuminate
the way for the walking dead, shuffling feet
to the rhythm set forth by Sodom
                                          Schmidt, Page, Brin
                                          Tillerson, Gates, Immelt
                                          Boehner, Palin
                                          Brennen, Clinton
& ascending
                      to the apex
of the makeshift pulpit,
left open to anyone willing ---
                                                  to whisper,
                                                  slander your neighbor
with whatever
                        needs said,
                        inhabits the heart,
                        haunts the mental recesses
                        abides in the asylum / absesses
                        with seven winds
                                            &one mouth

How quiet it is above the concrete canvas
absent sleeping giants we let lie /
                                                      We Let Lie
and accept as news around our necks,
as sun on our backs & bury our unborn in flower pots
that they might grow to fit the culture --
                                           our circus has three rings,
& we two eyes, but often only use one and dot it
with a jab of the pen,
                           the same we make crosses with
                           of our T's,
                                         but can we carry it
                       my wayward son,

(remember : what it was like to crayon
before they taught you the colors)

I have little stomach for the position & posture
this box affords, only the birds should
& they do not fear the famine
mammon has reaped-
                                  a crop costing more to plant
                                  than, after harvest, profit -
our mediocrity came cheap
                                          & up here
I have nothing to say,
                             I can't to a cabbie //

He's seen it all

I keep a coin in my mouth
for just such occassions.

FreeVerse - Because wild animals in cages make me sad, then angry. Embedded rhyme because the words asked for it.


  1. This is totally awesome, man. I loved the creative "ahem, aher" section, the line that says "abides in the asylum / absesses" (great sound), and the closing. Excellent poetic sermon. Ooh, and the part about the crayons ... that was really cool too.

    1. You come up with the funniest titles. :)

    2. I like to have fun with titles.
      And letting the words have their way as well.

      I have quite a few more short ones that I have written recently, so I will get back to that later this weekend.

    3. Coolio. Those are my faves, ya know. There are actually only a few poets whose longer works I enjoy too, and you're on the list, of course. But mostly, I dig the shorties. Like Mama Z and De. Ooh, you need to check out my friend Annie. She's crazy and makes no sense to the average eye. Almost no one reads her; she's such a treasure. She doesn't write a lot during the summer though. She's tanning. :P

  2. This is, to me, your best type of poem! I love the eyes, and the crosses on the T's. I too love the shorter pieces where your emotions rule much more strongly. Great (one of your greatest) one!

  3. Replies
    1. At the most simplest - a deep fried burrito.

    2. Yip, I googled it then tried to delete my comment, sorry.

  4. OH!.. the plans of Mexican food..
    when siesta is write around
    the corner.. Yikes.. as side
    walks come to cover
    broader dusty roads
    of life.. meh..! tHere's
    always grass
    and another
    way of life..:)

  5. that "restoking of the brimstone" is quite the indictment of those who rant and rail yet have no love or compassion. Some wonderful plays on words in this too! Loved the part about 3 rings, but 2 eyes, and we often only use one that we dot.

  6. We might not believe them where they stand with brimstone... But yes keeping a coin in the mouth just for safety. To go from Gomorrah to FIFA sounds just about right though.

  7. intricately woven different elements.

  8. yes - i love this - and we shut our eyes too often when we should see and stand for what we believe and what is right - the FIFA thing makes me so very angry - and i will not watch one single game this year - ugh

  9. Well, your list of those on soapboxes was an interesting one. Palin? Gates? Really liked the 'news around our necks.' And yes, the cabbie has definitely seen it all!

  10. Too many great lines in this to count--I especially like the tone, which is so scathing, yet occasionally veers into an innocent sort of tongue-in-cheek mode. The seven winds and one mouth, the carrion/crayon association, the flower pots--each stands out as an element but each also pushes the form of the whole into being. Really excellent writing--humbling, even.

  11. "& ascending" made me read your list from the bottom up, which was pretty entertaining; the news/noose around the neck too

  12. because cleanliness & godliness
    never lay together
    (at least not in scripture)
    someone has to Father
    the gutter children
    as they crawl from the womb of their mother

    This is just brilliant Brian wow! Just the other day I was listening to someone preach to me the virtue of instilling fear in children (spare the rod spoil the child). They truly believed fear was synonymous with respect


  13. Great process note for terrific poem. This one is very much of a performance piece, I think--or un-peace. Thank you. k.

  14. The words never ask for anything but order, it is the heart driven by sight and sounds that dictates the order; not the fool upon the soapbox preaching me to hell. A place I know all to well and have become accustomed to the sights and smells of them who fuck for fun until the bedbugs bight. Oh man the fights i have seen as new mattresses have hit the curb.

    I always no approach not only flower pots but dumpsters, public bathrooms and towels to thick to simply have flown off the line for that is where they have left their children when they decided they were too young and thought they could leave their behind, behind.

  15. Wow - you took rant to a higher level and I mean this as a compliment...this is def free verse and would make for some interesting open mic ...filled with all that inner clatter that breaks hearts and makes us want to toss a platter or two...ha.. and it takes more than sperm to make a father...brilliant...

  16. Oh wow! Every power-packed. I like how you took the image of the street preacher and let it evolve, evolve and bam! Great plays on words like ahem,, aher. You are so dang clever.

  17. I loved this too--really like your way with words!!

  18. This was like reading one of my own rant Beat existential pieces, even down to your decision for line breaks, internal column prompts, & spacing. I loved the living hell out of it; your point regarding "free verse" well taken. Your second comment on my site RE reciprocity was bang on as well. I have been out of town (took the wife to the ocean) for the weekend. I pride myself in both visiting sites of poets I like, & have come to know, but always, always respect the necessity & courtesy of visiting those who come to my site of their own volition. I, too, like your lines /remember: what it was like to crayon/before they taught you the colors/.

  19. man, you touch on a lot of points, tie them together - loose, though, not bound - because binding is not what this world is about, these days. ~