Get your own Free Home PageDUFUS 11
A Poetry Journal
COPYRIGHT 2005 Lummox Press
Edited by RD Armstrong & Ed Jamieson, Jr.
I was working on this issue of DUFUS when hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. As with most of the country, I found myself caught up in that tragedy, as well. Then, about a week and a half later, I found myself personally involved in a natural disaster...An electrical storm that lasted nearly 12 hours here in the L. A. basin, causing numerous blackouts and downed trees, etc. Somewhere during this storm, a surge hit my computer (it came in through the cable modem, not the power line) and fried my Mother Board and CPU! Fortunately, I was able to save most of my files and images when the computer was repaired. However, I lost my entire address book (some 800 names) and all my saved email files (about 1500 messages). So now I am faced with the dilemma of publishing poets without the means of contacting them, or waiting until they contact me asking when am I gonna publish their stuff (like we said we would).
Some people have complained that DUFUS isn't coming out fast enough. I apologize for the length of time between issues this year, but it has been an awkward year for the Lummox Press, and that has had a direct influence on DUFUS, as well. In June, the Lummox bank account was robbed (some sort of ATM fraud) and that took some time to clear up. Then this business with the computer occurred and it's taken me all of September and October to get back up to speed. So please understand that I didn't mean to take so long. After all, there never was a schedule for DUFUS. It was meant to occur every so often...Just not quite this long between issues.
Our poetry editor, Ed Jamieson, Jr. thinks that everyone should subscribe to the Lummox Journal, our print magazine. I hate to say this but being the realist here, I know that will never happen. Still, I'd be happy if everyone who visits DUFUS would kick in a few dollars to our ongoing fund-drive. Look for the donation button (below). Ed's of the opinion that readers of poetry actually care about the editor/publishers that put these zines together...so let's not let the secret out. Help Ed retain his innocence, send in a few bucks.
PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU HAVE POETRY IN THIS ISSUE (I may not have your email address)
This issue of DUFUS features a showcase of poems by
Leonard J. Cirino
.
The Body
Angel Perales Two by Pris Campbell Indian Givers El Culo de Bettie
Pris Campbell Never Say Never
Monica E. Smith Two by Peter Dolack BIG BANG Peter Dolack Life Is A Series Of Usually Brian McGettrick
Divorce
Working two jobs - his wife works one
and baby sits grandchildren - my neighbor
came to make a late payment
on the old car we sold last year.
I said how sorry I was to see
their name in the Divorced column
of our local paper. Noted the bright gold
of his freshly buffed wedding band.
Brow furrowed, smile sheepish
he admitted that was true, then added
they planned to live together,
go on as before. If they can.
He thinks he has cancer but won't find out.
Doesn't know if the gnawing
in his guts that feels like rats chewing
is rogue cells or simply fear.
No insurance
no prospects
staggering health
too young for Medicare
he hopes if the thing he dreads does happen
his wife will be safe.
Most of what we have she brought
to the marriage. I will not wipe her out.
The pain etched on his face
has little to do with illness.
This man of honor looks straight in my eyes,
watches my reaction.
I'm the one hanging my head
over this wealthy land of ours
where even babies scream for more toys -
and get them - yet lovers divorce
to protect each other.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Tehama, CA
Published in Rattlesnake Review, 2005
The Moment
I want peace, and peace of mind.
I want sex with wild and insane prostitutes.
I want to ride a 1000 cc motorcycle into a freeway abutment
At 140 MPH.
I want peace, and peace on earth.
I want to party with dangerous Goth girls who snort heroin
and
Will suck me dry and lead me down the river Styx.
I want a cave in the Himalayas, I want to purify my soul,
Learn to levitate, and obtain the eyes of the Christ.
But today, I'm filling out insurance forms and working on my
taxes.
I come down the stairs from my office above the garage.
It's the end of March, but it feels like mid-summer.
My cream mackerel tabby is stretched out sunning himself on
the driveway.
He speaks. I speak. I kneel down and pet him.
His fur is magnificent in the bright mid-day sun -
reds and gold and large patches of pure white.
He rolls over and wriggles in ecstasy as I stroke his belly.
Maybe this moment is enough. For the moment.
Michael D. Meloan
Los Angeles, CA
landmark
Christopher Mulroony
Los Angeles, CA
Dear Editor
Ellaraine Lockie
Sunnyvale, CA Dog Lawn Ornament
Chris Sumberg MEASURING GRIEF
Carlye Archibeque
Mar Vista, CA
I Don't Know Where You Are
James Babbs
THE POSITIVE ASPECT
Of what
use, but
If a
beautiful flower
Does not
possess
The
element of fragrance.
View a
lofted lotus
How
delightful,
Attractive
it looks
Even in a
filthy pond.
Observe a
honeybee
Which only
collect honey
Without
causing damage
To the
beautiful flowers.
Likewise,
should mind
Delight
like a lotus
Though
surrounded
By
insatiable thoughts.
Gathering
love thoughts
Reflecting
sweet views
The
positive feelings
Hid in
every heart
Beautiful
and bountiful,
Should
evolve out
To script a fruitful future
Ashok Chakravarthy
India
geometry lesson
the shortest distance
between two points
is a straight line
but only on a flat surface
in the three-dimensional world
plane routes arch in curved lines -
Tokyo flies to Anchorage over the Pole
the distance between you and me
can't be traveled in a straight line -
or I would speed directly to you
in our solid geometry
bilaterally symmetrical shapes
obstruct the way -
the straight line is a forbidden route
my desire is an arrow
whistling into infinity
you instruct me to collapse its trajectory
into a dot - or less
I survive your geometry lesson
by tracing the lines of my fantasy
through imaginary time
Two by
Ray Succre Held at the Bridge Bartering Petals
Ray Succre Martina Wrote to Tell Me
Where I'm gonna get heroin On a holiday weekend
Pomona, NY Liquid Nitrogen
Zach McNaughton
T is for Train
You can train a seal to balance a ball.
You can train a chimp to ride a rocket,
or train a mouse to ride in your pocket,
or train a horse to jump over a wall.
You can train a dog to sit up and beg,
or train a porpoise to leap for a fish.
You can train a cat to sit in a dish,
or train a bear to dance on its hind legs.
But you can't train a Cheney to see beyond
the end of his Halliburton nose.
You can't train a Powell to feel your pain.
You can't train a Rumsfeld to wave a wand
and make himself disappear. And Lord knows,
you can't train a Bush; it's got no brain.
(26 Letters, 26 Poets
April 28th, 2004
50th Anniversary
Rosenbach Museum)
Philadelphia, PA Two by Virginia E. Cubillan How soft this pillow Street-walkers
& death
had a way
of speaking
in tongues
down by the
river where the
black horse
drowned &
jerry sd
one minute
his old man
was talking
abt hank
aaron &
the next he
was blowing
his brains
all over
the wall w/
his lucky 32
jerry never
blinked
when he sd
it looked like
white boogers
pimpling the
blood & we
laughed when
the hooker
kept hanging
her head out
of the 2nd
floor window
of the clifton
hotel yelling
2 bucks to
see the wood
chuck boys &
the horse doc
tor who used
to sit on a
wooden chair
outside his
office next
to raineys
cafe liked to
scare us by
saying he'd
seen death
ride in on a
big palomino
& kenny who
never showed
any fear sd
well wd you
& death like
to suck my
dick & when
i traded the
railroad badge
my old man
kept in his
brown suit
coat pocket
for a big
switchblade
he went crazy
when he
cdn't find it
& sailed an
ashtray in the
shape of wyo
ming off
the beaten
up dresser
sd it was
the only
thing he had
that belonged
to his father
that his
history was
lost in the
soot of
the railroad
wind which
brought the
rotting smell
of shit meat
& rags on
fire & my
old man wd
sit in the
dark drinking
calvert out
of a cracked
water glass
& say i'm not
afraid to die
but i've seen
death taking a
piss in the
toilet & he's
in there now
all bone white
just waiting
for me &
when i went
to shoot ray's
22 down by
the stockpens
i saw a guy
trying to stick
a gray pony
w/a long ice
pick & he
& the nag
went down
in a tangle
& he ended up
w/the pick in
his leg & the
old railroad
cop called
jake brushed
a fleck of dirt
off the pistol
butt stuck in
belt & sd boys
you know it's
bad luck to
play around
this river it's
the drowning
water &
death speaks
in tongues
Todd Moore
Albuquerque, NM
Where Dead People Go
James Babbs
Stanford,
IL
Smooth Forehead, Thick Hair
Maurice Oliver
Old Love Letters
The words are there from
Another life
When your haircut was different
And different friends stood beside you
Old attitudes Old gossip
Some of the same concerns
And yet
Those clothes don't fit
Anymore
The memories are salted stones
In well worn pockets
The letters are part of the life
You forgot to bury
The goodbyes
You forgot to keep
Mike James
Pittsburgh PA
Frankie's War
RD Armstrong WHAT PEOPLE ARE
SAYING The deeper I penetrate into the word jungle DUFUS the more satisfied I
become! All That HitchHikin, Sparling nails that road many of us have
traveled.. I hate to single out anyone for fear of slighting another. I'll
just say I feel kinship with all these poets/writers and am humbled to
be included with people I've respected for a very long time. And RAINDOG your
editing (i.e., positioning) flows and ebbs like a wild river. Your piece, the
opening salvo, sets the tone, pace and sure-footedness you continue to
exhibit! YUHAH!!! -- G. H. Hill
LINKS Jim Coke Photography Christopher
Mulrooney Recent
Photos of Events & Craftsmanship of Raindog NEW PHOTOS
Todd
Moore A
Seasonal Haiku by Rebecca Morrison COPYRIGHT 1997-2006 Send comments to RD Armstrong (Raindog)
The body has acquired an extended life,
floating down the newly created Venetian
canals of New Orleans, almost lazy in
disposition, face up like a tourist, gaping at
the beaded verandas and abandoned terraces
of a moratorium Mardi Gras.
The missa cantata happy hour has been
suspended in the Big Easy.
The body floats past blankets strewn on
rooftops and folks shielding themselves
from the unrelenting sun with handmade
signs beseeching assistance and reprieve.
A child blowing bubblegum dips a yo-yo on
the edge of the rain gutter as the body floats
on by as if it was, well, just like any other
body.
This body seems more overweight than
bloated, although the cracks along the
cheeks and forehead betray what used to be
thin once, a few days ago, darkened
fingertips practiced at a charcoal piano
perhaps, clenched and split-lipped like the
numerous unemployed trumpet players of
the French Quarter.
A drowned black cat joins the body, a
faithful pet, two tied hefty trash bags trailing
behind their only meager hobo possessions.
They wade in place patiently when a
helicopter hovers to throw some bottled
drinking water at a wheelchair bound elderly
woman slumped precariously over a leaning
balcony. Three of the five bottles splash
into the current, another knocks off a potted
fern recently placed on the railing, and the
last bounces into a darkened opened room
next door.
What a strange wake through the discarded
streets of a much beloved city. The body
undulates slightly from the ripples created
by distant crisscrossing swamp airboats
searching for survivors.
Here, a snag next to a light post marks a spot
for reflection. A wild-eyed man hurries
chest deep holding a rifle, a loaf of bread,
and a fifth of whiskey over his head. He
sneers at the body, a temporary perceived
threat or impediment.
Not any more, the body merely continues on
a concluding journey to redemption, a small
eddy swirls the body around slowly in a
contemplative arc, one long last sweeping
look at the unforgiving crescent fishbowl
where dreams came to fail and to die at
length, just one more story in Storyville.
A truly somber waterlogged procession
carries the body to a realized final resting
place, at the foot of a submerged exit ramp,
amidst the accumulated debris, garbage,
refuse, and stink, amongst the other lost
souls who arrived there first, to greet the
snarling feral starved dogs fighting and
slobbering.
Culver City, CA
We promised the Indians tomorrow,
but their tomorrow never did come,
so, babe, I believe in today.
Today I want to sing you a song,
crush your ears with my thighs,
place your hand on my breasts
til we no longer remember the start
or the finish. I want you to come hard
and scream, tell me more than you
ever told anyone in your whole secret life
about lazy-eyed lovers and black-pupiled
women who lay in your arms, preparing
this place just for me--halleluiah!
I want you to smear Hershey kisses
all over my back, to suck my big toe and draw
my lips exactly where you want kisses, too.
I want to write you a poem about
how a frog loved a pig, laugh at the moon,
dye our hair green, tickle your fancy,
and share Peking Duck on an expensive
lace tablecloth imported from Italy.
I want to sit in the wind, pretend
that we're sails, wear our best shoes
to wade in the surf and sprawl on the sand,
watching the crabs until morning.
Then, if we're lucky, babe, and do this
just right, when we've finished today,
tomorrow will be yesterday,
slipped by with no headlines announcing.
juan, little bad juan,
self appointed potter
at the Greenstreet Home
for Way
ward boys, sings
while he secretly forms
the perfect clay
rear
end
Todo lo que pido de ti
Es que siempre Me recuerdes *
Anatomically correct, he
kilns it, names it Bettie
after a starlet he saw
at age 8 on cable tv while
mom moaned her living
through the crisp
bedroom wall
he hides it under his bed, along
one grey sock and one blue striped
shirt he stole last week on an outing
to Joyner's Thrift Shop
sometimes he spanks it
till his hand is as red
as the clay that formed it
he sleeps, hand resting
on Bettie's sweet rump nightly,
dreams of angel-faced girls
calling him to their side, but
the pounding of boy's feet
rushing downstairs
for oatmeal too soon awakens
*All I ask is that you forever remember me
The ice storm was all-consuming, young and old
Alike ripped limb from limb, dried and drained
Of all life juices, encased within icy chrysalides
Which caused each tree to sway and bow,
As if pleading for mercy
My heart responded, a kite swooping, then falling
With a thud from a wailing winter wind
And I feared, as certain as I knew the unicorn
Existed only in fantasy, that nothing of beauty
Could arise from these cold ashes of devastation
Yet from the corner of my eye shone a gem,
A sapphire sparkling in the night; turning toward the light
In awe, I saw it was not a gem at all,
But an ice-blue branch, radiant in the moonbeams
And with misty eyes, for one brief, unshakable moment,
I believed in unicorns
If there wasn't a universe
It'd be boring
Nothing
Just nothing
If there wasn't a Big Bang
There wouldn't be anything to do
Just a point
Packed so tight you couldn't see
Nowhere to go
The other side of the point wouldn't be any different
Someday the Big Bang might come
That's what the physicists would say
And then it would be different
Until then you'd have to wait
If there wasn't a multiverse
There wouldn't even be a point
Waiting to explode
Or a universe
Or anything
Nothing
It would be so boring
No matter
No stars
No planets
No cities
Nothing
A VIEW FROM SOUTH SUCCOTASH ON THE DEATH OF THE GREAT COMMUNICATOR
But who will weep for the dead?
The tears flow
But they are not tears of relief
Yes I know style is all
And style there was
Indifference to the lives of millions thrown away
Would be enough
But with a smile yet?
That damned optimism painted on and frozen
In place as the national cheshire cat in the dark
Far removed from the crescent moon
Sinking above the killing fields of Central America
If he had to kill those hundreds of thousands by his own hands
Instead of hiring mercenaries
Could he have kept smiling?
What an exhausting job
He would have had to start at dawn most days
Thank you for participating in America's glorious morning, senor
Now please turn your neck a little more to the right
I wonder why his public relations agents didn't think of this
Single-handedly wiping out the Communist menace
What a photo-op it would have been
Then he could have injected homosexuals with AIDS at night
Single-handedly wiping out the gay menace
Well, mommy, do I have to kill all these people? Is the help on strike?
Even if the death squads had gone on strike
He wouldn't have fired them
The tsar always said the black hundreds were fine fellows
There isn't any point in going back to the past if you aren't going to
steal
from it
But would there be weeping if he were simply a cowboy deus ex machina?
A vision of America as a giant happy theme park
All shiny under ever sunny skies
Built on the bones of
Is the same as any product that can't be sold unless it meets a need
He told you it was good to be the bully
Being relieved of guilt is the greatest gift
He told you it was righteous to hate
No one can be wrong when waving a flag
He told you God wants you to have cheap oil
If it's in the Bible it must be true
Shut up and go shopping
It's still a program to rally around
If he had better public relations sense
Genghis Khan would have said it's morning in Mongolia
But in those days there were no euphemisms and the leader had to get his
hands dirty
War is peace
Asking for enough to feed your kids is greed
Pollution can be ended by cutting down all the trees
He believed
Just as those who weep
Brooklyn, NY
Connected Actions And Reactions
With The Norm Being
Painful Shit Consequences.
why try to outrun
harshness
sad
revolts
take place
everyday.
stewing and cooking
waiting on death
while the temperature
rises.
North Ireland
this is just the admirable thing
you want so everything wears down
and out you could never be ingrate to such an extent
not worried if the light comes up too green
before the slice of tangerine
on the desert
and there you are city hall the walks
the place you knew
shall we have the police surround it
to protect it from developers
it's the negative to their positive
or rather it's raw exposed stuff
they want to develop it
and here comes the expert
the learned and trained
he quickly spies a flock of them
sweeping them together
for the cost/benefit analysis
and here's the townsman with a gownsman
walking arm in arm
to keep from scratching each other's itch
the eye of the vestryman
is on the girl who casts a wry look on the
subtle appreciator
it is an old tome
but not to her
say rather the little place
of her upbringing
My daughter has a cat
who crams mauled mice
under her covers
Proud gifts he grants
Propelled by primal hunger
and trust in lap pat approval
I'm like that cat
When I lay words
at your feet
Literary allegories
of life midway mangled
Laid bare and bloody
Except I languish
in possible pain
of landing in the alley
Rejected present returned
Dead
still,
he grows
into the lawn.
Oak Ridge, TN
The Buddhist measures
the cat with a measuring
tape as she lies in my lap,
a last embrace not curled up
like the metaphor in the
maiden's lap by a fire but
cold in the dark in the
middle of the night in the
middle of my life, stiff
stretched out as if reaching
for God just before he came
to take her leaving only
this body, small and dark
and not my cat at all too big
for the hole that is too small
for her. The Buddhist shakes
his head measures twice
digs once.
I watched them
tearing down
the house today
the house where you
used to live but
I can still see
us in there
our parents sitting
around the kitchen
table on saturday
night rolling dice
while playing marbles
and we're up in
your room playing
games of our own
calling the operator
on the phone and
telling her how much
we love her and
we talk about
our dreams hoping
if we share them
with each other
we can make them
more real and now
I don't know
where you are but
I'm still here
wishing I were
somewhere else
Stanford, IL
Hours ago, he was ink,
middleman, broker,
the ice in the tumbler
of other men's thoughts.
He came late to the social,
had no drinks, bantered, mingled,
worked group to group to make
his sticks fling farthest. He was
all business among the pleasure,
unfashionably dull, missing the point,
and he expelled his advertisements
in handout cards and badly overdone
slogans.
spry
feign
spry
The waif of the party
ignored him.
Grandmother hunting
brochures for every thing -
Have you ever known thrift
to carry admirable lives
through any of our times but
the desperate ones?
Have you ever known lavishness
to peek out your heart
any more so than a single, small
kiss or kind word?
You and the sales collect.
Of all the things I carry or
throw off, it's money,
you know, that
light spark perch of a bird
that has always weighed most.
Coos Bay, OR
Martina wrote to tell me
She still doesn't miss me,
But,
That since she left me
Neither Hell or Oregon is
Working out too well for her...
She says that her new boyfriend
Says that antidepressants may
Mess up her South Beach Diet and
Wondered if I had heard that...
Jesus H Christmas Club
Jumping off the cross on a pogo stick....
I'm sitting here, having lost 70 pounds
The hard way and wondering
and Jameson's
With no money...
Oh, and lessee:
There's a war goin down out there...
People getting abducted,
Reducted,
Acid-influcted, Mustered, Unfilibustered
Overlusted and Mostly disgusted........
And there
Are actually burning questions like that one
Banging around out there?
Great Gosh A Mighty......
Martina wrote to tell me
She still doesn't miss me.....
We used to play
"liquid nitrogen"
behind the empty crates my dad left behind on deliveries and
Fran always cheated,
claimed he had some source of heat deep inside his
belly and
when we called him out
he tried to prove it -
growling like a mother grizzly
he'd seen on the nature channel.
We laughed at him, and he just ran away saying,
"in real life, you would've been scared!"
Toledo OH
How soft this pillow in my new bed
as I lay resting,
hearing, and watching.
How distant peace becomes when
being out of the hospital
for the first day.
A scream from one corner,
some whispers from another.
The chilly wind, the instruments
and its misdemeanors.
The nauseating smell of my breath,
the tight knot in my tie,
the numbness in my hands and
yet, able to fake a smile.
A raindrop I thought had
fallen on my cheek,
but it was the cold tear from a
blonde sobbing by my side.
and then a human curtain approached
me, blocking candlelight.
With my parents tonight
I wish I could talk
about my friends, my secret girlfriend,
the cigarettes...
just to let them know.
About the addiction I had
in College,
my desire to be an artist, not a lawyer
- or whatever they wanted -
and my dream of someday
becoming a good father.
At least my pillow is soft.
A crowd approaches me
and a cold silence seals their mouths.
They eyes that once stared at me
now see me as if
I were not there anymore.
How soft this pillow inside this coffin
as I lay resting,
hearing, and watching.
The 6" Pleaser stilettos
Stroll every night amongst
Neon lights and Marlboros.
On countless nights they cruise
From the East Side to the West Side
And caress silky steering wheels
Spinning around unfulfilled fantasies.
They do laps around the Big Apple
And compete with cheap imitations by
Stuart Weitzman and Casadei.
They witness night dying by
The dagger of sunlight as it
Opens the wound of another day.
there must be places in
the world where dead people go
where nobody knows them
nobody ever thinks of
them as being dead
instead they're seen as
strangers shuffling their way
through the uneven streets
strangers occupying unknown
houses who never attend
any neighborhood meetings
boring cocktail parties
or backyard barbecues
In a conversation with a dead man's boots.
Seducing all loose help. Lavender that believes
it's invisible. Feathers or paper wings. A sudden
typhoon of parrots. Binoculars on a string around
your neck. Imitating a bird-call. The truth of
odor. "Does your bird ever stop singing", I ask,
already knowing the answer. A meadow cow dung
prefers. "Only when I cross my legs", she replies,
sitting in what any other woman would consider
a tortured configuration. The plain brown wrapping
of a bird-watcher's book. A belly worth it. The
cold required to be an icebox...
baby rattle or talcum powder...
coiled cobra or bed spring.
Noticing how sunlight streams through the bubbled
window panes.
More plain brown wrapping use to disguise.
A pale green against a murky blue.
Everybody agrees but the gun...
precisely, nods the stagecoach!
Portland, OR
Frankie was buying drinks for the bar
When I first met him
He was already drunk but the bartender
Wanted him to stay a while longer
To get the most out of his generosity
Let me buy you a beer sir
He says to me
Then I want to tell you a little story
Goddamn it
I was a fuckin' ace
And I broke formation to
Save a bomber pilot'
Frankie repeats this story
Over and over
Stuck on the phrase
I broke formation
Like an old record or an old drunk
Sometimes gets stuck
At first he tells me as if I'm an officer
At his Court Marshall
He's apologetic
I broke formation
I broke formation
I'm sorry
I broke formation
I couldn't let him die alone
I dropped down from 37,000 feet
He said he was in trouble
And I knew I had to try
So
I broke formation
Did I mention how much I
Liked flying my F-14?
I loved it
I thought I was the best guy
In the air
I was meant to fly
But then I broke formation
To save his sorry ass
And Jesus you were
Dead
Before I even got there
You were dead
Before I could save you
But I couldn't let you die alone
I can't leave you alone
Now (still)
You bastard!
I broke formation for you
I put my ass on the line for YOU!
And you died
You were dead when I pulled out of
My 37,000 foot drop
You were dead before I pulled out
For you
God damn you!
I put my whole career on
The line for you
And I had nothing to show for my
Troubles
When I pulled out
Nothing
Nothing at all
Years later and
I'm still fighting the guilt
For what I did
I say it's for killing gooks
But really
It's for failing to rescue you
I wanted to save you
To swoop down from on high
And pluck you out of harms way
But I couldn't do that
I couldn't do that
Sir
I couldn't do that
I broke formation
I disobeyed orders
Sure I got the medal of honor
But I couldn't fly anymore
I bombed the hell out of
Hanoi and North Vietnam
I shot the hell out of their MIGs
And sent many of them spiraling down
To some ignoble death but
I couldn't get past that day
Officer I wanted the VC to die
No questions asked
But I couldn't get past that
Horrific moment
Please god let them all just die
DIE!
I don't care what my part is
Or where I have to draw the line in the sand!
Just let me get through this
And our wing (starboard) was shot to hell
We had nothing to comfort or ease our landing
I said to my pilot Mark
We have to pull our chutes and
Let the chips fall where they may
And he said
Fuck that
That's nothing
We're going to land on the Kitty Hawk
Even if we have to flap our arms
To make it happen
And we did it
We did the impossible sir
We came in at two hundred knots
The landing almost killed us
The captain was so angry
I thought he was going to
Kill us
Everyone was trying to kill us
We weren't having a very good day
Officer
I broke formation
I broke formation
The tears are running down Frankie's cheeks now
He's worked himself into a confessional frenzy
The bartender is looking askance at us
I make the sign of the phone to her
Hoping she'll call a cab
Instead she brings the bill
Pushing it cautiously towards us
As if it might explode
Frankie pulls out a handful of bills
There's maybe three or four hundred bucks
Laying on the bar
He says please help me sir
Giving me a pleading look that says
I was there for you once
Won't you be there for me now?
I know he now thinks I'm the dead pilot
Sure I say and place a C note on the bill
Here I say as I hand him his money
Put this away before someone gets an idea
Thank you sir you know you're all right
Then Frankie leans in close and looks me
In the eye
Sir
Can you forgive me for what I done?
His hand trembles
Threatening to spill his last drink
In this bar
Please?
Frankie is begging the dead pilot
For absolution
Sure I say
Sure I forgive you
You tried your best but it wasn't meant to be
Sure Frankie sure
As I'm walking him towards the door
And the waiting cab
I think about the true horrors of war
How this man is still trapped
In the cockpit of a shot-to-hell F-14
Scared shitless knowing he's cocked up
His naval career and then some
Wondering how they'll get home
And what will be waiting for them
When/if they land
Frankie carries the ghosts of that mission
With him for all time
There is no escape for him
No where to hide
Not even at the bottom of a Continental
Maybe even death can't take the sting away
Maybe this is what haunts Frankie
That the plaintive voice of that dying pilot
Will crackle in his ear for ever and ever
I wonder if this is the true cost of war
We ask so much of those who fight
For us even if they are only acting as agents
For our government
As long as we pay for these 'adventures'
And as long as we elect those who
Will go along with these adventures
We will be complicit
Like Pilot
Unable to wash the
Blood from our hands or
The guilt from our conscience
Isn't it about time
That we all
Broke formation
Gerry Locklin
Scott Wannberg
Other Lummox Poets
Cesar Chavez Tribute
The San Pedro Poems
by RD Armstrong
DUFUS #3
DUFUS #4
DUFUS #5
DUFUS #6
DUFUS #7
Todd Moore's Wolf in
the Cornfield
NEW from Lummox Press - Rebecca Morrison's
Raining All Over
JUICE ONLINE - POETRY LINKS
Four Sep Publications
POESY Magazine
The Temple Bookstore
The Artwork of Dee Rimbaud
ROADKILL by RD Armstrong
Remark Ezine
Abalone Moon Ezine
Zygote in my coffee Ezine
Lily Lit Review
The Chiron Review
Open Wide Magazine
This site updated Dec. 2005
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