Jhon Baker

booze the way old men like it –
a touch of class

(random lines skipped over)

if this were another time
there would be volumes of poetry
of your aspect, your body
but
I know nothing else
save this twinkling spent
and thinking bohemia

ashes and firelighters, gasoline
the remnants of an unstable mind
medicated rational.
caught in the act of writing
and morning coffee
vouchsafed in early afternoon.

dreaming, in sleep
looking down my naked body
enumerative cosmic vibrations.
at last, I am found out
a fraud!
a plain written confession.

dear Judas, I see you!
contemplative, walking
stretches of eternity.
vilified
the rains of a Sunday afternoon
bearing down your soul.

dear Judas, be comforted at last!
be not in prison of pity
my candle is lit for you.
we are only shadow
dancing on near cave walls
illuminated by

ashes and firelighters, gasoline

make no monument to this body,
let the rivers and roads winding on maps
and fields flowing into one another
from the birds view of a plane
serve as testament.

May there be no wall of remembrance
where people touch hands for famous photographs.
what a landscape of crows couldn’t bring into thought
make no admonition,
no stone effigy.

have no moment of whispering
but shout, shout, shout out
your poetry, fill empty halls
and capital domes. dance, alone
or together, naked in halls and alleyways.
ride your full moon lunacy

down one way streets and secret passageways.
eclipse your broken lifeline,
draw borders onto subway station walls –
trip to New York, Louisiana, Chicago and LA
rip your clothes off in stage lit drag shows,

ride the rays of the sun.

cup of coffee, fresh made.
pencil, mechanical 0.5mm leads.
about 200 sheets of paper left in the ream,
hunting knife with a five-inch blade.
page a day calendar with the word of the day
xxxxxx(today being ‘Kaaba’, which is some kind of building).
meditation beads, tigers eye.
a frog (reading a book) paperweight.
a loaded 9mm from Springfield Armory.
an unabridged dictionary, and a
writers thesaurus.
some trinidads from Fanny May
and a pile of unrevised poetry and stories.

she couldn’t read what it said
or whom it was for
the memory only contained the sudden
image
from an antique shop
or estate sale

it was forgotten now
where or when
but the unexpected frailty,
the image,
weak knee’d her
stalled staggering
at this moment held
helpless, sightless,
merely astonished at
the wetness of her cheek

falling into gardenias lain
on the bed,
her robe slipping open,
she turned her body
toward the open window.

I don’t cook soup often
and it bothers me to have to do it
I don’t know why
maybe it’s that I don’t eat soups
unless they are served to me and made of
yesterday’s grease, cream and uneaten chicken
or pork
but my son likes it for lunch and it’s
good for him
so his mother heats it, adding the can of water
and stirring
he eats hot food
I clean the dishes in hot water
my wife checks her e-mail
everybody’s happy

I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair

I was that child, with uncombed hair
playing amongst the other children.
I was that child, reaching up to finger
the oddities, being pushed away by older brothers.
I was that child, who stares at my hirsute, smiling face
and is unsure.
I was that child, being pulled away by a crazy woman, a
crazy mother, yelling out and wanting to play more.

I was that child with the pigtails bouncing up and down
in opposition to her shoulders.
I was that child, with the dirty face sipping the cola
greedily, with pocketfuls of toys and secret playthings.

I was that child, lonely in the corner with no one to lead
or follow, no one to hold hands with.
I was that child, yelling louder and bolder at wins;
fisting against the air the losses.

I was that child, there, holding daddy’s hand and
lightly crying, there, racing to the bathrooms, there,
asking for more quarters, there, eating the garbage they
called food, there, wondering and wondering.

I was that child.