BEATNIK: A Collection of Poetry

Moonlight Vacancy

The Jazz is optimistic,

but I listen to it under

deaf ears.

Ears that have listened

too long to the lies and

the moans of those

aching for more.

For wealth,

for stability,

for the end.

They cry

every day

and never get

their way.

Then there are

the fortunate

who cry for what

they do not have.

They are cats atop a fence

and they don’t let me sleep

at night.

I am a

house cat.

No, maybe

not a cat.

A mouse.

A fat, lazy mouse who’s

too afraid to come out

from the wall.

When cheese falls

I scurry out to catch it,

then race what I can grab

back to my hole to be

sallowed whole.

Then I starve again.

And I go to bed listening to

the rich cats and the poor cats

and wonder how I got so lucky.

Mourning Rain

When I was a child

my mother used to tell

me that whenever it rained

that meant the angels were

crying in Heaven.

I asked her what could

make angels cry and she

used to say it was

all the bad things good

people did, and for the

souls of those who are

called to Heaven too soon.

As I got older I learned

about the water cycle and

the purpose of water on

earth as explained by

science.

But in the week following

my mother’s death, in the

long afternoons I spent

standing over her grave,

I noticed it had rained more

then it ever had before.

In that moment I’d forgotten

all about the sciences and

about the water cycle.

For the first time in

a long time, I believed

in the angels my mother

used to speak of, and

in my heart, I believed

they were crying for her.

Hate, Be A Friend

I can’t seem to

find the words

to describe hate.

It is something

primal, something

basic.

It is neither

complicated

nor complex.

In some cases,

it is incapable

of being understood

and is therefore

unknowable if not

personally experienced.

Fury is a

child of passion

and the cousin

of humiliation.

Humility is the

bastard son of

humiliation who takes

more after its

mother, understanding.

Even still, hatred

is the brother

of anger and

fury, and together

they live beneath

mountains of patience.

And when the

world spitefully calls

down thunder, wakes

up the brother’s

three and brings

forth their wrath,

everyone wonders why,

but can’t find

the reason.

Fire Treasure

At first, the

warm air hit

me, and then the

blue sky, then

the green plains.

At once in

my mind, I

heard violins and

then the passing

of smooth drums.

The xylophone

bounced

with the beat

of the sun,

yet I felt

no updraft.

The day was

singing a tune

as in the

distance the sea

pulled on and off

the sand.

It was a

rhythm I was

used to and

one I had

waited a while

to hear.

It was only

in this place,

at this time,

that I could

hear it, and

away into the

music, I went.

The Pass-Around

When I was

young I used

to think adults

had mean built

into them.

It wasn’t until

I grew up

and got my

mean card that

I found it

was mandatory.

You had to

carry it around

with you and

show your mean

to those who

called you out

on not having

it.

I saw the

mean of plenty

of other people,

even when I

didn’t want to.

In time I

accepted the mean

and figured out

you couldn’t throw

it away.

So as you

grow remember well,

and especially on

the day they

give you your

mean card, it’d

probably be best

just to throw

it away.

Robins In Passing

I always used

to think that

red robins were

immortal, you know?

I used to

think they were

majestic, untamable,

and wise.

Then one day

I was walking

down this side

street and out

the corner of

my eye I

saw one lying

there, dead in

the sand for

maybe an hour.

Its beautiful red

feathers hadn’t faded

in color and

it was the

closest I had

ever gotten to

a robin to

appreciate how orange

its beak was.

Best I could

figure it the

little guy had

gotten hit by

a car and

went flying on

impact.

I remember always

seeing birds dive

in front of

cars right before

they race by

and thinking these

daredevil avians must

sit on the

sidewalks, betting one

another worms and

seeds that they

could fly across

the road without

getting hit.

Maybe this robin

was one of those.

I bowed my

head to the

carcass and kept

on walking.

Five minutes later

I happened upon

the freshly deceased

remains of an

American robin.

Its feet were

scrunched up as

if it was

clawing out to

reach something in

its final moments.

Its colors were

darker than that

of the red

robin, and in

regards to its

passing I have

to say, I

didn’t care as

much.

In Ernest

I think I’d

be better off

in one of

those seaside

communities.

One where I

could drink alone

at night, oversleep,

and then walk

the beaches during

the day.

There I could

linger like Hemingway,

half alive and

admiring the young

girls in yellow

bikinis while I

sip back, becoming

something made up

of wrinkles and

tobacco smoke.

Something made up

of age, and

gruff, and contentment.

There I could

wear cargo shorts

and Hawaiian shirts

with thin, white

wife beaters underneath

every day.

There I could

smoke, discarding the

fear of damaging

lungs that were

once young and

now breath confidently

again.

There I could

kick back and

call myself a

man while I

hide away from

the world.

There I could

be who I

wanted to be

in my old

age.

Single and worn,

leathery and wise.

Who knows if

I’ll ever find

my place on

the beach, or

if I’ll die

trying to get

there.

Roasted Unicorn

Countless species,

one vessel.

The ark is light angelic

wood being cradled on

a world of open seas.

Ninety-nine days ago

we ran out of food.

The lions have eaten

the hippogriffs, and

the crocodiles have

devoured the phoenixes.

I’m told

they were spicy.

As I pacify the other

animals the meat eaters

and I have barbecues

on deck at midnight.

Roasted unicorn is

fucking delicious.

If we don’t reach land

by tomorrow the squirrels

are next on the menu.

The Cabin

Middle-aged men

with blood-red faces

and sky-high blood

pressure belt out the

oldies, hard and loud.

Ghouls, specters of

a dead generation

linger like husks in

a seizure mob on the floor.

They wiggle to the

rapid strum of the

electric guitar, tone

deaf and geriatric.

Their ankles crack

as they hop up and

down, ignorant to

the fact that this

chapel of the blues

was built to inspire

their nostalgia.

Quietly on the side

of a highway road,

their little shack

rumbles, containing

their desire to be

who they once were.

That time is

gone and their

song is ending.

Now they fizzle like

inflatable dummies

in front of car lots,

hoping that in their

loose shake they can

rediscover, relive, or

rejoin the past.

Give up.

The future

is now.

Average Joe

After coming home he

had trouble adjusting.

Boot camp was all

he had known for

months, believing

it had been years.

Before he had left

he had liked cars

and played cops

and robbers with

his buddies on the

playground.

When he came

back he believed

in capitalism and

obsessed over

collecting knives.

He believed boot camp

was life and that anyone

not living like him was

living wrong.

In the end, he convinced

himself he was special and

that it was the world that

was crazy, not him.

To question him

was to question

God and country,

for he believed his

time in camp granted

him status as a soldier.

Despite begging

for an honorable

discharge after

eight weeks in

the heat.

If you see him in

the mall he still

demands to be

called a soldier.