Not the Best but at Least It's Over

I literally just rolled off a gal. I'm sitting here naked in my chair smoking a cigarette, cracked a beer and it 4:10 in the morning. Life is good to you when you are patient. It is also good to you when you're aggressive, occasionally. I suppose convicted rapists s s s ssss would either agree or disagree. No matter. I don't really care and neither do you. I sit puffing this cigarette, ashing here and there, and doing my best to keep the letters of the keyboard sticking to my own fingers. Here's a few that I found and read aloud tonight for an audience of one, unless you include myself.

Tomorrow Always Comes

Tomorrow
there is betting on football
Tomorrow
there is betting on eating
no matter what it might be
Tomorrow
there is drinking something
no matter what it might be
probably beer
could be rum, whiskey
could be wine, schnapps
could be drinking

Tomorrow
there is betting on love
could be anal, oral

Tomorrow
there could be something
surprise, or just this

Tomorrow
always comes
whether
we are there
or not



Crooked Paper

I have had many
people tell me
in less than fine terms
I ADMIRE YOUR LIFESTYLE

I have never once told
them that I admired theirs

But what they admire is this
the lonely and the drunk
like saying
build your own
sandcastle
and watch it wash
its own laundry

What makes me the king?
Being a better peasant
than you



Oh Baby, Come On

The gal said while laying
in bed
She's in heat baby

What do you mean?

She said you know
she's mewing everywhere
and rubbing her head
on everything

So what?
that's what they do

No honey, she's in heat

So we shut the door and finished
wiped off, rinsed off
showered
and opened the door
again

We were laying back in bed
and I told her
I heard you can get a cotton stick
in there and they'll stop

You're sick

No, I heard that
well, it doesn't have to be
a cotton stick

You mean a Q-Tip?

Yeah, one of those
cotton sticks

Goddam, you're sick
she said

Don't worry
baby
I'm a responsible
pet owner

Call It September

This is delayed and belated. I've split my time since the last post (call it a month) drunk/with school/with work/with band; sloppy on all accounts. I wouldn't say writing has taken a back seat to anything, but it has taken the form of scribbles on scrap paper. I tell myself, "Don't work on writing, there is school to be done!" But nothing is ever finished. So for this, I will gather up the few papers and translate. I'm certainly not promising any of it is good. These are only the papers I can find that were between me and the beer.




Scratch That



She cut my hand
  where the blood line crosses
I moved it back and
  P  U  L  L  E  D
my nails over the wound

Otis Redding came on
and we fucked the whole
thing up

He can't stand beside me
while I write this
dumb shit
all of the time
As if this is
Genius



One Cat, New Cat, Red Fish


She's barely new
to this world
has ripped my curtains
D
  O
    W
      N

She's pissed
all over my brown robe
I ask her

"Can you act
like a lady for once?"

Vomit on the floor
rubbing her vagina
on my new typewriter

There's that joke
Take me out to dinner first
But I can't even get a collar
that will stay tight



Sheets


I worry
I don't know
where she is
what pain is

I see it
I feel her
Continually
Is this
the worst
What I call
pain?
life?

Am I
thin
skinned
the others
are so
calloused



BrNSINNNNNN, R, E=R  IXG!!!
(I Was Drunk For This One)


After I fucked her
In the shower
I looked down
on myself

I asked if she had
a chainsaw somewhere
in her vagina

She had
it seemed

So we washed off
we dried off
had a cigarette
drank a beer
and turned on
the music




The last piece I was going to include isn't that great and could lead toward another intervention so I have chosen to omit the whole thing. I assure you, it was actually hinting towards my own fear of death. Oh hell.... Unfortunately/ Considering death/ but when it comes/ I know I won't/ want it.

That wasn't so bad. Was it.

This Isn't August! Only A Glimpse. I Hate People That Say "Glimpse"

Brooke, I have to email back a journal about having a tiny little poem published sometime around Aug. 21. I mean it, the poem is four lines and wasn't even the best one I sent them, so I'm not emailing to brag or anything. I'm emailing because they asked in my response for author info to be included in the publication... including "your Twitter handle (if you have one), so we can promote you there on the big day." All I'm asking is if I should make an account or not specifically for this occurrence. Would it be worth it? I have to reply to them by the 9th (2 days) and the "edition" is "published" on the 21st. Don't you have to build up followers beforehand on Twitter before it matters if someone is promoting anything? Well, that's what I need to know. And don't be biased, I know you think I should get an account anyway. Just asking if I should even worry about having one by the 21st. Hah! Ridiculous. By the way, my new phone is in the mail and Sprint says it's worth nearly $600. A Nexus I think? I don't know. So hell has frozen over. Let me know what you think about Twitter when you get this. I gotta email the bastards back soon!

Jo****,

I'm glad to see that "Shoreside Shells" is to be published at F*** and T*****. I thoroughly enjoy your publication. In response to the congratulatory email I received, I happily accept the terms that were identified at the bottom. I would like my name to appear as Brandon T. Roach. If I provided an author bio with my submission that will work fine. My only request is that a link to the following site be provided.

http://riflemyheadoff.blogspot.com/

If I did not provide an author bio in my original submission, the following would be acceptable:

"Brandon T. Roach of Kansas is the proud son of a garbage man and a wet nurse; their collective influence is present in many of his poems. This is his second appearance at Four and Twenty."

My Twitter handle is BrandonTRoach

Also, I may have missed a single space in my submission of "Shoreside Shells" in the part "stones,death". That is how it appeared on my copy of the submission. Leave it, fix it, it does not matter to me. I only thought I would point it out.

Thanks again,

Brandon

July to me, baby. It is a big one!

Small-Time Editor


I bring the small cat out
with me and say

"You can't drink beer!
  Get! Get! Shoo!
  Which one would you like
  to read?
  Oh! This one?"

So I give him the last paper
to push its way through this machine
and he starts by biting it

I guess you have to test
the quality of the paper
before you can read
the poem

I was saddened by it
and my cheeks seemed
to grow heavier
when he shredded it
as if it were made of burlap
stapled to a an old scrap
of two by four
I said weakly

"Thank you, small cat.
  I need your honesty
  else I would turn this in
  to a PUBLISHER
  and we would both look
  very ignorant of the ways
  of the poem."

I could tell by this point
the small cat had done
all the reading he cared for
He begged to go back
inside and I give you
this



That's Not Bad

The analysts make me smile
the mothers make me smile
their daughters make me smile
when they grin
"What does it mean?"

What was the first
poem I had published?

She dangles her legs
off the deep end
I swim a cat amongst carp

Something of that nature
speaks volumes
if a picture is 1000
then a word is 1

I tell them that day
"I got published!"
I was happy
and went to bed smiling
for the first time
in a decade
but it rings in my ears
"What does it mean?"
and I take the first exit
"It means whatever
you want it to mean"
Like and artist

That poem above
my virgin poem
may not be word for word
put in digital ink so long ago
but it is close enough
for deconstruction

It's about honey
a long drink of sap
who put herself out there
and I am one of two things
A feline on the side of the pool
stretching a paw deep to the fish
or a bottom feeder swimming
with another fish deemed
inedible in America

Truthfully
I wrote the phrase
"A cat amongst carp"
several years before
I placed it in that poem
and I only did it
to get published



Put It In Ink


Recuperation is the mortar filling the cracks
holding sleeping beauty however sexy
to fix a hangover

It takes water
It takes a bloody mary
Champagne and orange juice!
You say to the waiter
"Do you think you could just bring a pitcher?"

He responds in his rehearsed and authentic accent
"I bring you three drinks friend!"

You think to yourself that one of your sisters
should date this guy but I'm sure he has
no short list of women to call on a Tuesday

Then he walks off and you think only to yourself
That commie is fit, man. He fills out those jeans
I know damn well I don't have and ass that fills out mine
How do you get that? It must be genetics

You also think to yourself alone
If I were to write about this
it would make me out to be queer
maybe write about it but change
the goddamn RED with great triceps
and an ass that fills out his jeans
into a tall blond with D's
and big fake fingernails
yeah, perfect
put it in ink



West Port


When I get to Kansas City
the few times a year
I step lightly into a ready-made
spring (or summer) trap waiting
laid before me
and she always knows
how to have a good time

This time I told her
I'M OFF THE SAUCE!
before I knew it we were
shaking hands with the professional
football players, watching
a fatter gal light up the fiddle
at a piano bar
and I was drunk

people were being thrown out
for as little as flashing their pussies
on stage
a short, hairless, chubby
kid must have thought the applause
was universal and dropped his shorts too
but he didn't get booted
and I wasn't getting kicked out either
so we left

We coasted smoothly the few blocks
to her car but were bothered
by a quartet of high school street
"musicians"
the tenor sax player asked
"Dollar for a song?"
I said no
and asked him to impress me first
So they played and played
when they were finished
I offered them credit
for wasting my time

The singer adjusted his Target fadora
and asked me

"What did your mom say
when you grew that mustache?
Mine told me I had to shave it off."

"She was the one that asked me to grow it
so don't be too hard on her, son."

With those parting words we crossed the street
I pissed on Westport
got in the car
and it was a good night
after all



When The Dogs Are Sleeping


I sit in a late 80's model camper
thinking what I can
the obvious things like

"I wonder what Neil Young is doing tonight?"

but I won't lose sleep over it
if I can ever get there anyway

We all wonder the same
what the others are doing
RIGHT NOW!
but we shouldn't
I know what we are all doing
right now.

We're doing all right I guess
My girlfriend is sleeping in the house
My dad is sleeping somewhere by a lake
and my friend David who paints on his walls
is stoned
but sleeping by his girlfriend
above the hot streets of West Wichita
Neil? He had his glass of wine
and crawled in bed hours ago
and I am sitting in front of my machine
in a late 80's camper
writing this

Something From June

The System Failed Us

Alice and I

had worked out

a little system

When she pulled

her car into the yard

on lunch break

she would know

whether I had

picked up the mail

if the front door

was open

Our system

was blown

to shit

when it started

to snow

Admiring, Simply Admiring

The boy working the counter

at the corner store

admired my mustache

and told me so

every time I went in

for cigarettes and beer

I once lay a 6 pack of talls down

and he told me in a gentle voice

he had tried to grow a beard since

the last time I was in (3 days)

His clean shaven cheeks moved

up and down

as the words fell out

he just couldn't get past

the itchy stage

He rang me up

I pulled out

a $20 and explained

the women have no problem

growing them on their legs

why should it be

any different

Not The Farmer, Not Me

She phoned often

while she sat on the couch

to ask things like

"How's work?"

It somehow surprised me

nearly every time

and I would tell her

"It's boring as hell."

and she would sigh

under her breath

as if I would have more to say

"Oh, I'm sorry it's so boring."

I would reassure her

and explain that no one expects

their work to be exciting

Not the mechanic

Not the mailman

Not the matador

Not even the mouse

or cat

"Is that all you called for?"

A Few More to Close Out the Month

Red Skins

After a couple hours dangling

feet kicking in the water

I could feel the burn starting

to set in

Jane and I had driven a long

way to get a sunburn

Well, Jane had driven while

I sipped on beer twelve hours

on the other side of the car

once we were half way

I cracked one      for her

Choke Canyon State Park

Apparently Jane used to go

to the park during the summer

with her parents

She said the first time she kissed

a boy was in Choke Canyon

Same place she kissed a girl

for the first time

her first awful hand job

learned to play washers

skinny dipped, ate barbacoa

smoked a joint and later

learned it was only tobacco

and oregano

That was a long time ago

now I was a boy in Choke

Canyon looking for a sunburn

She had a "special spot"

nothing the tourists could see

six miles of dusty clouds

like a crop plane down

dirt roads off

the highway

I pulled the cooler across hot

sand crunching prints

as if it were fresh snow

and found a little shelf

a foot and a half above the

water

I took off my boots and piled

my jeans, pearl snap, and v-neck

on top of them. Jane behind me

undressing like a lady

She sat beside me and put out

her finger with a butterfly resting

on it and said, "Does he have friends?"

"Not any more", I told her

I'd be surprised if he ever did

"I wonder how he drinks."

I pinched his wings together

gently and turned it over

I pointed towards his head

for twenty minutes

we let him go and he walked

awkwardly away from the water

Jane reached in the cooler

twisted off two more

she handed me one

then she pulled out a bag

baby carrots and a bottle 

of ranch dressing she

must have smuggled in

She grinned,

"I'm starting to feel it."

What, the beer?

"No, silly. The burn."

I stood, pulled my shorts off

Me too, baby

Care for a swim?

The Weak Seem

A writer can't pick when

he writes, but he knows

damn well not to use words

like "can't" in his poem

The editors hate that

shit

God, Blow Me

You feel the plant is blowing up

chemical palace only blocks away

as it did 5 or 6 years ago

shake it up, quite the scare

Sounding like the trash bins

in front of the house blew over

I went to look wearing my shorts

undershirt  and socks and heard

another blast

It was 4 in the morning so I shook

the girl awake and told her

"The chemical plant is blowing up!

Let's walk to the end of the block

and look at it. Grab a couple beers."

That hangover was put to rest by dinner

14 hours later

Explosions have a way about them

to stick around in the back

of a mind cluttered

left-overs from a moving sale

The next was only thunder

checking the radar on the typing machine

God's plan was to wrap his green hands

around the whole fucking town

and bite the head off

his dotted red eyeballs
getting hotter with friction
agitated with mankind
Impatient like an overweight
child waiting in the snack line
at the movies

It was coming for me, He was

and taking the rest

of the town too

I do the Lord's work

in ways neither one of us

can understand; forced
of nature

I thought:

This is my final goodbye and it isn't

worth a goddam pile of shit or salt

With any luck, He'll take the computer

with the house and leave me

the shit-eating cats shaking

in terror under a mattress, me

clutching at a flashlight

and a half a case of beer

Wrap your arms, God

keep the people guessing

I'll do the same

with my case of beer.

You can have the wine

but mention me to Moses

perhaps a speech; a toast

Talk to that charred sunbitch 

about my grandfather

maybe say a few good words

if that's the best you can do

and if these are the last words

I ever write, I want you to

blow me

away

Sample Out

I haven't had much feedback from the lit. journals so... fuck 'em. I'll just put a few of my favorites on here for you all to enjoy. The journals consider this "publication" and unqualified for publication but at least I can count on this for some commentary. I have 296 poems I consider finished and here are a few that I hold dear to the over-worked piece of coal burning in my chest. I'm fucking with you, it's a heart. Only a heart; blood and muscle pushing oxygen.

I'll start with the latest piece of work, something I don't remember writing after a night of drinking shots of rum (I hate rum) with a good friend.

Atlas

There are two cats

somewhere between

my legs

a man that likes men

a woman

doing laundry

I have to piss

thank God

for nothing

while I open another

beer

It seems like the world

could fall on it's own

axis

If it were up to me

I would offer

to hold it

up

A few bubbles

small eyes

and whatever else

can fit

down the toilet

in one

flush 

Now a favorite from the early works (Not that long ago) 

JC

sleeping on a cross

with grape vines full

of black buds

crawling up the ankles

wrists and neck

HE sees all

the crowd

sneeze, and itch

their balls and tits

pick scabs

off fat bellies

Pussies

full of infection

Mothers are

daughters and cousins

Fathers with

sweat dripping off

their dicks

Moaning for more

forgiveness

and preying on

the way out

That is all for now. It's 2 in the morning and I have other things to do than push poems on blogger. More at another time if it calls for that.