Mark Hoback: Friggin' Poetry Section

Tue, 29 Mar 2005 15:17:25 GMT

so
on the jukebox comes

Trout Mask Replica

Finnegan’s Wake of rock and roll

all fast n’ bulbous n’
…never in a pro pirate

Pachuco Cadaver is the tune
n’ the guitars - Antennae Jim n’ Zoot Horn Rollo
they go down South and in a shock you hear the Allman bro's

all is all
a golden ball
the ball it flow

old fart at play with reborn ears

Sat, 05 Feb 2005 18:36:44 GMT

lurking in your box-shaped heads

with yellowed teeth and lizard eyes

and old excuses from the farm

methinks there dwells a demon

when your body’s lost all shape

and memory is random

you’ll dream of little victories

the cries of starving lepers

I wish that I believed in hell

Thu, 27 Jan 2005 20:43:05 GMT

Vapor Rises

Something loose.
Something loud.
Mind came rattling like a big iron horse.
Everybody on board.

Dark hair girl she think she had the draw on me.
A person doesn't care.
Not necessarily.
Hungry.
A person might not have a vested interest in caring.

Blonde hair girl called mommy.
You see now how a man can get confused.

I've been working on the railroad, 1944.
Working on the big iron horse.
Blaze.
Hungry now.
I do not know this nurse.

I used to be a movie star, taking lunch with Errol Flynn. Mommy it's true.
Old man in the mirror sneered at me.
Smacked him and I cut my hand.
Where's the rest of me?
Something loose, something lost, it's like I never left.

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 15:29:40 GMT

Charley

Blowed. Wild out there.
Wind cry like uh punk ass boy.
Ya, a boy.
It punch the boy, most thoroughly did.

Ya?

Ya.

He holla?

Ya, squeal like piggy.

Bet so. Charley bad storm.

Muy bad. Punch like a bumblebee.

Punch like a bumblebee?
Stupid head.
Sting.

Yomama.
We got uh quick relief.
Icey water up downtown.

Ya?

Icey water and uh marshmallow pies and rice in uh big brown sack.

Tree onna car. Haveta walk.

No prob. President walks.

Ya, he do.

Still like Flarda. Still do.
Hot summah, warm winta, blow da fuck outta us, don’t care.

Don’t care neither.
Toasty.

Sat, 08 Jan 2005 15:47:22 GMT

Small silver balls

These word are ringing through his head,
four quarter notes in repetitious Christmas drone. small silver balls...

He is trying to recall a dream,
But the notes get in the way,
blocking all the details.

It is a dream about transformation,
or mutation,
or change.

Elements of fright, and elements of wonder.

The first ball is a curiosity.
He sees it on his cheek, size of a tiny beebee.
Small silver ball, buried in his flesh.
Just the top shining through, it sparkles like a diamond.

He scratches, and it pops out, falling to the floor.

'What the hell', he mutters.
'I command myself: forget it'.

But there are more.
Dream time passes.
Details all scratched out.

Small silver balls.
At least a dozen,
showing on his shirtless chest.

They pop like ripe new pimples, leaving tiny pits behind.

Wed, 22 Dec 2004 00:21:18 GMT

IMHO...

...you need guidance.

You think I'm kidding?

You got a lot to learn buddy...

Does anyone other than the authorities think that there there might be something just a tad odd in the way that you've been sprouting fresh containers? As though each and every cautious thought seeks careful categories?

There is a need for order but it crushes.
Not so much as a person, but as a cross section.
This behavior indicates a certain rigidity.
A lack of will to evolve.
Not so much resistance as disinterest.

Above: The lovely and talented Miss Julie London.

Mon, 13 Dec 2004 16:19:49 GMT

Mon, 06 Dec 2004 00:26:50 GMT

Not a Thing For You

And this new day is new somehow?

Something less than my self rules...

I know -
It hurts to hear my name.

I I I

I don’t really doesn't I don't matter
In the sense of else you see me and you know I’ve stole you soul

Yes I keep all that I find
You cannot imagine
the size and vacuum that I keep for everything
that makes me want to crush your little heart
to bits

And yeah

You think you really know me?

Sun, 05 Dec 2004 03:43:06 GMT

Park

Seems like yesterday.

Things can get quite ugly here. Are you kidding happens all the time.

The door dog trails a nasty shadow stay way from it my man. Things that once were cute become repulsive. No one makes it out that far ….

Yeah, far out isn't very far out. Once there was a young man down by the river. Frankie. Wanted to swim with the sewage and dead catfish. Did it sick fuck.

Whisper "They knew me on the hill. I was always there when they needed a little extra. Last fella that came up to me this way - let's just say he never got his looks back. Legs back. Looks back. Oh, fuck me."

And it was yesterday; it doesn't just seem yesterday, it was. You spew up what you can't digest. That so bad?

"We don't even care, as restless as we are…"

The radio pops and burbles. I never even heard it. I swear. Someone else has lived my life. A dog took my place. And when the pit meets the thicket maybe then you can maybe then cease to exist, close as can be told from this sorry ass vantage point. Maybe then.

Time reverses lives implode we all get a bone we all remember all we remember nothing less.

"A lot of folks used to pass through this way. Even had a drive by. Fellow by the name of Frankie. Wanted to swim with the sewage and dead catfish. Did it too."

Old fart on the hill I used to know - always gave a little extra.

Changed faces and never looked back.

Sat, 09 Oct 2004 00:51:10 GMT

You, Seeking Me

A few bits and pieces.

A few words in seemingly random order.

You found me. Did you want me?

I think you did.

Everything is accident,
coincidence,
right on time and wrought with meaning.

Did you catch it?

Sometimes you Google on my name.

Hi! Hi! Hi!

That's when I know that you want ME.

We have a special bond, you and I.

You get to poke around my place
      and sometimes even see my face,
      and me,
      I know I'm loved.

Everything is accident,
coincidence,
right on time and wrought with meaning.

Thu, 07 Oct 2004 14:50:52 GMT

Wheels Fall Off

When the white finally shows in their eyes
When the sun's standing still in the sky
Three compete:
      Joshua, Gold and Ruin.

With the words running this far beyond us
   not set free,
   stuttered,
      yearning to go.

When the words cease to work our will, they only pull us down.

That is when we ride,
    chaffing our thighs on the backs of unknown animals,
    embarrassed by our shabby clothes,
    and in our shell of mottled blues and aqua tone and reds

we place our bets, and know that we will lose.

Thu, 30 Sep 2004 15:34:23 GMT

Could this be my lucky day?

A spider crawled across my back.

My good luck coins, they jingle in my pocket.

A bee has flown into my house. Prepare for the visitor.

I feel volatile.
I cannot kill the bee.
At last it flies out on it’s own accord.

I saw that she had laid her hat upon the bed…

Thirsty,
     I leaned against the screen door of the
         back porch,
     Trying to fit into the little spot of shade.

Work,
     A little work,
     There was still a little work to be had,
     And I leveled the weeds on the northern
          bank of the Bartleson house.
Fifteen minutes it took me, maybe twenty,
But it was plenty hot in the unprotected sun.

Will Work For Water.

And I get so lucky July twelve,
Misses Bartleson, she gives me up a case,
and good dried fruit as well.

The old man’s passed on and she’s ready to move on out herself, just hadn’t had the energy to make the effort.

There's an old saying that you teach what you need to learn.

Good fortune
Comes to those
Who ask for it by name.

Tue, 21 Sep 2004 21:15:01 GMT

If you believe,
how can you tell me that I'm wrong?

I expect a great reward.

Not in this time,
Not in this world.
But I expect a great reward in heaven.

I am glad to heed the call, to fill the void,
to cause the fall,
of those who would destroy the souls of those too young to hear the call.

I look forward to the glory,

I have no need for remorse.

You don't understand the words. "Justifiable homicide."

You don't understand The Word.

People ask me, quite politely,
if I would do it yet again;
If I ever had the courage,
I would do it all again.

I will live a life unburdened,
in the garden of the Lord.

Tue, 21 Sep 2004 16:40:55 GMT

So Long to All of That

A comprehensive statement is needed.
A comprehensive statement shall be made.

Whither, flourish, it's all about the guessing.

In the first stages of miscorrelation there is water earth
air fire.

How about the time, unbeknownst to you, that you
were followed?
You had not an inkling, not a tingle.
Second sense?
Not when the first is still swimming 'neath the surface.
A long smooth stalking.
Luxury.

Jimbo bangs his head,
    bangs the door,
    gone before you see the blood spot.
Must be the wind.
Good sport Jimbo, and he did make for good sport.
You were there and you should know.

No statement comprehensive enough for stealth purposes,
   and stealth purposes are all that matter
   after you take earth out of the equation,
   after you drain the water out,
   after you double the air and half the fire.

James (as he prefers to be called) takes a long drag off a
short life and holds it indefinitely.
Lighter than air, even given the mass quantities of air that
seem to be accumulating with out anybody's notice. Anyone who counts at least.
Jimbo/James doesn't count,
And doesn't feel that you should feel that you do either.

Aristotle - what a clown - Archimedes slapped him down.

Jimbo,
On the first guess of his first waking in the night,
Guesses right on target.

And it was a guess
   not an intuition
   not a foreshadowing
   not a second sense
   just a guess
   and not even a lucky one at that.
Too bad for the bagman.

Here it comes now,
   the return of the earth
   the flooding of the water
   the doubling of the fire
   the slow dwindling of the air.
Hit the light hard, it roughed him up.
Left a bright spot on the quiet thoughts of a dozen
   no-bodies who thought that they were watching.

Comprehensive? So long to all of that....

Tue, 14 Sep 2004 18:02:42 GMT

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 23:09:55 GMT

Excuses I Haven't Used, Yet

Inertial in my fingertips (I cannot find my Poly-Grip)
My SansaBelt Pants will not zip, and I am late for work.
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another.
Shout out to the Holy Mother, I am late for work.

Take a quick look at the news, the Palestinians and Jews,
The president is hiding clues, and I am late for work.
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another
Mail quick excuse up to Big Brother, 'Why I'm Late for Work.'

"I was working on my blog, and then I had to walk the dog,
(A special breed - he comes from Prague - that's why I'm late for work)."
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another
"Tortured thoughts of Tina Yothers made me late for work."

Sun, 05 Sep 2004 15:15:55 GMT

Spam Poetry: RUSSIA

Hello my name is Karlita

I live in Russia
and
I am looking to get out
                                     as I have
                                     no future
                                             here.

I have no good work here
and for me,
all the men here drink a lot
or
do not treat women good.

I am looking for a man who works hard
and is nice to be with me
                          in all ways.

I am joining this internet club at our internet coffee house
to find a man
who wants to meet
a
nice
girl

and I can be special for him.

Sun, 05 Sep 2004 15:13:30 GMT

Spam Poetry: She is bound

Her husband or boyfriend is gone
and has left her all alone....

He's neglected her once again...

She's sitting there all by herself,
Feeling very upset and very lonely...

She is sick of her own hands rubbing up and and down herself....
She wants someone to come and ravage her and have their way with her...
It could be you...

Lonely, neglected women are sitting at home
all by themselves
at this very moment.

They are deeply in need of someone,
perhaps it is just for company,
just to talk,
someone to hold,

or just to be pounded...

they need someone and they need them right now...

Sat, 04 Sep 2004 16:31:26 GMT

Celeste

I was rolling down a mountain,
I was riding on the storm,
With the ghosts of Natty Bumpo and Celeste
   to keep me warm.
I was flying like an eagle,
I was swooping like a dove,
When vertigo –
    sudden, knife sharp, paralyzing reality,
    mind grown numb with organic fear.
Yeahhh – Motorcrash.
The server is down.

Picture: Ancient jewelry reconstituting, shaking free from the earth. Diamonds swell up like blisters on a newly gilded gold tiara, popping their way through, the white light suddenly startling as it breaks into crystal.

There was this jazz cat,
    looked like Gato played like Trane.
All the right changes but no charisma.
Wrong name.
Wrong attitude.
Maybe the wrong body.
Now the horn hides in the attic, taunting him from above.
Cat never goes to the attic.
The attic itself has a magnificent vibe –
    bright corners, dramatic angles –
A small but intimate juke joint with the right stroke of
    imagination….

Tonight we take this mountain.
Tonight we weather the storm.

The Mary Celeste sails on, captain tossing wood chips onto the waves, trying to gauge the speed. Natty is below deck in a purple satin cape embroidered with tiny rosaries, his tiara reflecting the candlelight. The crew is belligerent but afraid. The horn he is playing is unlike anything that they have seen, neither brass nor reed, but an unholy union of the two. It squawks and yet sings, and the crew, bolstered by the extensive liquor stocks, gradually mellows.

Motorcrash.
The server is down.
It’s almost time to depart.

Fri, 03 Sep 2004 00:34:52 GMT

Change

Structure is a temporary thing.
Form coalesces like Madonna's on an oil slicked road
Every moment that more distant
Every viewer needing stronger faith to see.

If I could reach out farther, farther,
In the direction of the constant buzz
Shut off the sound and make time crawl again
I would not do it even if you begged

Faster, time must gain momentum,
And dirty beasts like you must fall down stairs.
It's only right you know,
It's only right.

Thu, 02 Sep 2004 14:59:16 GMT

It's good

I was born to be king.
That’s just the way it is.
I don’t make up the rules, I just try to live by them.

There is something inherently regal about wearing a crown.

I don’t know what it is, but the chicks really dig it.

See, sometimes I go out in public,
wearing a disguise –
it’s my special not the king outfit –

and I ask them.
Point blank.

“Hey pretty lady,”
I’ll slip into the conversation,
“You know the king?
Whadda you think about the king?”

Nine times out of ten, they’ll say they dig him.

Me, that is.

The one out of ten that doesn’t like me, who cares.
I usually don’t even have them killed.
You shouldn’t be punished just for having bad taste,
      that’s what I think,
            and I’m the king.

You ever hear of a meal fit to serve a king?
That’s what I had for dinner last night.
I’ll bet good money that’s what I have again tonight.
     Or,
     I dunno,
     I might have Chinese.

The king. I’m the friggin king.

Sat, 28 Aug 2004 15:34:18 GMT

Economy done turned thu corner. Saw it headin on down 4th Street towards Vine.

Economy glance at uh cheap J.C. Penny's wristwatch and make uh quick stop at Louie's Sub Shop for uh tuna fish on rye and uh hot cuppa coffee. Economy want to take uh leak, but the toilet's overflowed so thu Economy suck it up and walk on down thu street.

Couple hookers try to catch Economy's eye, but Economy don't have time for none of that nonsense. Economy wants to get uh buzz on quick, and only got about five minutes to meet thu man.

Coffee ran right through Economy. Gotta go real bad, so Economy ducks into thu alley and pee behind thu dumpster.

Then Economy turns thu corner and sees thu man comin up Vine Street, right on time.

Fri, 27 Aug 2004 17:28:37 GMT

Jumbo Sees the Ocean

Big and gray and green and I was powerless beside it
It was morning and the waves were breaking harsh upon the shore
And I was gone from home and I was hoping to be found soon
And I was feeling that there was not one thing I could do

And sound was all around me in the crashing of the water
And I understood at once what I had never seen before
And the sun was on the border and soon I was not a factor
And the gray and green turned into gray and blue

And I knew it all was ordinary even as I stared out
Into something which eclipsed me while I wandered long the edge
And the taste of it was bitter and I spit it from my mouth
And when I tried to think beyond it I receded from the scene

Sun, 22 Aug 2004 17:12:12 GMT

GLASS

I have been having this fantasy lately where I am walking
   down the stairs with a drink,
   lose my footing,
   and then fall in such a way that the brim of the glass
   is forced directly up into the roof of my mouth.

I can taste the glass.
It tastes like spring water.
Almost metallic.

I am afraid to move my tongue for fear of slicing it.
This is not a dream,
   it's a waking fantasy,
   or perhaps a premonition.
It scares me so when it happens as the image comes so suddenly.
I think that this thought has been in my head for a long time,
I think it's just becoming more vivid now.
I was pleased when I started to recall my dreams,
but now they are coming to the surface
and spilling over into daylight.

Maybe it has been a mistake for me to figure myself out.
I have to try to remember
   not to think these sort of thoughts,
   but when I approach stairs
   I automatically think.

It's not something I can seem to help.
I am now trying to make sure
   never to walk with a glass
   or
   any sharp implement
   at any time,
   although if I have to,
   I concentrate very hard on what I'm doing.
This is bad strategy.
Thinking about everyday things,
   thinking about walking,
   it makes it harder to walk.
I don't know what else to do.

I can't just keep my hands empty forever.

Sun, 22 Aug 2004 15:24:18 GMT

The Corn Gods

The government owns these thoughts.

Would you like to learn to read?

Like bees at dawn, these are the days of our life. These rings require a finger.

The corn gods long ago were angry,
but now, like us, they’re just confused.
Believers now crumbled to dust and the festival
of the harvest <fade> just a memory.

They are largely impotent, their very genetic
makeup having been rewired,
And in a few short generations they will be
vegetables.
No lingering looks,
Just the odd colored finger of an ear popping up
for a twist in the sun.

Is it always a conspiracy, the end?
Well, what else?
Do you expect an intellectual uprising, warriors
willing to break their glasses and to scatter their
research?
Do you expect workers uniting in unguarded
night?
And who would notice if indeed they rose?

Who wouldn’t?
These things require a ringer.

Curly’s lament –
we can’t forget it –
Curly’s lament.
Whoo whoo whoo.
For all the sense you hope to make.
For all the hearts you hope to break.
Thank you Moe. May I have another?

“Done spewed my mouthful out Lord, ain’t goin to
   town no more”.
The blues abound.
Blue spotlights slice the stage.
The audience, they moan as one.
“Don’t call me up no doctor, just nail me to the
   killin floor.”
The killing floor as metaphor.

A better metaphor for pain and boundless sorrow
   might be the human body by itself.
The very embodiment of violence –
   teeth,
   eyes,
   fists,
   feet,
   bellies,
   bones –
So many weapons, so many targets.

The glory of meat comes undone somewhere in the Prussian night.

<Sighs> Chauncey, you're a victim.
Schedule a follow up.
Maybe call out for the glories of your forefathers.
Yes it's true, nobody's perfect.
Only the past is permanent.
The name of each and every sorrow shall be
tattooed to your skull.

The government owns these thoughts.

Yes it's true, no body's perfect.
That in and of itself is the beauty and the banality.
It's an old concept, old as civilization itself. Control the symbols to control the thoughts to
control the masses.

Would you like to learn to read?