revised poems

The Blues
By: Thomas P. Sloan

I could never eliminate all the pain and suffering
That weighs us down like rain soaked packs,
Burdening our journey on soggy paths.

I could never solve anything.

I can’t turn anything invisible or make it porous,
So when you look at it – its not there
Or when you feel it – it disintegrates in your hand.

I never wanted to, I never wanted to
Gloss over a rough patch with Park Avenue moisturizer scrubs,
Or conquer the South Beach Paradise
Miracle fucking
Weight loss
So I could be glistening and not sweaty on my
Gold plated turbo rocket ski-doo in my
Hovercraft pool I had made out of dinosaur bones.
I didn’t want to

If you gave me a list of everyone who wanted write words to
Fix things forever,
I’d name my father’s tumors after them.

And it’s simple
Fucking
Words.

I couldn’t lull the rifle out of a drunken Serb
As he pumped a round into the skull of
An old Albanian lady.
If I did he’d think less than her
Scatterbrained self would.

I couldn’t

These Disneyland fairytailers want to put a rainbow on
Every storm drain and call it a wishing well.
Just so our poor and hungry don’t wash up
Down in the gutter,
Thinning wine and blaming
Those who didn’t help them, no!

I wanted to paint something.
I wanted to paint me a cavernous waste shore.
I wanted to let the rocks!

I wanted to scream out to the hipsters out my window, coolly
And the jazzy jive brothers flipping coins under streetlamps,
When the air is thick, warm and muggy, like sex in cars
Cars that ring sirens outside my window that
Ring like a waltz or curly hair in the night with one perfect flower pinned above the ear
That left one single note
That was, get this, Blue!

Why not?

I wanted to carry my problems around on my belt
And wear them outside my pants for all the honest world to feel
I wanted them to listen to me like the voices on the TV
‘Til their tired and their eyes go heavy.

I never wanted to tell anyone anything
Because I might miss them, Why?
I wanted to feel that.
I wanted to appreciate what hurts.
For everybody,
All anyone can do with it, what hurts,
Their pain,
Their tree of woe.
Aches
Desires, laments, lust, loss,
Hurt.

I didn’t want to cradle their head and tell them it was just a scratch,
That they’d be fine, crying.

I wanted to contribute and give them the American dream.
And the only tangible contribution of Americanism is
That we don’t try and hide our problems,
There’s no neglect.
We don’t kill them and
They don’t kill us.

We keep them, give them names and flirt with them in bars.
Everyone does and
We appreciate it.

I wanted to take that hurt and put it in a ball and
Keep it
In the corner of my room,
Not to have all day but
To walk around and appreciate sometimes.

Like a perfect beat up couch or an old lamp.
I wanted to help,
And pay my dues,
So you could as well,
And feel it too.




The Walking Dead
When we die, hell will go wild,
Roses burn and spears are fired.
And we shouldn’t expect to go to heaven,
Just to be strangers there.

We can drag our crayons across the canvas,
Instead of walking in the normal way.
We can make lenses out of wax paper,
For glasses, so we can see, we’ll say.
And that’s all we see anyway.

We can abandon hope,
Or we can live every breath of love.
We can fold our hands and pray,
Pray that someone listens above.
Pray that our words are enough.

This is when our muscles contract,
How we react says a lot for our souls.
If we possess the strength to hold fast,
Or if we’ll make a life of death and holes.
Abandoned and empty from time and its tolls.

And when we’re born, hell goes wild,
Rivers flood and the father smiles.
And I don’t want to believe in heaven,
Just for everyone to go there.
 

Shameless Hack on Billy Collins, Son of McHack

"My New Song"

I tell them about my new song,
How it goes, vaguely,
Explaining the attitude.

I tell them it’s about prison.

How it makes you want to growl
The blues like a caged man.

I tell them the chords are easy
But the texture is tough.

I tell them it’s cool like ambien,
And smooth as heroin on a warm night,
Where you could relax and listen to it outside.

But they shoot its brains with their scoffs
And get life sentences without parole, becoming
Aryan brothers and stab a brother 74 times.

They need to pound its face for hours
To truly feel out its rhythm.

Between This World and the Next

Before the bones in my legs unhook
And release the coiled spring in them,
I will draw in and inflate my chest,
And pack everything from this world I can.

And as I pierce the membrane on the surface
I’ll bid farewell to this old realm of mine
And find the treasures of the depth,
And secrets kept from space and time.

The fish explode and all is behind,
This wonder kept behind the wall
Under the surface of shimmering gloss.
Where is Poseidon on his coral throne?

And the pearls! The pearls! They sparkle
Stars punctuated in the briny wash.
On the bottom, they spin and dance
Trading partners with seahorses and sharks.

As the dance concludes, I find I’ve packed to light,
Suspended in place I wish I could stay for the ball,
I must return like balloons to the sky,
Or else I’ll stay with them, their eternal guest.

Creature

“I looked for a man, but could not see.
I looked for god but he eluded me.
I looked for an alcoholic and found all three.”
-Barney Sloan, Twin Oaks Resort 1980

I have a major problem you see
I tend to let my thoughts run a little too free.
That’s one of the many problems with me,
And that’s the way it’s got to be.
Its been that way since I was three.
Even worse, it runs in my family tree.

There’s a lot of history in that tree,
Ever since it uprooted and crossed the sea,
With its branches many but leaves only three.
They were among the huddled masses yearning to be free,
And they were about to be,
Then it comes to me.

You must know it didn’t start with me.
It goes up the family tree.
Like honey comes with the bee,
We all can handle our drink, you see.
It’s our right and this country is free,
So what’s the matter with one or twenty-three?

I think the responsible number is three,
But what amateur counts? Not me!
And I can get most drinks for free.
I might break a glass or piss on a Tree,
Usually I go until it’s hard to see.
I think that the only way to be.

And that’s the way it’s gonna be,
I don’t want to stop at three.
That’s the problem you can’t see,
It really isn’t up to me.
It wasn’t up to my family tree.
We’re slaves to it, we’re not free.

But when exactly are you no longer free?
How bad do you have to be?
Is it when you wrap your car around a tree?
How about DUI? I know a guy who got away with three.
But how does any of this help me?
I know you got to open your eyes if you want to see.

Two Story Hotel

I.
I’ve got a room full of walls,
A bottle of wine—
And I can screen your calls
Because I don’t want to tie up the line.

There’s a cozy bed I can’t sleep,
And a lonely view—
Where I can count the days I’ve been gone
Away from you, in halfway room four hundred and two.

And I hate this hotel when theres nothing to do.
Two crying eyes, one’s on the side of my face and the other’s with you,
You took it where you’ve gone.

II.
I’ve got a desk and a phone,
And Valium—
Letters in my drawer
That I can never leave alone.
And all the boys tell me not to wait for you,
I say they’re wrong—
But I don’t want to be a fool
And it might be wrong but you’ve been gone, you’ve been gone too long.

And I hate this hotel when theres nothing to do.
Two crying eyes, one’s on the side of my face and the other’s with you,
You took it where you’ve gone.

Erotic Poem Assignment

Tendin' the Backyard

One time an Ex-Girlfriend, whose name I'll omit
wanted to experiment
with anal beads.

We put each pink bead inside of her
one by one, one by one and
she'd clench more with each.

But when it came tiem to take them out
I didn't know the proper way
and pulled them out like I
was starting a lawnmower.

I cried when she dumped me.

Hunter by Thomas P. Sloan

It’s not about the kill, it’s about the hunt.
It the predatory tracking that
Corners the prey and seals the deal.
Where ever there is an alpha male
Setting the crosshairs on bigger game:
The hunt is on.



Uncle Joey from Full House, a Haiku by Thomas P. Sloan
Cops caught Dave Coulier
Diddlin’ kids at the park.
Charges have been pressed

The Old Bull and The Empty

Where is the—Swimming Bird?
Where is the—Running Bear?
The moon had shown every side and in this season, hid.
The corn would not grow—and our horses grew sick.
The wind it hurts my cheeks and the words—
Slits my throat.
I have nowhere to go,
With a canteen of water and one of corn liquor.
Endless desolation of rocks, trees and mirrors,
I have a long journey ahead but too much time.
So I drag my pack.