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.

Untitled

She shows up unannounced when she’s high,
And wants to hide in my arms when she’s low.
She leaves eye shadow stains on my shirt,
And amber strands across my pillow
—Then leaves them for me to clean.

She steals sips of my beer at the bar,
‘Cuz sometimes she gets tired of wine.
She never buys her own cigarettes,
She’d rather just bum one of mine
—Then blows from the side of her mouth.

She knows I love to drink dry martinis,
And I always order one when we go out.
She knows I hate the olive so barehanded,
She pulls it out and puts it in her mouth
—Then grins as she chews.

She’s always loud when she comes,
And when she comes, oh Lord,
I want here to stay as long as she can.
When I’m with her I’m not bored.
—She knows this.

Troubles

Against the famine and the crown, deliver us
Against the prison ships and taxes, deliver us
Against oppression and secession, deliver us
Against the homeless, tempest, tossed, deliver us
Against the wretched refuse yearning to breathe free
Against the waves as the crash in the sea
Against the time and decay, against the new day
Against a new generation in Americay
Against the long hours of the day
Against all odds and against the rules
Against money made with sweat and tools
Against the free world and what is said
Against a lifetime and God is dead
Against those left back in Down
Against the Crown
Against the Crown
Against the Crown
Deliver us

Shameless Hack on Patricia Smith: Part Two McHack's Revenge!

Why Chicago Is

Warm whiskey pours forth from the deep speaker cone,
Three brothers peel the soul and rhythm from their women
Songs from Waters, Wells, Willie, Williamson. They look side to side
Feeling the full force of the real Blues they can put into you
By living in that electric lake of paying dues and playing for us.
They work for their tall shoulders and sweat gin.

This is why Chicago is—
To tell of gravel gut and heart with style,
The reason not to confuse it’s the real Home of the Blues,
The remaining refuge Robert would say still looked Blue
Blue and blue alone, not soaked in neon pink and steel guitars,
Or jaded in mold of stagnant river mouth runoff.
Its people who still need to work and build wrought iron bridges—
Sing at the base of skyscrapers,
Thin Jim Beam on the train,
Or nab them a Coog who still looks good.

The bars will never close, the wind neither and beats thumps,
The guitar goes from waggin’ its dick in your face
To gently holding controlled sobs.
We breathe the free air till dawn,
And clink our wrenches against the rust,
Atlasing O’Hare or Hancock on our big shoulders.
each river gently flowing will hit the commercial tree and rolls rapids.
And we say hard vowels: at least a real lot, yeah, constantly.

Streetball: A Sonnet

Pass me the rock while I steampunk these fools!
Homie like MJ gon’ light you up like Kools.
Don’t bring that trash in my house you clownin’ hacks.
Home boy gon’ lay mad hoops as you lay tracks.
Now bring what you got, I got you on D,
I might be white, but I got game in me.
You bring the noise, I’ll bring the rain and funk.
I move and shake and rawdog when I’m drunk.
I eat fools like you each occaision I
shoot my hoops by the cage at ninth and vine.
I drop it like its hot like no other,
and you know its hot up in here brother.
And I love to trick these fools while they hatin’
Go back to yo’ stank ass momma boy, she waitin’.

Shameless hack on Patricia Smith

Cadillac

The impact was magnetic, metallic attraction.
Cold connection made from infrastructure and status symbols
On rails, railed roads spike with lights aligned together.
Or perhaps poles like deer, can be dumb motherfuckers.

The square glasses made another light their nose.
The steel crumpled,

Jagged,
Twisted,
Stabbing.

The pelvic bone bore the battering ram.
The knee crushes the dash,
The face hits the glass,
The ball breaks the socket [the airbag] it explodes
And the mind wanders.

The characters never change.
Jim Beam, The Father, The Son and the Holy Spirit
And Doctor Jimenez, that cocky asshole.

The phone is answered before it rings and he already knows.
The curtain draws, the band plays and the crowd cheers.
As Zeus and Cronos, time stops.
He’s killed his father.

The Autobiography

I am as most people know me, aloof.
I don’t care about many things and won’t
Suffer details about things I do
Or the things I don’t.
I’ve never spoken seriously.
I don’t believe a thing I say, I mean less
If I was someone else I wouldn’t like me,
But I am me and I love me best.

I’ve feigned depth and walked with wolves,
I’ve seen the impossible come and pass.
I could’ve been remarkable
If I wasn’t so damn working class.

I’ve got broad shoulders on my back and
I’ve calloused palms, also feet.
I’ve built houses with my hands,
And very rarely will I eat meat.
My muscles are lean and fibrous,
I drink beer and smoke cigarettes.
I can run, swim and be tireless.
But I like building best.

I’ve acted tough and laughed too hard
I come off loud and crass,
I could’ve been an athlete
If I wasn’t so damn working class.

I have some precious gifts in me and
I can make music or write my thoughts.
I’ve built a knack for getting by
Without ever being taught.
I can crunch the numbers well
And beef my right ass pocket.
I prefer to create and not to sell
And play the blues, even rock it.

I still can’t breathe in space
But I’m never late for mass.
I could’ve been a genius
If I wasn’t so damn working class.

My arms were built to punish and
My words leans towards aggression.
But my face was built to smile and kiss
My hands for holdin’ - and carressin’
I’ve let so many people down and
Took dead aim and missed,
I’ve given up on finding mine
Because I know she don’t exist.

I’ve closed some ground and made some tracks
And I burn every bridge I pass.
I could’ve been a dreamboat
If I wasn’t so damn working class

I want to swim through every river and
Want to be able to cry when I’m sad.
I’m gonna scholarize and I’m gonna fight
And I want my kids to call me dad.
I want to build more buildings and
Fight in our next war.
I want to change as much as I do
And go where I haven’t been before.

I always dance across the Kennedy
Cause it hurts to watch cars whizz past.
I could be whatever I want
If I wasn’t so damn working class.

If I could do it again I’d change everything
And when I draw in my last,
I could’ve done so many things
If I wasn’t so damn working class.

Reader's Responses

Reader’s Response
Writing and knowing

“We’ve been told again and again to write what we know but we don’t trust that advice.”

“These and other poets began with the simple idea that what they saw and experienced was important to record, and that the modest facts of their lives, what they knew within the small confines of their limited, personal worlds, could contain the enduring facts and truths of the larger world.”

“No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.”

“No one can call herself a poet unless she questions her ideas, ethics, and beliefs.”*******

“Good writing works on one premise: your experience is not yours alone, but in some sense a metaphor for everyone’s.”
 
Reader’s Response
The Music of the Line

“There is often no single correct way to do it.”

“Poets need to tune their ears as finely as musicians; that’s why reading poems aloud is a good idea, including your own poems as you write them.”

“The rhythms of certain lines also serve to intensify the contrasts in the poem.”

“Line lengths, ultimately, are something you develop a knack for by fooling around with them.”

“As we said earlier, there are no real rules, only effects.”
 
Readers Response
Images

“Images are closely linked to memory, that in fact many of our memories consist of images.”

“Magic. That’s what an image should do, produce a bit of magic, a reality so real it is ‘like being alive twice’”

“Images aren’t primarily visual.”

“Images are the rendering of your bodily experience in the world.”

“Never ask a question you can’t answer.”

Readers Response
Voice and Style
“We read contemporary writers and imitate their line breaks, or their similes, and worry that we shouldn’t, that we’ll only create bad reproductions instead of original works.”

“Beginning writers often sound remarkably alike, because they have the same limited range of choice; they haven’t yet discovered a wider range.”

“Writing and reading are the only ways to find your voice.”

“Ezra Pound said, “poetry should be at least as well-written as prose,” and we agree; bad grammar doesn’t fly in either one.”

“Know your work. Being aware of your stylistic strengths and weaknesses will not only help you grow, but will help you deal with criticism from others.”


Reader’s Response
Simile and Metaphor
“The use of figurative language isn’t a new skill; it’s one you already know.”

“One difference between good and not-so-good poets is that the good ones recognize when they’ve written stuff that deserves to be dumped, and load up the trucks.”

“Strong similes and metaphors are integral to a poem’s meaning; they aren’t merely clever comparisons tacked on.”

“Another thing about the figurative: it gives you access to words and images that wouldn’t be there otherwise.”

“This is one of the pleasures of both reading and writing poems: the recasting of one thing in terms of another, the revelation of the ways outwardly different can be seen to have a similar core.”

Boom City

Take off you pants and prepare to boom,
The kind of boom that makes flowers bloom,
The boom up your ass that stinks up the room.
Or post coitus boom when the coitus ends
The sweaty kind of boom you could text your friends.
Its why there are dudes who saw New Moon,
It’s the clamor that spurred all the media boom.
Its boomin’ inside all the fancy bars,
It sells perfume and pointy red cars.
Its that girl in a tree outside your room,
Its her Nikon camera with telescopic zoom.
It made Sinatra croon and all the ladies swoon,
So mommies and daddies could also boom.
It put the bug inside the cocoon
So he could could too, he wants to boom!
Even cowboys boomed in the saloon,
They boomed up the hoop of a prostitute.
The boom that makes the sky consume,
And fall to the sea in a great typhoon.
Boom like Brooke Shields on Blue Lagoon.
Its the flowers that are laid outside your tomb.
The equilateral triangle that seals your doom.
It’s a shame, its a chore, its a purpose, its a pity,
Its real fuckin’ real now. Boom city.

In My Own Skin

Tattoo parlors always smell like Vaseline,
You can smell it when they grind on my flesh.
And in one of the most ridiculous places,
Sits the forbidden, hidden when I’m dressed.

People generate different reactions to it,
Some say terrible, some really don’t mind.
It doesn’t matter to me either way,
They got their skin and don’t bother mine.