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Friday, August 25, 2006

Ice Cream Man

Hear that rickety music box jingle melody?
Do you see the ice cream truck just down the street?
With windows impenetrable from the rocks and dust
It's muted side menu just as weathered and beat

The wheels are all different shapes and odd sizes
Its white coat turned brown and yellow in places
There's a weird noise like a buzzing of bees
That follow along with the smiling childrens' faces

The kids call and run down along clean lawns
To the Ice Cream Man just up the way
There's a trail of oil that looks almost copper red
Through the sprinklers, they laugh and play

This clown car, it comes every day now
Never stopping to hand out the goods
The song seems so god damn familiar and friendly
At night, it disappears out into the woods

One may wonder if what lurks inside driving
Was not meant to quite ever crawl out
It's broken record lullaby song forever off key
Never stopping while all the little ones frolic about

-AP/MH 08-25-06

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Mr. Dirt

Mr. Dirt

Them voices they won’t go away
Ain’t no matter who I done kill
Can’t eat my morning flakes in peace
Without ‘em disturbin my breakfast meal

They kick me in the head to listen
And I plead and beg them wrong
Still keep their barkin’ & complainin’
After dozens of dem folks are gone

Still, they keep a gabbin’ & blabbin’
Pesterin’ all damn live day long
But I keep the red crude a runnin’
Yep, still flowin’ & goin’ strong

So I just keep on goin’ by the dirtside
Til there ain’t no road left to kill
Them voices won’t sleep or go away
And I’ll never seem to get my fill

-MH/AP 08-23-06

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Another clown poem


The clowns! The clowns!
How they come always around
When the weather is angry
And the sun long gone down

Taunting at my plated windows
With their wrapping on it’s glass
Under cover's quilting, I hide
In heaven's hopes, it will pass

With a knock knock
And some tap tap taps,
Each of them pull trinkets
From beneath colored caps

The fat one bears flowers
Big orange and fat red
Pointing it smiling, he squeezes
Petals wilting, soon dead

The thin one brings to you a doll
With one eye knocked clear out
From the socket, crawl maggots
Begging to enter fresh lipped pout

And lastly, is the tall one
Whose head is bald and grey
He tosses worms at the window
Warm and sticky, yearning to play

The clowns! The clowns!
When they come back around
Someone always comes up missing
Never again to be found

Only through the long winter
Dancing bone crazy in the rain
They gnash all about madly
Whispering softly my name
-AP/MH 08-22-06

Legends Wander

Redheaded Ralph was swiftly travelling South
On a rickety train being pelted with rocks of rain
His destination was a crotchety dust bowl cut town
Where the atmosphere was vermooth dry and rust brown

His straw hat pushed low to cover his furrowed brow
He chewed on thin sticks made of redwood and oak
Arms folded and rocking to the beat in his head
Heavy breathing, heavy heart always fighting a stroke

Remembering the woman he left behind with the years
The canteen to his side filled with whiskey and tears
Skin wrinkled yet tough like the bag on his back
His record is long yet was derailed from the track

The whistle blew long and hard like a banshee's wail
He laid back in the freight car, eyes cold on the rail
To sleep is to conjure the memories and great glories
Future books will be filled with his many true stories

-AP 08-22-06

The Tale Of Box Spring Susan

Her name was Box Spring Susan
She was used to the bruisin'
That Carl inflicted at night

Always awake and scared
Her pink flesh laid bared
She gripped the bottle too tight

One day she done well snapped
Too many whores had been slapped
The drawer was open, under the light

And when Carl came on home
He took three bullets to the dome
And Box Spring Susan felt high like a kite

-AP 08-22-06

Monday, August 21, 2006

Building Grounds

The monkey is on the pipe organ
And the dogs are at the gates
The fire is striking down from God
And the scraps lay at their plates

Inside the box, lies something
Darker than the dead
It's bleeding like a stuffed pig
A shade heavier than red

The chattering man in the corner
Howls and barks at the mortared brick
His face mishapen like a baseball mit
Plaid shirt covered in days old sick

The clutter amidst the rocky ground
Consists of cans, toys, and dolls
The chattering man's face is bleeding
A skull cap covers up his balls

The mountain men are busy hammering
In the spidered corners of this place
Nail upon nail into the wooded planks
To make room for the hangman's space

The air is tired from the old rope's burn
Ragweed burnt against bare feet
The dogs at the gate are whining
Hungry for the taste of living meat

The pine box is close to breaking
Inside it, the drum beat screams
The shards of fish bones come flying
Waking the monkey from crazy dreams

-AP 08-21-06

Saturday, August 19, 2006


She wakes up again soaked in thick angry rain
Her mane of hair is fiery like burnt red grain
Delicate thin wrists scratched dry and bloody cold
Bound tight to a crazy oak tree, bent forward and old

Her makeup is stained like broken body parts
Homeless men owned her like rusted shopping carts
Tattered up clothes and bare legged wet sex
She's open and inviting to the hot muscle flex

Hogtied like a circus freak against this bark
The severed limbs near her memory fire sparks
The beast was here with that salivary drip
She stings at the bite mark fresh on her left hip

A howl at the moon and a twitch in her cheek
Her bones slightly move like the water in the creek
Beastial moans groaning inside the lady's chest
This cover of skin removes easily just like a vest

The beast returns with crimson flesh fur
Her feminine ways make this forrest for her
On all fours now, she sprints as daylight comes soon
Stopping briefly on the cliff to howl at the moon

-AP 08-19-06

Saturday, August 12, 2006


I wake up and find myself here: leather seat, cigar smoked and coffee stained. It’s night or it’s black, I can’t tell. I find that I am in nondescript clothing and they aren’t mine. There’s a music playing that sounds muffled. I hear babies crying and I see blood dripping from trees as they move past.


I’m moving. Where the hell am I? I stand up and find that I am in a pretty small room. My feet find their balance and I feel like I am surfing the bus. When I was in high school, I’d surf the public transit. Meaning, germs were on the handles so I didn’t dare touch. So I surfed. Make sense? Good.

A scream comes from somewhere. Or is it the whistle? Whistle? Wait, am I on a train?!? How the fuck did this happen?

Memory loss.

I open the door and find the hallway packed with people. But they seem to be in a frozen catatonic state. It’s packed like sardines in here. It smells worse. I hear flatulence and I see death. I squeeze through this mess and feel random fluids on my skin. Someone’s breath becomes part of my neck and my hair. Urine is the cologne I smell.


The room I pass through is the dining car, I believe. There are empty plates and scattered utensils on the tables and some on the floor. I see dog men eating from a dish on the floor over there. And over here, there’s a half naked fat lady and she’s cutting his arm and letting the blood drip on her bare breasts. She looks at me and tells me it’s art. I look down and I find the nondescript clothes I was wearing are no more. I am dressed in stripes. Black and white. Red, all over?

Steam engine.

There’s a man in the back of this next room and he is shovelling coal. Shoveling coal, to where? Steam engine? Feeding the beast. Making it move through the night like a comet with a purpose. He looks at me and smiles. His breath reaches me in a dream like cartoon state and it motions me forward. His clothes are dirty and torn. He has an oily essence and he speaks in Portuguese.

Eyes close.

I still feel movement but suddenly all is lost visually. Hands are on me, covering me. Jerking me and poking me. I feel my clothes removed. I feel invaded and I feel pursuaded. Laughter and babies cries and scream and bloody tits. Cigar stains and coffee scent. The man shovels coal to keep the moon happy.


I wake up and find myself here: leather seat, cigar smoked and coffee stained.

It’s night or it’s black, I can’t tell.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

Family, Valued

The farmer in the Dell, he went straight to Hell
He didn't pass Go or collect that dollar bill
His hair was wet and matted to his face
A lifeless pet remained upon the window sill

His overalls spotted red from the hot Summer stain
Dug up soil and grass from the yard near the barn
The skinny cows lean against the tired oak trees
A permanent haze in the air felt thick like yarn

The burbon breath exhaled from the sky like rain
Pouring dryly upon the shallow horse graves
Little Mary was left in her room upstairs sleeping
In her mind repeating the words, "Jesus Saves"

Lined against the walls were porcelain dolls
Eyes never blinking while watching the girl
When she dreamt at night of unicorns and daisies
They would find laughter, dance, and twirl

Grandma Betsy was in the rocker, we hear
Eyes glazed, watching the old picture shows
Her skin greyish blue, matching her hair
Which was tied back with ribbons and bows

In the kitchen, once said, was Bill the young butcher
The well mannered son of this family, so troubled
He hung himself up on the old rusty meathook
At the corners of his mouth, his life left crusty and bubbled

It was all said and done when the house closed shop
The barn is said to be cold and hollow
Think of this next time you pass by this place
Others have entered, but you should never follow

-AP 08-05-06

Ferris Wheel Turning

The sky is afire with noise and technicolor signs
Sweat beads on the faces of carnival workers
The show is busy and long are the lines
Diamonds gleam like the eyes of shadow lurkers

Calliope dances in the childrens' playground minds
Hobo clowns on stilts, hop along drunk and singing
The air smells of sugar, beer, and stale pork rinds
Kids swat at the air, the mosquitos are stinging

The beared ladies convene behind the old red curtain
One Armed Jack smokes a cigarello beside the orange shack
Tophat Tim checks his watch for an hour, uncertain
A tattoo of a no faced Jesus stretches long down his back

Funhouse mirrors bend minds like aluminum spoons
Music, like cotton candy, linger dirty and sweet sticky
The dusty floors are covered with pieces of animan balloons
Your pockets are empty but the children stay picky

The night's at an end and the goat man waves and smiles
Laughter and cries lay muffled behind the heavy drapes
The carnival freaks hustle like happy slaves down the aisles
To their wooden cages, to dream like tired human apes.

-AP 08-05-06

Start Up

I wake up, tangled in a sea of wires
Swimming through electrical currents
Sinues of light and energy
Flight patterns, assigned
Caffeine intake, inevitable
Jumpstart the human heart
The mechanism is now online
This sea of wires is alive

-AP 08-05-07