You Are a Fine Man.

You met Richard Feynman at the flea market.
And this wasn’t in some pre-1988
Don’t Worry Be Happy universe.
This was now,
Motherfucker.

Richard Feynman was eyeballing a cardboard box full of canning supplies,
And you were looking for ice skates.

There he was,
Back from the dead.
You had never even heard of the Manhattan Project.
Did you give a rat’s ass for any double slit paradox?
No, you did not.

One dollar to enter.
A hand stamp for re-entry.

You watched briefly
Then said,
“Those rubber seals,
They’re all worn
Out.”

Göbekli Tempeh

Clearly
Somebody did something
Crazy.

Believe it,
There's somebody somewhere
Waiting.

Keep an eye on this one,
Motherfucker.

Even Art?

Believe in nothing.
Even art.

Chapter IV

In a greasy spoon cafeteria, I take stock of my situation. I briefly ponder the pandemonium in my head and seriously consider aborting this trip altogether.

I am falling in and out of love with the waitress as I peruse the menu and wonder which way is up. I am hopelessly, fearlessly, head-over-heels when she cuts into the key lime pie... sickeningly alone and black-hearted, watching as she refills the coffee maker... love-sick as a secret book of poems while she wipes down the lunch counter and finally I’m in the throes of dejected depression as she comes to take my order.

This behaviour, I assume to accurately surmise, is no way out. Of course, this is no way in either, so in the interest of inertia and remaining true to all the truths of the cosmos, I shall carry on.

Enter, Mr. M.R. Yao, Esq.

The Joke Is On Him.

Leo Cooper is searching through bins of dusty LPs
At the used record store in my head.

He is looking for copies of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass' "____________________".

The used record store is in my head.
I can make anything happen here.

So I stop time,
Remove all Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass records,
"____________________" or otherwise,
Set them on fire in the middle of the store
And restart time.

Leo Cooper is befuddled.
One could say he is dumbfounded.
I would say the joke is on him.

Leo Cooper storms out of the used record store in my head
And I spend the night warming my hands
Over Herb Alpert's smoldering ruins.

The Very Next Mourning.

There is another me
Somewhere.
Out there.
And he spoke to me
In my head.
I was on a Greyhound bus.

He had a very confusing,
Yet ultimately believable explanation
About how all this was happening.

At the next stop
I changed my ticket
To include a stop
In my other self's hometown.

I'm getting
To the bottom.
Of.
This.

Paranoid Love Song #4.

You have always reminded me
Of that greatest ever
Sub
Atomic
Particle.

You are two different things
Dependant,
Bizarrely,
On my perspective.

Without you,
There shall be no light.

Without you,
Where would the grand forces of electromagnetism start
And end?

The universe is judged
In accordance with your
Velocity.

But what happens to you
When the switch
Is turned
Off?

Surely, you must be joking.

The Night I Saw Emil Zátopek Get a High Score On Q*Bert.

Emil Zátopek had a stack of quarters
As high as three joysticks.
He was, as usual, a man on a mission.

Was this Emil Zátopek's first time?
Could he do it all again?
Would I bear witness to greatness?

So I asked him.
"Emil Zátopek," I said,
"Should I be taking pictures
Or something?"

"@!#?@!?", said Emil Zátopek.

Of Morning.

Not knowing how to plan a funeral,
How to dispose of assets,
How to inform family members,
Friends,
Acquaintances.
None of it.

I bought a ticket
On a bus
Bound for the middle
Of nowhere.

And left the details
To the state.

There will be no requiem.

In Which Louis Riel Goes Visiting and Gets Into a Tight Place.

Last night, in the alley behind my apartment building, Louis Riel got his hand stuck in the dumpster.

The dumpster, of course, is padlocked to discourage any misdemeanor behaviour,
Like taking garbage.
Or adding garbage.

I heard moans of not quite agony coming from the leader of the Red River Rebellion
And went
To investigate.

I was only wearing gym shorts
And bathroom slippers.
It was a thick,
Hot,
Muggy night.
A real cicada summer.

Louis Riel! I called.
How'd you get all caught up in that dumpster?

Louis Riel! I added.
Can I call you Dave?

Louis Riel had some cockamamie story about trying to dispose of a baggie full of dog poop.
But I didn't see any dog.
And why not just drop the so-called baggie full of dog poop in the trash can on the corner?
Eh, Louis Riel?

Stop right there, Dave! I said to Louis Riel.
You know, I continued,
If my mother happened to be 125 years old
She would have been born
On the day
Of your
Execution.

Think about that, Dave.
Think about that.

Goodbye, Dr. Jukes.

No One Reads My Poetry Blog.

No one reads my poetry blog.
And there's some decent shit
On there.
Epic fucking poems.
Cry your eyes out shit,
If you ask me.

I was going to change
The theme
Of my poetry blog.
I was going to change
My blog
Into a sports fan blog.

Amateur analysis.
Ardent bravado.
Loud-mouthed bluster.

But then I got a secret
Note,
In the guise of a comment,
Under one of my best
Poems.
Ever.

It was a request,
From the Soviet Union.
The U.S.S. fucking R.
The secret police.
The goddamn KGB.

Codes.
Messages.
Embedded in these lines.
Verses.
Stanzas.
Et cetera.

No problem.
I'll do it.
I don't owe this
Society
Nothing.

There are drunken parakeets
In Banja Luka
Tonight.

Lynn Peak, solo mission. 18/03/10

Me and Marx Together in a Hot Tub.

I met Karl Marx in the hot tub at my community centre pool,
Last week.
I was shocked, but I've come to expect
The unexpected.
I asked Karl Marx about Das Kapital,
Then I made a Groucho joke.

Karl Marx looked at me like I was an asshole.
But I was just being friendly.

I told Karl Marx
That I had been thinking
About creating
My own
Manifesto.

Karl Marx got up,
Toweled off,
And left without saying good-bye.

Of Night.

The old man was dead,
When I got home.
But I thought he was sleeping,
So I went to bed.
Left him in his easy chair,
To rot.
Or fester.
Or just sit there,
Until tomorrow afternoon.

It'll Never Fly

Leo Cooper, in a bid to become jet propelled,
was hard at work in his basement workshop.

His nose, as they say, was to the grindstone.

Leo Cooper's anti-gravity boots might as well
have been powered by unicorn dust.

It'll never fly. I told him that.

Leo Cooper took a break, went upstairs,
made Sanka for himself and me.

I took artificial whitener.
Leo Cooper? He takes his Sanka black.

A Poem About Leo and His Uncle.

I don't know if Leo Cooper, the real Leo Cooper, has an Uncle, Ray or otherwise. I assume not. Don't take it personal, we are all Leo Cooper.


Leo Cooper was at his weird Uncle Ray's place,
For the afternoon.

Weird uncle Ray was as old as dust.
As old as lies.
As old as treachery.

Leo Cooper and weird, old Uncle Ray,
Were digging graves,
In the back garden.

"Not so shallow!" barked Uncle Ray.
"Make the walls even!" demanded Uncle Ray.

Leo Cooper dug graves all afternoon.
Not too shallow,
Not deep enough to disguise,
What always would be.

Hands blistered,
Face streaked with mud and sweat,
Leo Cooper sat with weird Uncle Ray,
Watching the summer sunshine fade into the end of the day.

Slowly sipping cold, tall, sweet lemonade,
Each lost in thoughts of their own.

5 Year Plan.

Henry Slade Talbot is coming back one day.
I know this,
I read it in Plain Truth magazine.

Henry Slade Talbot has been down so long,
That he's in a bowl full of cherries.
He's a mess.

And no amount of pain,
Torture,
Bloodletting,
Horrors unspeakable,
Will keep me from getting on the next bus out of town.

I'm on my way to lie,
At the feet of,
Henry Slade Talbot.

The reckoning is nigh.

Veronica.

Here's the story of this weird girl I knew when I was eight years old. Her family joined a cult and moved away. I wonder if she's ever written a poem about me?

In 1976
You and yours
Walked into the blackout.
Blinded.

Veronica called
And someone listened.
They found you
Hiding.
Hidden.
Blinded.
Bitten.

Lunar Eclipse.

Venus Flytrap vs. Bug

The boy and myself made this.

Fuckin' Rat.

Paranoid Love Song #3.

I’m hiding in this cold, dark alleyway,
Digging at the base of my skull with a protractor.
I know it’s in there.
Somewhere.

I was on my way to see you,
When someone began to follow me.
Silent footsteps,
But I knew I was not alone.
I took evasive action.

I’m being watched.
It could be the old woman collecting cans and bottles,
Or the silhouette in that dimly lit apartment.
Or the paperboy,
Or the family next door.

Why couldn’t it have been you?
Staring into my eyes?
Our love, more powerful than this,
Remote controlled listening device.

Why couldn’t it be you?

Paranoid Love Song #2.

I would have called,
But I can’t say my name,
Over the telephone line.

Just when I thought,
Everything was going to be,
Alright.

I saw this story on the news,
And if I can do one thing,
I can read between the lines.

I heard what that,
Foreign correspondent,
Said.

About you.
About me.

I should have called.

Paranoid Love Song #1

I’ll be the aluminum foil,
Over your living room window.

If you’ll be the microscopic microphone,
In my smoke alarm.

No microwaves from any CIA satellite,
Will ever reach you.

As long as my voice transmits,
A scrambled frequency,
To whoever’s been sneaking around here all night long.

And if I ever see a black helicopter,
Hovering over your favourite spot.

I’ll send out a signal with the electrode,
That’s implanted in my head.

That’ll confuse those fuckers,
More than you or I could ever dream.

In which the boy and myself go looking for eagles.

There was evidence on the ground...


We saw their home...


Sam found leftovers...


But no eagles did we see.

Another Poem About Leo

Holy crap, I'm on a roll. Here's the second (as yet untitled) in a series of poems about the fictional life of Leo...

Leo Cooper found himself sitting in a small tavern in Dublin, Ohio.
And he didn't "find himself" in any spiritual or existential way, either.
He just walked in and there, seated at the bar, behind a half-pint of Budweiser, was another Leo Cooper.

Shocked, the original Leo Cooper quietly took a seat in a booth by the door.
He pondered the menu and settled on a pint of lager and a steak sandwich.
Waiting for his food and sipping his beer, Leo Cooper couldn't take his eyes off himself.

Leo Cooper found himself sitting in a small tavern in Dublin, Ohio.
And he didn't "find himself" in any spiritual or existential way, either.
He was just sitting at the bar, behind a half-pint of Budweiser, when in walked another Leo Cooper.

Shocked, the seated Leo Cooper watched in the mirror behind the bar as his other self took a seat in a booth by the door.
He reached for a peanut from the bowl in front of him and took a long drink of his beer.
Cracking peanut shells and nervously fidgeting with a racing form, Leo Cooper couldn't take his eyes off himself.

What if the two Leo Coopers got drunk and started a fight with one another?
Would the sky fall?
Would the sun continue to rise in the east?
Set in the west?
Would this clock continue to tick?
Or is it already broken?

Poems About Leo

Since I've recently decided that I am a poet, and since this revelation was reached through the guidance of my associate Leo, I have decided to write a series of poems based on his fictional life. I don't know much about Leo, so as you read these poems please bear in mind that any resemblance to the real Leo, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Right then. Here's the first (as yet untitled) in what I hope to be a wonderful collection of poetry involving Leo...


Leo Cooper left our hometown in a taxi that he stole from a 7-11 parking lot.
One should never leave their vehicle, taxicab or otherwise, idling in a 7-11 parking lot.
Not in this town, at any rate.

Leo Cooper drove his newly acquired taxi as far west as the gas tank would take him.
He abandoned the car at the side of the highway and hitched a ride into the closest town.
At the Greyhound station the coffee filled Leo's mind with tiny, brilliant explosions.

Leo Cooper, at a different time and a different place, could make one hell of a cup of coffee.
That former Sabre had nothing on Leo Cooper.

When our hometown falls into a giant sinkhole,
When stars collide and this place goes spinning off into the great, wild unknown,
They'll still be talking about the day Leo Cooper stole that taxi from the 7-11.

I am a poet. This is a poem.

Leo always asks for a poem when I speak to him. And I think to myself, "I'm no poet, why ask me?" Well, I've changed. I have decided that yes, I am indeed a poet. Why not? So here, dear reader, is a poem...


ME AND JOHN CAGE IN A DIVE BAR.

I met John Cage one night in a little bar by my work.
Some nights I stop in there for a drink before I go home.
I like the bartender, but some of the regulars can be pains in the ass.
John Cage was drinking a whiskey sour.

I had a ginger ale.

"Is this a song?" I asked John Cage.
He sort of sighed and ordered another drink.
"Sometimes," John Cage said to me, "I just like a quiet drink, okay?"

Okay.

"But you're dead, John Cage.
Don't tell me this isn't poetry!"
John Cage just sat there,
Staring into space.

Corpse Money

1.

They've found six dead children about twenty blocks from my house.

I'm not waking up to this so I hit the snooze button and go back to sleep. Seven minutes later, some kind of personnel carrier is involved in a major accident that has one of the local bridges shut down. I assume bodies are strewn all over the roadway, so I hit the snooze button again and go back to sleep. I plan to stay in bed until the newscaster inside my bedside clock-radio delivers some happy news.

After another seven minutes some more rationing orders are proclaimed, but it's only butter and I could care less. Snooze.

A handful more seven minutes' roll by and I am eventually rewarded for my patience by a cute little human interest story about a boy and a dog and a rowboat. As I reach across my bedside table to turn on the electric kettle, I realise that this is going to be a bad day. I'm down to my corpse money and the rent is due.


2.

The corpse money is sixty dollars. I found it some months ago in the jacket pocket of the first casualty in my neighbourhood. The guy had been shot in the forehead and left to die in the front seat of his car. Some local kids found the guy and I was the first adult on the scene.

I was putting on airs of responsibility for the benefit of the kids, ostensibly looking through the corpse's belongings for identification or some other pertinent information, when I grabbed the thin wad of folded twenties. I instinctively pocketed the cash, although at the time I wasn't overly concerned about my financial state. I was hoping to find the dead man's gun.

As I said, this happened months ago. Things have quickly changed around here. Shortly after I came into possession of the corpse money the police all but stopped performing their civic duties. They still patrol the streets, but there's no way they'd respond to a call about one lousy dead guy in a car.


3.

Things have taken a drastic turn for the worse since I got the corpse money. There's the fighting of course, but I don't suppose sixty dollars could be to blame for all that. Even I'm not so paranoid as to lose all belief in coincidence.

The theoretical feces began to make contact with the proverbial axial-flow oscillator shortly after I returned to my room that fateful day.