Underground Poets

2006-09-04T08:48:00.000-07:00

Underground Poets, I don't remember when I became a member, but recently I have been enjoying reading blogs, including the poetry here. I wanted to let you all know about Guerrilla Poetics Project, http://mjp.us/, and if anyone here would be interested in spreading the word. Be well, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal.

2006-04-13T15:57:00.000-07:00

THE RAIN,
THE WIND ON THE RIVER
& PISSING AIN'T NO FUN
NO MORE

Last night it rained
like the Gods had a toothache.

The little river
beside the awkward house
floods, as high and fast
as a pissing contest.

Millions of gallons
of weak chocolate water
surge due West
.
Enough good dirt
goes suspended by
in an hour
to make a 100 year
garden on a lava cap.

Seen through the long barrel
of a rifle, the world is small.
It grows in a telescopic sight,
the cross hairs angling for muscle,
searching for blood.

The rear view mirror is empty.
The driver goes blind
and the cross hairs settle in
under the sound of rushing water.

A man sits on a stump
and dreams that he is a tree.
Just then a President
steps out of the fog,
tells him he is on fire
and pisses on him.

While he attempts
to dry his clothes
in the soft heat of summer
an angel appears and quietly cuts his throat.

There is the soft breath of wind on the river,
the dead dog
& Pissing just ain't no fun no more.

--Ben L. Hiatt
Writ during a wet winter in River Pines
In another Century
http://benhiatt.com/

2006-03-05T19:41:00.000-08:00

SPRING:
in a Century we are just beginning to learn.

The Bearded Lady
weeps

and each of us
stares back
from
the wrinkled depths
of her simian eyes

She would love us
if we could allow it

A small dog
extends a hot red tongue
licks the smile
from her face

In the distance we hear
the first of the bombs

& reach for our guns
one more time
as the last of our youth
walks away.

--Ben L. Hiatt

2005-06-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

granny

granny's kitchen always
smelled of tea cakes
the little flat golden
sugar cookies she made
like no one else

my cousin wendell was
six months older than i
and we'd have eating contests
at one family reunion i
drank 29 sodas and ate
two pecan pies but wendell
always beat me by a pie
and several sodas

we could eat pounds of
those golden cakes
topped off with a
platter of homemade fudge
and a gallon of ice cream
after coming in from
hoppy and roy at
the park theater

but old granny just
kept rolling the dough
and restocking the cokes
and making the fudge
and smiling like she always did
old faded blue eyes twinkling
like stylized pictures of santa

granny has been gone
20 years now but I still miss her
every day

when passing her house
on paris avenue i almost expect
to see her waving from the swing
on her front porch

her eyes sparkling like
old blue stones
polished by the
river of years

2005-06-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

sitting here tonight
minding my
own business
there's a crashing
at the front door

it's crazy doobie
with pictures
of ghosts
he says
handing
them to me
"put them in
the newspaper!"

he's all excited
I knew he'd
been here
hunting me
earlier
today while
i was gone

had the
pictures of ghosts
with him then too

after he left
i looked
at them
under light

a couple of
simple pictures
with a light
leak on
the film
at the same
end of
both frames
same basic
shape

no ghosts these
just a
fucked camera

and it
dawned on me
that if doobie
became parvenu
he would
rush out
buy a
hasselblad
break it
within 2 days
and be making
ghost pictures
with it

that is if
the ufo's that
swarm
his house
didn't get him
first

2005-01-22T09:04:00.000-08:00

ROOTING FOR THE ROOSTER

4 A.M. and
Somebody woke
The neighbor's rooster up
I stepped outside just now
To feed my death
And listened while he
Tried to conjure up
A bright
December sun

No word
From the coyote
Down the ridge

This time of day
He's curled up warm
Or
Running loose and easy
As he tracks
His breakfast down

It's that middle part
Of the nightmare
Where the broken edges
Go grinding off
Between the disappearing
Darkness
And a day too new for naming

The clocks have stopped and
Almost everyone's afraid
But they'll get up
To cheer that rooster on
And listen for better song.

Ben L. Hiatt
Mt Aukum
(seemed like it was time to move those "gratings" on around the bend)

2004-12-25T11:18:00.000-08:00

Seasoned Gratings

and a

Harpy New Year

2004-12-16T09:06:00.000-08:00

THE WORLD'S GONE BLIND

As I've moved
Through the various
Definitions of my life
It felt to me
That I slipped through
Quick and easy
Until this last
Go round

Now
Things fall down
And don't get up again

Parts of me
Just disappear
As though
The world
Went blind

They've started carting off my tools

Since we can afford propane
It shouldn't matter
That the only chain saw left
Won't start or that
There is an empty space
Where I used to stack the wood

Some folks admire
The neater look
But they never raised a callous
Cutting wood or loved
The chain saw's dying scream
From the other side of
Hard earned sweat
Once you have ~ You don't forget

--Ben L. Hiatt

WE LOST A FEW
For Annie

"Tarzan Laughs at no man's god!"
Tarzan, himself, explained
To me
In a book when I
Became a worded child

It's been 40 years
And those words still ring

We lost a few
To Awkward Gods
Along the way

One that went looking
Came back with diamond eyes
But his words were off
And he was
Hard to listen to

Another found a way
To go inside
But went too far
And never made it back
At all

We've all wandered
Near the edge
As we've reached
For words
To pull us through.

When you're a Poet
That's a thing you do.

--Ben L. Hiatt

2004-10-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

Dances with Justice

winter approaches man and beast bringing
similar slow-down to movement that's hindered
by the weight of concrete calendars carried
in bodies that rise at the pace of the sun

her bed in the corner, an old futon mattress
and torn Coleman sleeping bag that survived years of travel,
gathers heat from the radiator, soothing sore hips,
keeping muscles from feeling the night's chill in hardwood

within the same room, across a brown, braided rug
sits a well crafted rocker with high padded back
the only seat left that relieves pained sciatic
aching its way through the wet autumn chill

on really bad days buffered aspirin and biscuits
lessen the limp in the quadruped's step
and the biped chews percocet
washed down with black coffee
while open palm offers glucosamine tablets

the trek of their daily routine holds salvation
binding friendship and need as they wander the waterway
finding juju that helps put the flow back in shanks;
like cold rubber bands postmen dropped in the snow
that crack and snap easy if stretched while frozen

wandering paths that network the Rumney
up & down hills, between trees throughout wetlands
two in recovery encourage each other
to keep up the pace and push out the stitch
settled in bones during vulnerable sleep

easier steps fill the homeward return
air feels less cold inside out of the wind
collar undone , coat and boots are removed
one guzzles coke while the other laps water

affection's exchanged; a tail wag and glance
muzzle gone gray finding beard of same shade
when kisses are placed on the face of her man
un-clipped ears soften under fingers that scratch
those hard to reach spots that elude fist-sized paws

-from a chap i'm working on of the same title
-----------------------------------------------------
- hey everyone, sorry I've been such a ghost;
hoping all is well for all in the well

2004-10-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

There is some sort of problem afoot here, as the newer poems have disappeared. I did not delete them as someone suggested. The system wasn't working properly today but I finally managed to republish the entire blog, however the newer poems (by Duke I believe) are still gone. Sorry about that, it wasn't my doings.

2004-08-28T10:27:00.000-07:00

Guys, try to properly format your material before you put it on. Don't double-space and such unless it's a poem meant to be double space. There are tools available to change fonts, justify, etc.

2004-08-27T11:26:00.000-07:00

The Blessed Sacrament

I stayed once in a rooming house in Taiwan
that had a small library on the second floor.

As far as I could tell no one ever used the library,
except me.

There was no rhyme or reason
to the collection of books. I assumed
they had all been donated.

One morning I found there a copy of a book
called Communion. It was an autobiographical
account of abduction by space aliens.
I started to read it and right away it
gave me a strange, unsettled kind of feeling.
The author was a professional horror writer
and he had a knack for creepy atmosphere.
The book made me feel as though my
basic confidence was somehow being
disturbed. Periodically I would pause
and look up from the text to catch my breath.

There was a window in front of me and
outside I could see a commercial stretch
with all of the Chinese characters in neon
and other lighted configurations. I knew
I was a long way from home. I spent
several mornings – mornings that felt
oddly outside of time – reading that book
and looking out that window. At the conclusion
I felt vaguely unsure of myself, as though
I might never make it home again. But
I didn’t know if that bothered me or not.
I felt almost as though I could accept it,
if that’s what it came to.

I was startled when another tenant
came into the library and asked me
what I was doing. I hid the book
but I told him my feelings and this
seemed to affect him. He sat down to
talk. He agreed that he could stay on
for several years. He said that his brother
who was ambitious and successful would
think that he was crazy for saying that
but he didn't care. I knew about this guy
from previous conversations that he
liked Bruce Springsteen. I didn't like
Bruce Springsteen but I didn't hold that
against him. After all, tramps like us,
baby, we were born to run.

2004-07-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

Trod on the Dead that We Hate for Being Gone

there are cold gray bodies under ground
buried alive, died and failed while
trying to scratch to the sun through silk
smooth lies from beneath the polished
lids of written coffin wood

we pave over smoke stained skeletons
and scatter the bones of long gone tribes
filling their footprints with settled ash
that rose to fall when cremating our own
loved ones leaving layers of sediment

still felt breathing, heavily upwards
through flower beds, last exhalation
stolen by sneaking, mischievous feline
on the prowl in reflection of depth
that pales to the leagues of those pushed

down day after day and needing
to feed the hungry monkey-chain
forgetting the lost and weakest links
that snapped but can be bent like wire
to conquer waiting, naive tumblers

-ech 04

2004-07-13T09:09:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what possessed me to write this poem, but it's the first one I've written in months, so I decided to post it. It ain't good by any means, but at least I'm compelled to do something after all this time. (Update 7-15: For some reason the comment link hasn't been working on this, can't find URL. I'll see what I can do about that.)

I want to die on a cold day

the smoke of my bones
sullying a leaden sky
my soul clinging fast

to the wheels
of heaven

groaning over stars
seen from the
backside
light reversed

black holes
whirring like saucers
in a b-movie

riding the tunnel
of light through
a prism bent in
shades of gray

diffused melodic
dispersal of
protons

shotgun approach
to universal nothing

boom scatter
boom scatter scatter

a silent rock band
of negative matter
windmill on strings
of rays

solar wind tooting
the horn of
silence

it's like jazz in
the void

yeah jazz in the void

all that noise
and nothing

much

2004-07-06T06:04:00.000-07:00

MIDDLE BEN

When I became a poet
I changed my name
to protect my father's image

When I stared down
the boot stompers
in the smoky bars
of Eastern Oregon
and told them
"My name is Ben L. Hiatt
and I'm a poet."
He cheered me from the sidelines
and bought the house
another round

When I made my breakthrough
and wrote my first
brutally honest poem
He was the first to see it
because it was about him
and a monster big buck he'd killed
and let me claim
through all those fragile years

After he died I took my long hair
back to those same smoky bars
A bag full of my books
at my side
I read them poems
About him
and we tossed off a few
for Ben Hiatt's Old Man
while most of them laughed,
a few of them cried,
and some of them
went home with
Ben L. Hiatt's book
of poems
in their pocket,
their money in mine.

By then
There was another
Ben Hiatt
who early on learned to be
as hard of hearing as his father
and grandfather
when we were all together
and someone called for Ben Hiatt
and our eyes would seek each other
in the crowd
as if to ask
which of us would take this call

Once when the youngest Ben
fell into the fast waters of Catherine Creek
during a community picnic
and the middle Ben jumped the rail
to pull him out
the one up on his toes on the bank
with outstretched arms
reaching for the near drowned child
was the oldest Ben

I remember the fear in his eyes
and how it turned to pride
when I handed up his
screaming grandson

Benjamin Webster Hiatt
held Benny Michael Hiatt
high in the air and they danced
a goofy, giggly, living dance
in the dust that day
while some folks laughed
there were some who cried
and everyone cheered

When my father died
I was no longer
the middle Ben
But I have never not been
Ben Hiatt's son

And now as my own son
moves in his strong,
broad shouldered way
to claim his place
in the world
I find my own chest
fills with pride when
I am sometimes
called
"Ben Hiatt's Dad"

© Ben L. Hiatt 2004

2004-06-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

I enjoy browsing
those critique forums
where one
pretentious ass
tries to
tell another
how to write
what is in
his or her
own head

poets bleed their
own words
right or wrong
good or bad
in lines on paper
or black globs
of electronic
space

while dilettantes
and pedants
pull one another's
plumbing by
parsing the poetic
poesy that flourishes

like bad mushrooms
in cow

shit

2004-06-18T16:08:00.000-07:00

I wonder if God
is lurking around this board
& if so why he doesn't chose
to post a simply howyadoin

or maybe a death threat
something about fire & brimstone
a reference to fiery arrows
flying & the world becoming
a smutty furnace filled with
the yells & cries of
the unholy & the great unwashed

all those who put wiggle in
this dead black vacuum
the weight that pushes against
the dark to hold
the blue skies back

one day soon in the plains
between here & there I shall
pose that question & watch
godlips smile wider than Texas
& hear godvoice boom like
a downtown ghetto blaster
tuned full hip-hop rattle

Why should I worry about your
nonexistent spot in nothing space
I had kids to kill in Kosovo
fruit loops to boot beat by
the big rock on the bay
poets to pulverize
pagans to placate
bitches to burn &
heroes to humble

Stagger away blind boy
& let me breath free air
fresh around warped trees
& rocks bent by time

I wrung your days out of
blue moonlight & gold contrails
painted sunsets that burned
your retinas & all you did
was sit in dark corners &
question the wisdom
of it all

Back away to hell & warm
the crease in your jeans
on flames that lick the
bones of civilization

I have new worlds
to build & kill
new dreams to make
& crumble

new voices to
still

forever

2004-06-16T10:08:00.000-07:00

Life

I sit around most days
In an old bathrobe marred
By countless cigarette burns
Like a poor man's Hugh Hefner
Except for the half dozen girlfriends
And a case of Viagra in
The basement.

No mansion in Hombly Hills
Just a simple little wood frame abode
That I have called home on and off
Since 1960, in those spans between
Wives and jobs, blue runs to here and there
Always seeking success and good luck that
Managed mostly to
Elude me.

No Rolls to carry me to the local equivalent
Of the Viper Room, which might be Goob's Tavern
A gun and knife club of distinction
Just an old tattered rider sitting under the holly tree
Battery dead since sometime last fall
Gathering dust and bird droppings
Like its owner.

Each day I spend hours sitting here in one spot
In a little room of perhaps 12' x 15' dimensions
Breathing second-hand smoke that would set the
American Lung Association into a slavering fit
Failing eyesight battling the fog to see this
Electrode that gleams in my face until
It's pasty tan from radiation.

I have remained in this configuration for over two years
Going abroad on Fridays only unless there is
Some pressing need, some essential forgotten
During the last run to the store, the post office,
The coffee shop.

Five years ago the idea of living like this would
Have been unthinkable, beyond the scope of my comprehension
For I was out and about, working, gathering news
Bothering people, making a few friends and
A lot of enemies.

Now I understand that I have gotten past
The point that matters, the place where life balances
On the unseen beam, on the teeter-totter of existence
What days are left will come and I will take them or
I will leave them and be not the better or worst for it
No matter which way the cookie crumbles.

It's not that I don't care in some deep place but
That I'm simply not concerned because, at some point
Nothing is worth concern, worth worry, worth the
Sweat off your balls.

One can't play the game and then blame others
For bad wagers, silly bets better left held in hand
Because the game goes on no matter how soon or
How late you slide the chair back and walk away
From the table.

But what the hell, it's all been sweet this
Long ride down, even the rough parts where
The path went convex against the future and the
Past rushed up in dusty array to cover any
good deed by accident done.

2004-06-15T19:42:00.000-07:00

Roads

I return time and again
to the familiar theme
of roads.

Roads long and bent
roads straight as the
proverbial arrow, leading nowhere.

We lean into winds on roads
whose culmination always stands
beyond the scope of our eyes,
black lines bleeding stains of
tragic memory down wells
of bent brain tissue.

There is no morning on these roads,
no evening yet to come. There is only
the surge of invisible traffic singing
in the lanes of the soul, the taste of

exhaust gasses yet to be dreamed,
the unknown sound of motors unmade,
the slow slide of clock hands
uncrafted,

sweeping faces too grim to ponder.

2004-06-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

where did everyone go?

2004-05-22T06:45:00.000-07:00

COLOR OF THE CAT

cool cat climbed
catching up with the high
running under the thunder
filling taverns and hovels
with butterfly song
touching simple lost lonesome
people who took
just enough as enough

casting sheets of acoustic
sad folk music
in waves spelling out
the human conditions
that lay down beside us
when we escape days
worked through with fervor
in pursuit of lost dreams

passive feet stumbled
in steps of ascent
from one humble to another
the day you were hanging
from the peace train's caboose
calling curses of hatred
and wishes of death
unto salman rushdie

then your calico colors
faded from perfect
sense to no sense at all

2004-05-18T04:51:00.000-07:00

i know you can comment on the individual pieces as of now, but I couldnt comment on Carter's "Friday Night Before the Buzz" so, I'm saying it here. Fucking Killer, bro. that opener, aside from kicking ass, has made me want to write each time I've read it.

2004-05-18T04:29:00.000-07:00

Some of The Scenery in Aruba

watched a girl
adjust her top
flower printed double D's

my eyes magnetized
to shiny wet oiled
breasts filling
cups to overflowing

she caught my gaze
gave it back
adjusted a waist-band
that didn't need fixing

when Murphy made
her man show up ...
alas and damn it !
full drink - one swill

still

she snapped a strap
turned and winked
with the mock runway exit
of an innocent whore

what a nice little show off she is

- ech

(this is a revised version of one of my drunken journal entries from a trip last september, i'm trying to clean this up and arrange it as one solid collection)

thanks for getting this started Jazz

2004-05-11T16:15:00.000-07:00

Trying to get this thing set up with a comments area directly below the poem/whatever. See what this does...Yep, it works. Henceforth post comments directly to the individual pieces.

2004-05-08T12:10:00.000-07:00

good job, both of you--how often I feel like a sliding cottontail on the ice...

2004-05-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

Grieving Smiles from Imperfection - (raising a glass to my old bandmates)

travel finds me once again
homesick, but not for home

motel six's dim light glowing
lead us like a beacon
to the borders of comfort
meaning hard, tiny beds and smaller

bathroom stocked with not enough
little bars of soap or towels
to dry bodies dissatisfied
by luke warm shower's
weak water pressure
barely cutting the grit

homophobia sometimes had someone
sleeping on the floor, drunken
anger finding one of us
crashed out-cold in the van

fucked up heads find six pack pillows
my back hardens on a bass guitar bunk
while minstrels snore among the strange
black magic mechanisms

a full bowl in the morning always
giving us reason to laugh, rolling
on to the next underpaid show

we didn't care for perfection anyway

2004-05-07T13:59:00.000-07:00

friday before the buzz

intensity’s a hard core lenient albatross
unyielding in a self-preservation kind of ambience
for starters, i’m cold on a 90 degree day
when fogged windows decorate this studio

had to put my shirttail back in
to keep my pants from falling
to think that such can happen
when one drinks 12+ beers a day

i’m begging for something
a smile, perhaps
a new feeing or an old
would someone call it a second chance

the birds perch on the trees of my youth
and i’m thinking air rifles, pellet or bb
big game blue jays
even a sliding cottontail on the ice

“just don’t kill a cardinal
it’s the state bird”
what a challenge it was
to obey such a dictum

but the trees are mammoth now
taller than tall
a shotgun might not be enough
and my eyes are too bad for rifles

can’t crawl on my belly
i’ve lost the patience to stalk
could never make it aiming one inch to the left
oh, for the days when a sparrow was big game

2004-05-07T06:07:00.000-07:00

i really only have a couple of short poems that i like. the other is that one about trout gardening. i like all of the poems i've read up here, some i've seen before and am glad to see again. i hope everyone's having a good spring. there are stripers in the river, the big ones are starting to show up. i have the fever.

2004-05-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

I like these also.

2004-05-06T14:07:00.000-07:00

Two damned good ones. Haven't seen many of your shorts, Eric. I think this one works well.

2004-05-06T10:11:00.000-07:00

Tiamo's Gold

once a tobacco trove
now a cradle of keepsakes
boxed away memory flares
set glow to nostalgia

2004-05-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

Another old one

Batter Up

I don't worry about the orbit
of the earth around the sun
or the angle of approach of
ultra-violet rays through gone layers
of filtering ozone.

Bacteria billions of years old,
found in rock flung through space
from other worlds have been made motile
in labs. Life goes on no matter what,

and we smile around corners and dream
of days before sweet madness raked our minds,
days after it caught us in nets of barbed wire pleasure.

There is no melancholy moment more harsh that the
one reserved for the moment we kiss heaven,
nor a day grander than that spewed like lava love
from the jaws of the grand beast master.

We slide behind the eight ball with beer and bad news,
waiting for more than Godot.

I just want sanity here on the edge of madness. I want
to howl like the wolf in the sage, bleed like the gut-shot buffalo,
throw my bones over hard cliffs and beat high falls.

I need the sweet curve on the outside corner and
at least a walk, but I'm leaning in the wind
looking for the fence.

with luck I've already found it.

2004-05-05T20:31:00.000-07:00

anger is a really strong one

2004-05-05T13:23:00.000-07:00

Damn, this blog is heating up. These last three are very fine.

2004-05-05T08:41:00.000-07:00

An early war poem:

the anger of men

i wonder at the anger of men
and at my own anger, the raw
red beast astride my heart.

i wonder if killing the evil
will satiate the need i have
for vengeance, or if it will only
leave a gaping hole,

if the missing focus of
our collective pain became
a limp mass of bones and
bloody heart torn in
some afghan gully.

perhaps the object of
our hatred is of more use
alive, for he keeps the
fire burning brightly inside.

his long brown face
awash in animation makes
the rage flow, feeds the pain
necessary to justify what
must be done.

someday when all the holes
have been burnt in the last
earthen masses, when all
those deemed too malignant
to live have been pushed
beyond this realm,

when the final body riddled
and blackned has slide like
a gambler's last dollar down
torn embankments, red on brown
beneath a mute blue sky,

someday the few will wonder
at the anger of men and feel
no sense of loss, just the
cool kiss of wind beneath
peaceful skies,

no smoking contrails writing
doom in heaven.

2004-05-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

NOTE: I don't know if any of you folks are using the Google toolbar. If you are, you can blog directly off it to this site from anywhere you happen to be. It's real handy.

2004-05-05T08:37:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I like this latest series, Ben, good work. I sense some very relevant images to what's happening in the world in these, esp. the last two "card" poems.

2004-05-05T05:14:00.000-07:00

Near as I can tell it must be from hanging out with you guys, but this morning at 3:30 a.m. I was digging words outta the cracks again. They were like sand in a gear box, but I caught a few and got 'em out of my head. . . . . .

DEALER’S CHOICE

In naming the game
we chose
numbers
& imagine the rules

The dealer
has a hooded eye
& never learned
to smile

The cards fall
like the sound
of a sword
As a hidden camera
records

In the current game,
3’s and 10’s are wild,
the Aces are all saved
for the final hand,
& The Joker
is only good
for a seat
in the next game.

and another itty bitty thing around the cardroom image:

HOUSE RULES

Somebody
posted the House Rules
in Arabic

For the longest
time

No one noticed. . . . .

--Ben

2004-05-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

I think it works great, Ben. Good job.

2004-05-04T12:10:00.000-07:00

SPRING:
in a Century we are just beginning to learn.

The Bearded Lady
weeps
and each of us
stares back
from
the wrinkled depths
of her simian eyes

She would love us
if we could allow it

A small white dog
extends a hot red tongue
and licks the smile
from her face

In the distance we hear
the first of the bombs
& reach for our guns
as the last of our youth
disappears.

===========

This is a bit more abstract than what I usually
write but when I reached down in there where the little
wheels do their grinding and pulled this sucker out,
I sure felt better after getting it OUTSIDE my head.

Ben

2004-05-03T03:25:00.000-07:00

And I like the fishing references.

2004-05-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

I like the baseball stuff, of course.

2004-04-30T19:57:00.000-07:00

SACO

set on the Saco in worn hunter green
Old Time canoe that slides over the river
mooring at turns where pools running deep
cool, cutting land under cover of shade
from high crag and tree
casting shadows like fishing lures
riding the wind from shoreline to shoreline

when the sun sends the pitch
hitting Louisville birch
comfort of darkness drops
rolling across
opposite shallows
the field set for play
once that plug hits the surface
where the game waits to start

2004-04-30T19:36:00.000-07:00

I can understand why
the nose does not
detect the bouquet
of my sarcasm

it makes sense; that
tongues do not retreat
behind lips unpuckered
from the bitterness I project

it was hard
to accept that
people do not
feel the chill
of my cold being

frustration is found, yet
is typical and easy to
embrace the shadowed
points I make

but there is no way
this mind of mine can
fathom why its words
fall always on
deaf ears

2004-04-29T18:56:00.000-07:00

Tim & Ben, rock on!

2004-04-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

I loved reading that Ben. I really did and a fine effort by my bardic associate from the NC foothills.

2004-04-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

An Introduction To Potry For People Who Hate It.

I was poking around in a bag of old publications yesterday. Looking for something else when a copy of the very first issue of the old MT AUKUM REVIEW from 1985 came to hand. I set it aside and took it up with my first cup of coffee about 4:30 this morning. A pleasing way to start my day.

It is a sveldt little number, 4 by 7 inch page size and a mere 28 pages folded and stapled. But I see I went to the trouble of printing a two color cover on slick paper which was one hell of a lot of work on the old table model AB DICK press I was running at the time and the entire package is a lot cleaner than a lot of things I threw together over the years. I think that it may very well be the single best publication that I ever put together in my 40 years of doing this thing.

Here is a link to a pdf file I created to share the centerfold with you which is what the title of this posting refers to.

I had no poetry of my own in this issue but I did write an "advice" column that I may post up here as it still strikes me as funny.

If anyone is interested you should be able to do a one click download of that pdf file. Requires Adobe Reader, etc.

Benjamino Le PooPoo

2004-04-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

Like a Rolling Stone(s Song)

What you pursue
you can’t necessarily have
and tragedy awaits, for sure.

It’s all a matter of margins,
that foot and a half between
you and head on death,

the timing of a glance
as you pass your future
stepping over sidewalk cracks.

Jonson was right, and so were
Whitman and Donne and the rest,
to never trust the universe

to hold together one more day,
to ride the burnt orange slide
of sunset down to double-barreled

midnight, to plow like
a drunken harrow through
the heart of the black valley,

and when you lose,
lose it all; leave nothing, not a scent;
that is the way to go.

Tpeeler

2004-04-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

This one seems to fit, no matter which spring we arrive at.

Spring

spring explodes
green
outside
my window
rattles
the universe
with
natural magic

half a world
away
spring bursts on
bloody ground
and
the explosions
are
a different
hue

the cry of
birds
in this spring
light
carry little
above
the cries
of
displaced humanity
bleeding
suffering
another spring
on Planet Earth

our own
third rock from the sun
spilling doom
into the
deep well
of
forever

2004-04-29T10:21:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Carter. I wrote that one in December last year but not sure I ever posted it anywhere. I think the posting forum was gone by then.

2004-04-29T09:50:00.000-07:00

Excellent, excellent piece, Jazz. If I've seen this one, I don't recall it. Kudos!

2004-04-29T07:54:00.000-07:00

It dawned on me

that we all sing
songs of self
for others
no matter the key
or tempo
the shades or tones

whether by
big lakes in
long white dreams
or down in
provinces where
the hickory nuts grow
or even in
the realm of
deeper Dixie South

too far below
the Mason D to even
see a shadow
skirt the ground

poems are now
jungle drums on
electric wires
speed of light
transmissions
of thought
or something posing
as thought

poems are purveyors
of what's shakin'
inside and out
up and down
words that fit
or don't

poems are as
natural as
cigarettes and coffee
daylight in the window
news or weather
rattling in the
TV background

maybe even breath

I write no
great poems
this day
just a mass
of words
flung through ether
by marvels
beyond my
comprehension

characters that
come to rest
on retinas
that never burned
my image
in reality

and it dawns
on me that
life may be
much more grand

than we are
ever willing

to admit

2004-04-29T07:53:00.000-07:00

Ah, the big question and how we get to it. Good one, Carter.

And Ben, I like yours too. I've read that somewhere before, but it's real as hell.

2004-04-28T16:21:00.000-07:00

another beer and time . . .

my mother needs directions
to an out of town church
she doesn’t understand
that you have all these unnecessary turns
when procuring same from the internet

my last free saturday approaches
five months of not having done well in school
the lifelong penance for the irresponsible
i guess
the money’s good, but not great

mom wants to go see my niece
in bible drill
wants to be there for her
and for my baby sister
who weighs 300 lbs.
and doesn’t get out much

i have a dream living in chicago
a girl – a woman
who’s right for me
or would be if i had kosher hot dogs,
cream cheese, bagels, and foreign crap

the can is almost empty
as the sun wanes (along with me)
think i’ll get another
and a cracker and some diet peanut butter
the kinda stuff you eat for whatever reason
when you’re lost

tell me, jack
was the free whiskey worth it
was it right to move back to lowell
and finish yourself off
with pats on the back
and the, “yeah i know him” syndrome

was it worth it when your guts exploded
tell me now, so i’ll know
don’t leave me in the dark
i need to understand the end of the road
just as i understood the beginning

i need somehow
to figure out
if death is ok

2004-04-28T10:44:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Eric and Ben, I enjoyed both of these. Tim, you need to hit us with some of your fine poems. And Harry Calhoun, who is lurking around somewhere.

2004-04-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

Fine write, Ben. True and on the note.

2004-04-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

Juliene

She remembers her body
When she was 19

It’s been 40 years and counting
And today when
I inadvertently
Entered the bathroom
As she emerged from the tub
She tried to cover herself
With a washcloth

There was a time
When we walked
Around naked

Made Love
Standing up in rooms
Where we found ourselves

Now we hide our bodies
From each other

What have we done when
The most beautiful thing
In a man’s life
Is allowed
To think of herself
As ugly?

--Ben L. Hiatt 2003

2004-04-25T22:32:00.000-07:00

nearby long ago

old dirt road
where osprey roost
overgrown tire tracks
accommodate this
ancient tank-like pickup
truck carrying

newly woken bastards
who brought along
their personal blend
of tools and tricks to
harvest the crop
swimming free in
old Poseidon's farm

hands working
brackish aqua field
growing high where high
tide rush pours in
filling bends and pools
in sudden surges

us, half-drunk
completely stoned
ocean union swaying
on land standing
or on deck staggering

fish or no fish
these days take us closer
back to a time
when life was harder

but still
more

honest, plain and simple

living

- ech

2004-04-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

Nah, no rules, just whatever. Not going to be many of us in any case.

2004-04-24T15:34:00.000-07:00

NOW THAT I'VE HAD MY NAP. . . .

So it was that long under line, huh?
I knew sumpin' was up. I posted it up. Caught an error and edited and reposted and then the damn thing was up twice. I must have spent 45 minutes dinking around with that thing before I could get the action to take. I finally just tried to delete the entire double posting and THAT did the trick.

By the way, any rules around this outfit? Dos or don'ts, etc. Or do we just fly by the seat of our pants and depend on our own inherent craziness to keep us upright?

Anyone interested in seeing what kind of insanity can occur when you blatantly mix politics with poetry might peak in here:
That's my blog and I drop all sorts of weird crap in there.

Ben

2004-04-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

The below poem is Ben's, which I by accident deleted trying to remove a long hr line that knocked the links out of kilter

Here is an old one of mine to maybe get some verbs shakin' around here.

CUTTING UP THE ROAD KILL

I was by the sink
working the big cuts
off a front shoulder
with my Buck Knife

Ed was trimming
the rough stuff
off the big cuts
& trying to keep
his kids
from wrecking the house

Benny was at the table
slicing steaks
a quarter-inch thick
perfect for jerky

Warren was holding forth
with a beer
in one hand
and a joint in the other

Steve came wandering in
and announced,
"Hey Benny,
there's some old guy
out front.
Wants to talk to you."

Benny looks up, blood
to the elbows
and says
"Invite him in."

Turns out to be the guy
who owns this old house
in the canyon.
First lived here with his bride
35 years ago. He is woods
boss for a local lumber company.
His true believing wife
drags him to church every Sunday.

Though he hasn't hunted
in twenty years
he knows damn well that
April ain't deer season.
But he saunters into his
old kitchen, looks around
and grins.

Benny looked up and said,
"Road Kill, Kenny, we couldn't
let it go to waste.
Besides, this sumbitch
cost me a headlight."

Kenny's grin broadens.
"Boys, that ain't the first
old doe that's been
cut up on that
kitchen table. Save
me some jerky."

And he was down the road
while we just kept cuttin'
on that fresh road kill,
horning down the beer
& smokin'.
// posted by Ben L. Hiatt @ 9:49 AM

That's got the poem back anyway.

2004-04-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

GOD DAMN, when I deleted that long line it must have got the whole poem, Ben. Put it back again.

2004-04-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

Good one Ben. A chunk of real life, that.

BTW, I had to take that horizontal line out, it put the links all the way to the bottom. Let me stick in a short rule here to see if it also throws everything out of whack:

Tried the HR and it works fine to separate comments from poems. Use the code below, except close the <> on end:
< HR ALIGN="CENTER" WIDTH=33% SIZE=3 >

2004-04-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

Like both of these, especially Paint line.

2004-04-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

Thanks Carter. And welcome to Harry Calhoun, whose invitation link seemed to work.

2004-04-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

That's a damned fine one, Jazz. Damned fine!

2004-04-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Another old one:

boozeville

at 10 i'd steal
a pack of the old man's
camels & fill a big
empty listerine bottle with
some of his booze
make sure to run water
back in the fifth so
the loss wouldn't be
so noticable

then off to the
lumber yard
i'd cut through
wooden valleys
between stacks
find a shorter
pile somewhere in
the middle

my nose filled w/the
smell of sawn pine & oak
poplar & sycamore
momentarily
good sweet camel &
kentucky's finest
sipping whiskey

i'd sip away
lying there on my back
atop a wood stack
with the blue sky
revolving around my head
my mind flying
w/the clouds
on alcohol & tobacco

i could get
high just
inhaling those
unfiltered shorts

a drunken
young thing all
full of myself
i'd dream of
killing people
i'd heard
about in
someplace called
north korea

& about
hank williams
who died drunk
in the back
seat of a car

& about my
fishing pole
& the river
swimming down by
the bluffs where
snakes sunned
on the rocks

the wooden
planks on the
bridge that
clattered musically
when cars passed over

4 years later i
drank a whole fifth
of the old man's
seagrams golden gin
while the folks were
out juking one
saturday night

they came in after
midnight & found me
lying in the
kitchen floor
out cold

dad was angry that
i'd drunk his booze
but i heard
a trace of pride
when he said
you drank that
whole bottle
by youself

that listerine bottle
& the woodstacks
were the start of
a half-century road
to boozeville & back
w/all the good & bad
that brings

but damn
i hope to tip
a couple more before
they slam the lid
and say so long
old hoss

ride
steady

2004-04-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

Available for purchase on-line.

Click here for description and sample poems:

2004-04-23T09:44:00.000-07:00

I read this shortly after you wrote it, Jazz. Yes, it's definitely a keeper.

2004-04-23T09:24:00.000-07:00

No don't mind, Ben, but I just put on a link to your site in the last upgrade a few minutes ago.

2004-04-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

Jim,
Paint Line noted. It's a keeper.

About that clicking-in thing.......appears to be on a timer. This is likely to keep folks from unauthorized use. i.e. no one can forward the url on around the net and grant access that way. If they could it would literaly open it up to everything and everyone. When you grant access you grant access to the entire enchilada, including the ability to edit and rewrite and and all postings, so it is not necessarily a bad thing.

Any objections to me dropping in a direct link to your book page in my e-bookstore?

Benjamino Le PooPoo

2004-04-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Good to see you here, Ben. Lurk or post as you wish. I wish some of the other guys who have tried could get hooked up, but there are apparently some problems still. Maybe we'll get those ironed out.

2004-04-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't written anything in quite some time, but I'll stick on the last thing I did and finished. Have several more in this series but none of them completed.

on the paint line - '63

dust & noise on
the midnight shift
the hiss of sprayers
blasting overspray
machines roaring around
the lot, skidding corners

madness in the pomona night
the mexicans bring
hot burritos & tamales
for breaktime
sing spanish songs above the roar

laughing madmen
good guys who befriended a young
hillbilly newlywed
from a world so different

old gil chavez likely a
dead saint now
slap a sombrero on his dark head
& he could have passed for every
mexican bandit in any western movie
you ever saw

paco the singer throwing down
his grinding wheel to pose in song
arms spread wide as he yodels out
a lick that should be spinning on
sixties acetate
a smile wide as t-town splitting
his mustachioed face

booger manzito sneaking to
the locker room to hit on quarts of
thunderbird wine smuggled in
going down one night behind his electric
wire brush which spun
inside his coverall fly before choking down
drunken seizure victim

bald "curly" champa the dago nodding
behind a big heavenly beer
after shift change grinning 'til
his forehead wrinkled
lifer on the paint line

cowboy in the main spray booth
bigmouth with his honda 50 newfangled
little jap iron trying to drag terry
with the new ford 427 after work
slaughter on reservoir blvd
the putter of one tiny cylinder &
the squall of rear wheels turned by
425 horsepower pulling a fiberglass body

sometimes the little dwarf woman
a tiny marilyn monroe clone perfect
in every tiny dimension
strutted past the outer fence under
the lights & when she did the tools went down
& everybody dug her moves until she
faded from sight behind the bushes
laughter & jokes about just "stickin' her on it"
& spinning her around

big ed in his golf cart smiling drunk all night
cruising the darkened alleys inside the complex
his face beet red from whiskey
he didn't care much what you did
long as you did something & didn't
break too much & you didn't get his stool
at ellie's lounge for long morning drinks

a year of it & i was gone
pissed off one night i took a walk as
22 yr olds will do & i went on to other things
& wondered about the place i was
decided that the golden west was just
another armpit like most places

and remembered that when
i first moved there i thought
the palm trees looked so exotic until
i learned that rats lived in

the top of them

2004-04-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

Thanks for invite, Jim. For the time being, I'm here--lurking.

Ben L.

2004-04-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

Some people are having a problem accepting the invitation I sent. Remember, if the link to the "accept" or "decline" page works, you have to do one or the other at that point and not decide to come back to it later, because the link is just good for one click--why it's that way I have no idea. The link can also be copied and pasted in the browser address bar, which seems to work better sometimes than attempting to click through with various URLs.

Another point: if you use Google toolbar you can blog right from your browser no matter where you are on the 'net. That's one of the features since Google bought out the blog outfit.

2004-04-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

Damn, you got in the groove with that one. I really like the use of language, sort of explosive.

2004-04-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

ranting at the deity

you had to do it
you divine intervention motherfucker
wherever you are
had to squelch my imagination
and bring love into the equation

had to take the dead
and resurrect it
as some seemingly stoic pontificator
who’d be better off
in a sports metaphor or some such

they probably have pills for this
but fuck doctors
they want you to quit drinking
and eat smaller portions
want you to live by a different
set of rules

goddamn! can’t you understand
the age of my body
the wistfulness of my mind
the fact that i was comfortable
living out the string

proverbs suck like homespun remedies
just another cliché to brighten your day
so to speak
just a squalid attempt to inject
the humor of fate

banshee, release me
let me go back to the swirl
let me make verbal vomit
that invokes ambiguity
and suggests nothing but line
and some semblance of language

let me find
my crack in the diatonic scale
as such
achieving scant moments of satisfaction
and occasional drunken smiles

convince me once more
that i live the poem
that’s all that matters
really
it is

2004-04-22T12:47:00.000-07:00

I started this blog today and will invite a select few fellow writers to post here. The intent is to post information/thoughts/poems or anything related to that realm--we'll reserve the rancor and "attack" material for the other blogs created for that purpose. Of course, valid criticism is not discouraged.

So, if you join here post whatever you wish. If you want a link added to the sidebar just email it to me and I'll be glad to put it on.