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POET'S PAGES
You've arrived at a brand new page featuring
the growing number of documents being archived
for the Burkhart Museum of the Future.
The following word-smiths are the first in this section.
Submissions for this page are now being collected from
a growing assortment of poets and writers
that frequent the Burkhart Underground
and whose work is performed live there.
In order of appearance:
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1:
Not too long ago I was in love with a poet.
We made intuitive intercourse out of each other's mouths for hours
We would dip dreams into rapidly fluid streams of the full-bodied
descriptions
Of where our affection's affinity lived.
Once the desire to listen and to speak is gone,
This door closes
That road opens; along the rubber layered concrete rows of self survive past
Trafficking breathes in exhaustion.
Remain resting pulse,
Delay in departure only momentarily cause drivin away always takes the
wind right out of me
While language gains grounds to discover and feet itch to recover what lay
beneath the future layer, some unexpected tools are constructing this silver
orb for my following,
So I return to the love of an infinite sky
Withdraw my caution and plunge again into water that wells my will from
the root to the crown and reels me inward
To see keys in the goddesses hand impels me outward to find her finger
pointing faithfully toward the sand and loving has led me this far,
So I suppose letting go gets me home to where I am,
But I cant go back to old places, when
Old ways are still in the way; no I can't go back to
Old places when old waves are still in the wake, no I cant go back to old
faces
Once I 've forgotten their names and this
Post-meditative moment still
Breeching a mindless daze
I keep reaching down the holes of someone else's high stakes.
But I can't go back to old places when old ways are still in the way
And I wont make the same mistakes that I have already seen made
and it is
Called progress when we learn from our past, when we learn with the
rhythms of our paths process
Applied in action and change welcomes our next cycle's onset.
But I can't go back to old places when old waves are still in the wake,
I try to fall back asleep but I can't get to that state, its like dreaming lost its
flavor for the week.
And for the first time, in a long time I feel weakness when I hear my voice
speak, I feel weakened when I start to crave the old ways, I get rowdy real
easy and defensive during the darker days my tempers like my intolerance I
got a short fuse and reasons to stay
I got more reasons to fold from this game.
I got more right to bet it all and walk away,
But once its gone, you know, gone is yesterday
I say once its gone, gone is yesterday.
Emptied of wrong.
Self detained by the will of another days strength.
Somehow supercede survival instinct to cling to that which has fostered
The need for someone else besides youself and
Sing
When you've no one to dance with.
Cause I cant go back to old places when old ways are still on the way.
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2:
Introspection among potted plants on the patio
Dance wild flower woman living lividly along,
She's like the wood worker scrubbing ages from above
the grain lightening in comparison.
Be prepared to pack once more, yes
Be prepared to stand alone here.
Take each foothold as it comes, and beggar child
Bother none.
Encased in the eye of my embroiders needle,
Stitched since the knot wore through
Expect nothing less than sacred cycles, spinning through many looms.
Laugh lackadaisical emblem of truth, teeter between lone leaf escaping and
Solid root relaying what we've always known we'd learn too soon.
Feathers will gather in the tangle our heads newly
Forming fingers
They will extend to meet the mandala's center,
Toward that single strand weaving each of us together.
Take flight minute mind
Life is only as finite as you mind, oh
Some aim high.
Others believe aim becomes the first demise, oh
Deconstruction is the function of the signs.
Attentive introspection, guard us from within your walless rind,
careful not to peel the skin
with your cat-clawed catharsis of some sky.
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a poem by
RICHARD THEODORE
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Saturday, December 22nd, 2001
XYXYX
we were offered clues to hallucination
in the street & some of us
would not believe in a heaven built
on the bricks of hells we'd invented
some said amid the hamstrung danced
anarchist convexing sexrites: I know
I've been taken - slow do satanic
surfaces emerge. A manchild fights
daily for the stale remains of discretion
tempting him from further crime
it's a style a human attribution:
all men resemble ME said the actor.
afterward we were consoled by a manic
angel-in-disguise a gnome
with a broken handcart came
asking to be held anonymous awhile
we hid him among the memories
of oceans continents & islands
isthmuses & mountains times passed
in places names now forgotten found
out behind a factory that vanished
suddenly one morning - my mind holds
everything a total universe devoid
of self (said a healerhumanist) an echo
death just another doorway. drugs
offered us were taken gratefully
without remorse we remembered miracles
that we had spoiled with our speculations
on their meaning rumors of the fall
of Babylon were in our ears day & night
but none of them were true (the truth
is that mediocracy will in the end
end itself in the murmuring and chaos
clocks telescoping calendars horrific end
ganme inventions cause & effect
are one calculate the difference & you
will lose it inbetween the sheets
of the sound of sanity that has its own
raison d'etre apart from us) we saw
the rays of an alien sun as twothousandone
klieglights blinded us bipolar pleas
to the Queen of Spades in a swell
of mimicry sardonic lust radium
umbrellas opened up as THEY
(who they were we never knew) began
to question us in a glossolalia”
hallucination in the street? The Steel
Age? tumescent mysteries of left & right
brain waves? weirdities of trusting
everyone & no one: we were the children
chosen by the Spirit breathlessly to go
beyond into cosmic emptiness to see
the flowers grow out of the glass
and the granite. we are the people
patterned on the tragicomedy of Kubla Khan
we have been displaced & divided all
of us are still alive tho despite
the coroner's reports
the chronicles
the deuteronomies of mortal time
(lenz - 1201)
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1:
cuckold-maker
I fucked his wife
and it pleased me to do so
call me an asshole
call me immoral
call me The Devil
I call myself:
The Cuckold-Maker
A noble act
of civil-disobedience
an open act of disrespect
disrespect for the husband
disrespect for marriage
:that obsolete & vile institution
In a nice hotel, in the car,
in the basement
...I fucked his wife
and it pleased me to do so
it pleased me to make a cuckold
I'd see him
Mr. In-control
Mr. Heart-o-gold
Mr. Achievement
I saw
: Rotten son-of-a-bitch
selfish potential-cuckold
She saw
: Misery-making motherfucker
And I'd quietly laugh
I fucked his wife
and it pleased me to do so
He suspected something
He questioned:
“are you sleeping with him”
Yes, my friend
I fucked your wife
She sucked my dick
I ate her pussy
She got on top
I got on top
She hates your guts
I hate your guts and
am pleased to show
this disrespect
Yes, my friend
you're Cuckold of the Month
And you just might be so
next month too
Marriage isn't
what you think it
ought to be
There'll be more
cuckolds
There'll be more
cuckold-makers
Dearest Reader;
...just keep believing
in the monopolization
of an adult's time & sexuality
and you too may be the next cuckold
And I may be your maker
Oz du Soleil
7JAN01
ozkr09@yahoo.com
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2:
The Microwave
Even when I see her from a distance
she heats me up
From somewhere deep inside...
...something about the way she's made
and the way she moves
and the way she speaks
I go from ice to vapor in 4 seconds
Ah! But all of this energy is being spent nowhere
She's the first woman
whom I can accept as
“just a friend”
She's the rare woman
who's convincing
when she says
“I don't go for one-night stands”
She
attends mass
spends holidays with her parents
gets along with her sisters
vacations in Europe
wants to get married
follows the rules
follows the rules
follows the rules
In short:
a 24-karat suburban stereotype
Nevertheless, something radiates from
inside of her Wonder-bread lock-box
embroiling me in my own curiosities & desires
I heat up, thinking:
What's living in her 38D bra? And how can I get a glimpse?
Can she kiss?
I want to peel her socks off and press my face into her soles
I want to stand outside the bathroom door and hear her pee
Is her thang furry;
and does she fiddle with it whilst mired in DuPage County shame?
How would her hand feel, unzipping & reaching into my trousers?
I let myself imagine what her pussy must taste like
Might she finger her rosary to drive away her own unauthorized thoughts of me?
These mysteries & lack of answers
heat me up
& heat me up
& heat me up
& in her presence I
divert the steam she's produced
... keep it away from her thin, fragile DuPage casing
& over-sensitive guilt-secreting Catholic gland
The poor child mustn't be contaminated by the likes of me
And, so
I'm hot and
I'm hot
and I'm over-heated
and I write this piece whilst drinking Wild Turkey @ 2:03am
and The Microwave is surely asleep dreaming dreams that are authorized
for Republican Catholics to dream
In the morning
I'll be rapt in the euphoria of Sunday morning wood & coffee, as she's
genuflecting
& confessing
& lobbying the Monsignor to get her into Heaven
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3:
They call it a townhall meeting
but if you stand back. Far back. Way back and in one of the corners... it's easy to see the truth: an exhibitionistic homoerotic melee that the entire company is forced to endure-half of us at 9:30 and the other half at 1:30.
King Fag/President (let's call him KF) announces:
Next, I'd like for KFB (King Fag's Buddy) to stand and let me suck his cock in front of everyone. [KFB stands up... in his wrinkled ill-fitting suit] KFB has worked long hours and weekends streamlining our site-to-site transfers. We should all be grateful for his efforts that are going to save the company 3% of what we'd expected to spend this fiscal year. [KFB smiles, and his hands are clasped in front of his mandatory paunch] KFB are you ready to cum? Yeah? Then shoot it all over everyone!
KFB is spent. He sits and KF introduces KFB2.
It goes on & on like this for 15 minutes. White middle-aged, balding, fag jacks-in-the-box. One after another. Pop pop pop! And KF cranks the cranks.
KF's glee subsides as he musters the ability and perfunctory sobriety to introduce Kathy-Ann. It would be in bad form for Kathy-Ann to either pop or appear in rumpled attire.
Politely, she stands. Polished diction, practiced gestures, perfunctorily dry-cleaned... she promises:
as we near the end of our 3rd quarter, a lot of exciting plans are nearing fruition. On October 3rd our office in Singapore will be open and ready to provide full support for our clients in the Pacific Rim. Currently, our market share in that area is 18%, but the location of the new office is expected to bring us up to 24-29%.
Blah blah blah!
Kathy-Ann finishes and KF applauds. The glimmer is once again in his eye as he returns to the real purpose of the townhall meeting. While standing there in the corner-beneath the lighted exit sign-I think of a math problem:
There are 174 people in the audience; 98 women, the rest are men. 60% of the audience is White, 14% Hispanic, 20% African-American, 6% Other/Mixed. 12% of the audience is balding.Question: Assuming that no person is introduced twice; of the next 2 people to be introduced, what is the probability that both of the final 2 people to be introduced will be White, male and balding? (The answer may or may not be surprising)
Well... the fellatio-fest is over, and the worn out Master of Crank Twisting is ready to go brush his teeth. And we applaud. For what? Each of us secretly hoping for the chance that one day we'll be able to stand and be brought off before envious eyes that are required to view the monthly cock-smoking? Well, there are some of us who endure this thing... either standing far in the back or wearing hazmat suits. We're White, non-White, female, male, transgendered. We're young & old. We're few! We're doing what we gotta do to pay for our tattoos and art supplies and groceries and shelter... even if it means being sexually harassed on the second Friday of each month at 9:30 or 1:30.
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TWO STORIES BY
THE DIRT LAWYER
ozymandias17@hotmail.com
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Trysting in the Balcony
It was a bitter cold day and school was canceled. I was a 17 year old senior at the time and decided to spend my serendipitous day off at the movies with a 15 year-old nympho named Loretta. Oh those halcyon days! I'd go to Loretta's house and use up a whole box (3 pack) of rubbers. Hey . . . no problem! Too bad we didn't have 4 or 5. She used to feed me between rounds. Oh to be able to do that again!!
We chose a matinee at the once-elegant Colony Theater. It was a grand movie palace at ritzy Shaker Square. A venerable Cleveland landmark. In fact, my mother was there for a Sunday matinee when they stopped the film to announce that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. The Colony still fielded a crew of smartly-uniformed ushers at every show. They wore red waistcoats complete with epaulettes, navy blue pants with a red stripe up the side, patent leather shoes, and these darling little pillbox caps. Nowadays the Colony has a new name. It's a 6 screen multiplex with no ushers and no character whatsoever. But back in 1978 it was still in its glorious fading rose phase.
This was a weekday in February and, as I said, it was bitter cold. It was a nasty winter and the city was under a couple feet of snow. I think "Star Wars" was playing but I'm not sure. Loretta and I weren't there to see the show. We had a dilemma. Her mother was home, it was too cold to fuck in the woods, we didn't have a car, so a theater would have to do. We chose the Colony because of its cavernous immensity. There were only 7 or 8 other movie-goers at the matinee and we were the only ones in the balcony.
In no time at all we were going at it like 2 dogs in the yard. Loretta had strewn most of her clothes over the backs of the plush velvet seats. Mine were either forced up around my neck or yanked down around my ankles. My back was flat against the seat and my head was propped up perpendicularly along the lower back. I was sticking my tongue way out trying to snatch quick licks as her tits swayed past. Low-riding Lo-retta was sitting astride me going up down up down when suddenly we were frozen in the beam of the head usher's flashlight. BUSTED. Just our luck. To make matters worse, this guy was a career usher. He'd been there for decades and took his job and his position very seriously. I thought he'd have a stroke right then and there. His face was bright purple and he was sputtering with rage.
Within 3 minutes we were bent over on the sidewalk under the marquee laughing ourselves silly while the head usher glared at us through the thick glass doors and motioned angrily for us to "move along."
Meanwhile my lower abdomen was going thump thump thump. Loretta and I had unfinished business. Out of sheer necessity, we concluded matters in the alley alongside the theater. We did it prison yard fashion: both standing, Lo bending over with just enough rear end sticking out of her jeans for me to get it in. Neither of us ever wore underwear in those carefree days. After a quarter of a century, I can still remember the sensation of snowflakes falling on my face and the odors of fresh snow, excited female, spunk, and a faint whisp of poop mingling with the smell of popcorn streaming out of the exhaust duct on the wall just above us. A quickie out in the snow was OK, but not quite as nice as taking our time all afternoon in a heated theater balcony. All the way home on the rapid transit, Loretta and I laughed hysterically about the usher and "getting caught."
Thee-a thee-a that's all folks!
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Everybody was Kung Fu Fightin's
One of my favorite youthful past times was to smoke tons of dope and hang in a kung fu movie palace all day. We'd play hooky from high school to do this. Our favorite theater was called the Scrumpy Dump. It was located at the dangerous corner of East 105 & Euclid Avenue in what had once been Cleveland's upscale entertainment district. Part of the screen got burned away so they just nailed up a sheet and kept showing those Bruce Lee movies until the owner finally went to jail and the IRS seized the theater..
After college I had this shitty job as a messenger for a stodgy downtown law firm. We were poorly supervised. Our manager was always fighting a bleeding hangover and never knew where we went or if we were really busy. So I'd do yeoman's service all morning then piss away my afternoons in those seedy districts that were all eradicated in the downtown revitalizations of the late 80's and early 90's. A waiter friend and I would meet after his lunch shift and we'd slouch in the kung fu theatre smoking pot, hash, or thai-stick. What wonderful sound effects in those cheap Hong Kong films! Every kick or punch sounds like someone whacking the hell out of a naugahide couch with a ping pong paddle. Don't believe me? Rent one and listen.
The theater had seen better days. In it's day it was a grand movie palace. In my day it was a tottering shambles. Bits of the water-damaged ornate ceiling plaster would regularly come crashing down during the film. Everyone would hoot at irate black patrons storming up the aisle covered in white plaster dust. The aisles were lit with black lights so they were a sight to behold - believe me. Like a photo negative of Al Jolson. There was a thoroughly disreputable pool hall beneath the lobby which was a great place to score dope or get stabbed depending on how you conducted yourself. My guardian angel must have worked overtime throughout my late teens and early 20's. And we were certainly the only white boys without a gun and badge for blocks.
The theater crowd was mostly junkies. Of course it was de rigeur to wear sunglasses during the films. In the cold weather, whores turned tricks up in the balcony. The floor was always sticky up there. Ewwww. But also, there were always a few die hard martial arts fans at the shows. I tend to think they were totally insane. They'd throw those sharp metal stars at the screen and do their moves in the aisles screeching like banshees. We started sitting in the middle of the rows after one of those mamalukes accidently whacked my friend with his out of control numchocks.
All good things must come to an end. I moved to Los Angeles and the City finally condemned the theatre and tore it down.
Ahhh memories . . . those happy golden years.
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words and their arrangements copyrighted by the poets
if you wish to submit to Poet's Pages, do so in person:
Sunday nights at the Burkhart Underground
2845 N. Halsted Street, Chicago 60657
phone 773 348-8536
OR
CONTACT: WaltWhitman@BurkhartStudios.com
BURKHART STUDIOS
2845 N. HALSTED STREET CHICAGO ILLINOIS 60657 773 348-8536
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