July Poem 30: In the Student’s Poetry

But you feel the loop. The pain. The pain is

Back. Afford insurance. The pain is back.

Angry mother. The pain is back. Holding.

The pain is back. Here. To create texture.

You can no longer better the bet

But its indigestion. But you feel so.

Advance and rise up. Hands apart. Saying,

I’m going to change the symbolism.

In the story. In the marijuana.

In the San Francisco sex on the beach.

Beaumont lives in the student’s poetry.

Melancholy as a fake dick standing.

Melancholy dick above a hundred.

Melancholy. Melancholy as fuck.

July Poem 29: Simpleminded Barnes

The tightness people believe out of hand.

That got out of hand. The new learner to

The soul to complain. The rose’s other.

Talk to the doc. Never think. You complain

Of fields through to the better complex of

The poet on the teacher. Camelot,

The supreme trickery. Her job over,

Evaluate the dramatized items

Of sure comprehension. Revolver knocked,

Crowded the specific backed down alley

To fool side of my people. I web you

As able. You can’t bring yourself to go.

Luxury slice. I need to believe that

Pined simpleminded Barnes. He only be.

July Poem 28: A Twist on the Dark and Stormy

Start with pure agave Tequila and

Its hint of pepper. Mix it with the warm

Bite of ginger beer poured over ice in

A tall glass. Garnish the rim with a lime

Wedge. Squeeze the lime into the drink and drop

In the husk. Take a sip. The fizz tickles

Your nose as you stifle a sneeze each time

You refill your glass. You would think you would

Learn. Each time your drink is more Tequila

Less ginger beer. And you are drinking this

Because you are too drunk to keep making

That gourmet margarita recipe

You ripped off from the Food Network website.

And you thought your fiends wouldn’t find you out.

July Poem 27: Welcome to Huddle House: Let’s Eat

Come in and get some of our fresh coffee.

It’s only slightly burnt. Or you could try

A big glass of our famous southern style,—

Damn the diabetes—ice cold, sweet tea.

Thick enough to pour over your pancakes.

You’ll love the sight of an open kitchen.

Say “Hi” to the beltless chef and his crack.

His specialty is four strips of bacon

With bits of fried trash. One piece is rat shit.

And don’t forget to stay for the hearty

Heaps of handpicked and deep fried horses butt holes.

Nothing better than beer and buttermilk

Battered butt holes, Pounded until tender,

Drizzled to dripping in savory sauce.

Batman the Movie

I remember the first time I saw Batman murder a villain in cold blood. It was the happy go lucky 1960s Batman if you can believe it.

Adam West murdered a hapless goon or three before he informed Burt Ward just how he could kill a few himself. It was chilling to see how matter of fact Batman and Robin could be when taking a life.

The Penguin had accidentally added radioactive hard water to his dehydrated goons to rehydrate them. One good punch and they would blink out of existence. Where did he think they were going? Batman is the world’s greatest detective. He had to know.

But if Batman is willing to inflict inhuman torture on these poor goons, just imagine what hell they must have been put through when the Joker used his high tech torture device to suck every last drop of water out of these hapless humans to turn them into dayglow piles of pink and yellow dust in the first place.

That Fucking Monopoly Game

Just my luck. There was a bank error in my favor. The ATM screen stared back at me through the driver side window. There was no way we had that much money in our account. We had been out to dinner. Then, to the store to get groceries and diapers. And the last minute addition of cigarettes. No wonder she had a fit when I mentioned going through the one short line. We had to go through the longest line in Mississippi. The God damn tobacco line. The “I ain’t got enough money to feed my own kids but I’m sure as hell going to fill my lungs with tar” line.

My wife is here looking over my shoulder from the passenger seat. I know she sees the bank balance. She is gonna go fucking crazy with this money that we don’t really have. Real life is not like that fucking Monopoly game. When the bank fucks up, they take that money back. On their terms and not yours. If you don’t have enough money in your account when they notice, they will put your account in the negative and charge your ass an overdraft fee.

I may guilt her into not spending it before we make it back home, but she’ll be back in town with my bank card just as soon as I get to sleep. Maybe life is like Monopoly. You just keep spending until everybody is fucking bankrupt.

July Poem 25: No, it Wasn’t the Charger, Dickenson

Confusion comes from the difficulty

In bananas. Danny Dickenson’s poems

Are the peels we had to get. I ate as

Many as my moms had flagrant toothpaste.

Framed by the use of a knife to cut them

The words like a cigarette. Cut the words

Into lean smoking story. Her poems make

Rehab came back out lit. The innocence.

They looked like a canned smoke rose. Her poems had

The lady in back with resurrection.

Had just blown the end off Danny. We sent

The money. Had always gambled wrongly.

Could use some innocence even loss of.

July Poem 24

Destruction’s creation into motion.

The world’s first begins for posterity.

At the distant edges, the thing moves fast—

Faster as it converges. I am the

Center. A universal spiral. All

Matter historian, void. Moving to

Coalesce, spin in a vortex, to gain

Because I recognize even them. It


Spins in reds, oranges, and whites. Once down

My face, there is a tension. My chest. Lost.

I can feel the tears streaming, only this

Tightness of sorrow. I am lying face

On my center. I remember the old

Arthritic knuckles and the wrinkles and


The wrinkled hands. My wrinkled hands. My hands.

Covered. In red all— The friends dead. Write down

The results. Preserve the universe. This

Moment is the event that causes me.



July Poem 23: The Chugging Machine

Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping

Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.

And even broadly the universe would

As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.

Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.

Jokes at work without getting fired for

Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it

Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly

Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds

Punctuated by work as numb plants that

Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,

Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.

But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,

Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.

July Poem 22: Dirty Dotted Chunks of Information

It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and

Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke

Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked

Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys

Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed

Out the end of bad taste. The color of

Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.

He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.

From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were

Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit

When they held planes as fat as forest fires.

Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch

For us. The bright color of fire ants tell

Dirty dotted chunks of information.