Kings of Toots

Kings of Toots

We sat next

to one another

unsecretive, even loud

in the dark

of a bar

called Toots.

Sipping voraciously,

and gesturing like Italians.

We competed

in consumption

not on purpose

but of need

we trampled habit,

daily,

any hour

celebration

every hour,

whiskey spirited away

with

promises for

tomorrow of the deeds we

sat on today.

The afternoon

was dear,

sweet light

low and

honey colored

listless,

like baking bread,

we sat there

elbows poking

the mahogany

our feet at rest

on the communal

brass stirrup,

us, cowboys

of the alehouse.

Yes,

we men

rode the room

through yet,

another day

past plans

for the fix

of all the

world’s mess.

Commiseration

during ballads

broadcasted by the

juke.

We fed it

our quarters

by the dollar,

shook hands

slapped backs

kings in the stink

of the bar

behind our home,

this piss filled

castle called Toots.

Wives wondered

what it was,

this place,

but we knew

here was where

we planned

for what had been.

Tomorrow,

was another way

 of feeling better

letting go

getting by.

One more, and we’ll go.

GJH 2004

Blue Coincidence

Blue Coincidence 

Blue tobacco smoke exits at force from his mouth. Blue eyes of his, surrounded by whites of  marbled red, burn.

Blue mood tweaks an already angry psyche.

Glue joints crack as he forces back the splintering Windsor, and rises atop his royal blue stocking feet.

Outside, the blue sky goes to waste, while he, on the inside, blows another cloud of blue .

In the basement where he now stands, a blue canoe hangs over his head, a gift from a brown haired girl named Blue. From the neighbor’s living room, one could just hear the feint lilt of the Blue Danube escaping from an open window.

He yelled a harsh yell, in an instant, Billy, his Bluetick coonhound appeared, tail a flail. Billy barked once, as his master blew his nose, unaware of  blue coincidence.

GJH 08

Man Kind

Man Kind

He trapped a fleeting thought within the brain of his.

It spun as a top until it stilled itself. 

This pristine new entry into his mind glared back at him. 

Eyes of his could see no more,

in the dark of the soul.

He was unaware that time did not matter in times such as this.

This fleeting thought was not trapped by he.

It was a dove of awakening. It was a hammer above the anvil of his existence,

graphic, in the darkest reptilian recesses of his mind.

All was a hindrance, his carcass of a life.

He was nothing more than a fat rat caught in a trap of his own desire.

In a whisper of want, down there in the soul, he clawed and craved his way within reach of this oldest grail.

The only truth here now,

was to start from the start, and follow what he’d always ignored.

Only truth is free, and only truth needed he.

GJH 08

The Stop

The Stop

Sometime,

somewhere,

a simple breath

fell.

At present,

tender young

blades of grass

flicker

in 

whisper wind.

They guard

 bottoms of

fence posts

lining the way.

Split rail

fences

in wicked angles,

streak the drive

I drive.

Presently,

so quiet

in my head,

it rests

for me,

lets me be.

The crows

don’t crow,

they just stand there,

wing to wing

black eyes

unblinking,

staring from the dress line.

Shakes

of my hands

drop below

my flannel sleeves.

The crows

don’t care

that I am

where

I am.

The barn,

empty,

wooden cavern

today,

we are all empty,

but I’m content,

in vacancy.

Perfect

ensemble…

for the funeral.

GJH 07

Somewhere

Somewhere

Deep in an ocean, a crab bucked the current.

It was barely light as it stirred a porridge of sediment and passed

a garden of sea cucumbers.

An anemone blossomed near its trek and clown fish pecked its shell.

The crab made its way on a journey known only by its instinct,

or a map within infinite being, it crept along the floor of a majestic underwater cathedral. The reef was alive, a gauntlet of gestation, writhing in the quiet deep near the creeping crab.

Sheaves of crystal blue twisted above in the currents of the lazy Galapagos. A tortoise careened on a swim of its own, oblivious, or not, to the crab far below.

Billows of green ribbon suspended in tons of crush, delicate, resting there in awe magnificence.

Fawn colored parapets of sugar sand lent a thud of silence to all that pushed forth from its face.

And the crab carried on in its sideways adventure.

Above.

In the air, in civilization, in the comfort and convenience of modern life, there is an ocean.

Somewhere.

GJH 10  

All...

All

In pleasant opus we can sit together, or apart, on any porch, at dawn, dark, or any time of day.

We can have this.

Amidst all that is bad in the world, be happy we have this.

The clarity is not always there, clouds steal the sun’s shine, maybe our will of some days. But when it’s quiet, as here and now, we can feel someone has dressed this corner of the earth, for just our minute.

Another day to finish, with the cautious promise of another, nice to know we can have this, whatever life’s decision. Because,

nothing is worth more.

At this moment; I understand what we have.

It’s not one thing, it’s not that, or the other, it is the rock shoal of all…

It is us.

Hayward 2006

Whys

Summer, Greenwich Village 1912 NYC

Flat Iron building just off Madison Square Park NYC

Whys

It’s hot here,

by the Flatiron building.

The breeze,

a convection of

hot city breath.

Conversations take place

amongst the flocks

in the streets.

Perspiration, a communal

wash, on high today.

My pen slips

through my fingers

as though

it’s annoyed with me.

The hanging haze,

forms halos

around an antique

streetlamp, its lights

burn in the sun,

two dirty orange orbs,

why?

It all conspires,

for the gain

of all my whys.

Shadows of flat timber

cook

in the sun’s flame.

The busses churn,

and the sightseers

sit along its scalp,

on their way

to ground zero,

waiting to witness

what’s not there.

Billboards bristle

with pitches

to the peds.

They sweat

and ride the day,

walk the dogs,

suck cigarettes,

and crowd,

within the crowds.

Next,

a large fly

crashes my lap,

he’s dizzy in this heat,

as if he knows

I’ll not swat him,

I don’t

and wonder why.

The mercury

breaks records,

my pen slips,

and I watch

the girls,

crazy what I think,

they seem to float by,

on the hems of all their skirts.

I sit here

as the day

lays open.

A girl stops

and asks me

for directions.

A bird, a tiny bird,

lands near my feet,

he stands by me,

looking with me.

What have I done

to deserve

all this attention?

Hot here today,

amongst all

the whys.

An errant leaf,

brown, burnt,

no longer living,

falls to my lap

from the trees looking on.

I set it safe beside me

because it chose

me to fall to.

Who am I

to say it didn’t?

Just another why.

Hayward 2006

Harbinger

Harbinger

Razor smiles,

pinched

below cherry noses.

Piled together

as cordwood kids.

Posing for pictures

amidst the din

of kindergarten calliope,

in a room

built for tumbling.

Smiles in forced waves,

goaded,

pleaded for,

by a paunchy,

put out photographer.

Cherub cheeks,

dirty knees,

on future citizens,

denizens,

inhabiters of lives

bestowed.

Huddling, snickering,

a banker to be,

blows his nose,

as the first flash

pops.

Tomorrow’s mother

of six,

hopes her

pigtails will be in focus.

Judgment day soon,

for a squeamish

boy beside her,

portent of sarcoma

will have his place

empty,

when they’re all here

next year.

Fifteen years to go,

rugby shirt,

to the left of dying boy,

will do,

thirty-to life,

for the murder

of his father,

a monster

to his sister.

A future baker

burps,

tasting oatmeal

morning cookies.

A sandwich

on millet,

lies in

a lunch sack of hemp.

Bus driver

in years

to arrive,

dozes near a flag pole,

up most the night,

with cartoons

on TV.

A genius is bored,

behind the kid

by the pole.

Pythagorean theorem,

roils in his head.

While blisters boil

on a prodigy

rapist’s fingers,

singed

in a fire,

ripping his psyche.

There are good futures within

the group, according to societies

engineering with which they will mix. 

Their homes a petri dish

filled with omens of outcome.

Today, a funeral and birth of sorts,

before a camera’s

lens,

today,

in the gym,

a burying of innocence,

since leaving

the womb.

Arteries of right,

intersect

with rivers of wrong.

Frozen forever

on celluloid,

in a box,

on a stand,

placed on a floor

in a room

inside a school

near a town

where a generation

hatched their

eggs

Hayward 02