Poetry

If you’d like to see several of these being performed live, with an original music background, click this link, and forward the video stream to about 35 minutes:

http://www.livestream.com/allgosigns/video?clipId=pla_6550ba86-793f-4d4d-b896-0ab7163ab640

 

Weeds

When saints and angels ask me
How does your garden grow?
Weeds! I ll laugh out loudly
That s all I ve got to show!
I tend a garden bursting
With weeds I ll never harvest
My crops are barely visible
My weeds are so damn marvelous!
My wife used a machete
She whacked and whipped quite furious
But overnight their numbers doubled
My weeds are fuckin SERIOUS!
The neighbors, they tried poison
My weeds grew more resistant
The elders doused with petrol
But fire only made them more persistent
At times they re an embarrassment
But hard not to admire
Like a handsome bastard son
Accidentally sired
They spontaneously erupted
From waste and earth and soil
And now it s formy weeds
I till and sweat and toil
They lust like Aphrodite
Insane like my desire
These weeds somehow define me
Together we ve conspired
To spice the righteous garden
To spike with briar and thistle
To raise the occasional eyebrow
Make horticulture purists bristle
My garden weeds, though shameful
Lead me by example
Like them I must devour
All this life has to sample                                                         3/04 pete dell

 

A HEART LIKE A 24-CARAT, GOLD-PLATED
LEADED CRYSTAL WATERMELON

When you ve got a heart so big
So pure and so fragile that
It looks like a 24-carat, gold-plated
Leaded-crystal watermelon
There on your sleeve.
You must tread carefully.
You ve got to watch out for the
Jokers and clowns who
Are placing banana peels
In your path.
Because most would rather
Watch it fall to the pavement
And shatter into a million pieces
Than show you how to
Hold on to it so carefully
As you must.
You ve got to beware of the whores
Who are dazzled by
Its shining glory, purity, and size
And would have you trade it
For a mere taste of their
Slippery sex . . .
Until they realize what a burden
It is to be responsible
For a giant, 24-carat, gold-plated
Leaded-crystal watermelon.
Who really wants that kind of
Useless luggage, they ll say
Soon after it is theirs. Who is
Willing to help you
Hold it safely, prevent it from
Dropping and exploding
Into shards of dangerous glass?
Damn few is who!
Not for the long run.
Rare is the love willing
To care and maintain and
Prevent painful breakage.
Many want to hold it, and
Be made special
By possessing it. They may
Play with it briefly like
They would a cute baby
But few want to cherish
Feed, change, and protect
That baby, or that
Big, glass watermelon
Of a heart. It s heavy
It s awkward, it s unwieldy
And burdensome
As you well know. But it s rare
Beautiful and thus
Carries great value.
It s just that almost no one
Really knows what to do
With a 24-carat, gold-plated
Leaded-crystal watermelon.
Know that. You do,
But also know that a heart
As pure, rare, and
Magnificent as yours
Will be coveted by many
Understood by hardly any
And valued by even less.
Don t allow any who merely
Need it, try to hold it.
And above all, and firstly
You must prize it, and
Make them prove their
Strength, selflessness
And love, before you entrust
It to them.
It s the only one you have
And you can only
Mend it so often.                                       11/01 Pete Dell

 

BLACK FRIDAY FELL

I jotted all of this down in two and
Three sentence torrents, over a
Period of two to three hours, and I m
Finding it difficult to reconstruct
The surreal happenings of that
Particular Black Friday

Your intonation is my ruination:
Black Friday fell at the moment
I waltzed through the door, with
The obligatory, “Honey, I m. . .”
But, you were right there, telling me
What I had to do, and right now.

Your stern eyes commanded me
Like so many other times I came home
Free of care and light of spirit, greeted by
Tragedy, chaos, deeply hurt feelings
Or the occasional bout with mental illness
Which, apparently was the case tonight.

You ve got to talk to your son now.
Of course he wouldn’t, only glaring
As we passed on the stairs, answering
You are! in response to the question
What s your problem? At the time
I had no idea the gravity of the

Situation, only that wife and son were
Both upset: he with me, and
She with both of us. The latter being not
Unusual, the former downright rare.
It was only then that you deigned to
Explain some of the afternoon s events.

That a joking phrase, of the type he and
I are always trading, delivered to him
In jest by my secretary, triggered a bizarre
Series of events, that hours later, he was
Unable to explain, profusely apologizing
Really at a loss to explain why he snapped

And what might have caused it. Now the
Shrinks will have to earn their fees, adjust the
Depression pills and prescribe mood swing
Medication, because it s not every day
You tear your art off the walls, disable
The smoke detector, wait until everyone

Leaves the house, then
Set your room
On fire                                                                                      2/01 Pete Dell

 

Deep In The Bowels Of The City

Deep in the bowels of the city
In tunnels forgotten by time
It lies forsaken and flooded
The ancient and lost subway line

It once overflowed with its travelers
Its passengers gay and alive
They marveled at such a convenience
A new modern world had arrived

So many men died in construction
Today you would call it a crime
Entombed in the caissons forever
The widows and orphans remind

With work oh so scarce the replacements
Were already waiting in line
They sweated and toiled in this dungeon
A day swage merely a dime

Once the great feat was accomplished
The press and the public proclaimed
A marvel of human invention
Those heroes did not die in vain!

The primitive subway trains prospered
Investors were paid back in kind
The public demanded more service
And digging began on more lines

In time there arose competition
From busses and trolleys and cars
But management found ways to profit
They did it by using less parts

Eventually ridership dwindled
The company said it was through
Announcements were printed and posted
The last train s tomorrow at noon

When the very last train left the station
A throng had decided to ride
They knew it to be an occasion
The end of an era arrived

The tunnel collapsed without warning
A cave-in trapped all those inside
Those who weren t crushed by the timbers
Asphyxiated and died

Deep in the bowels of the city
The trains in the tunnels reside
Along with the ghosts of the workers
And passengers biding their time

They wander the tracks and the station
With many sad stories to tell
The ghosts of the subway forgotten
Will never escape from their hell                                       7/00 Pete Dell

 

DUPLICITOUS SCHIZOPHRENIC

Organized chaos is the realm in which I dwell
Chameleon Gemini
Duplicitous schizophrenic
Two-faced twin freak of nature

You may remember mad doomed Ivan
On the back of his head was another face
Where his mop of hair should have been
Was it a woman or a young child?

To remove it would kill him the doctors said
The face laughed and wept
Scorned and tempted him
His satanic Id personified

So too are my demons situated
Flexible and flighty they migrate
In lunatic flocks scattering the sky
In surreal patterns of light and shadow

Look at me closely . . .

Tragically humorous fence straddler
Decidedly indecisive
Worse than a nineteen year old freshman
Weighing the options of offers for the evening

A football player with a Trans Am
The Italian exchange student stud
And a romantic poet type
On a scholarship for genius

Whose depth of gaze
Dissolves her will to resist
Does she want to resist?

She s not sure. . .

Watch me be logically illogical
Analytically socializing with
The moves of an ethical cheat
Dancing with loyal betrayal

While the band blares on
Wailing saxophonic
Confused intellect
Extreme improvised habit

This here s the real shit
Just don t let them know
You re chronically out of breath
One slight whispering breeze

May tip the dancer
Tripping off the footlights
That illuminated
Precariously held balance

Rev-up my high RPM
Self-righting gyroscope
Don t topple just yet
How I love impending doom

I perform for morbid race fans
On the edge of their seats
Praying for sweet disaster
Don t take your eyes off me

And please don t breathe
So hard in my direction
In fact, hold your breath
There s an accident waiting to happen                             5/02 Pete Dell

 

FOR TIM – UPON THE WATERS NOT FAR BELOW

It s now officially tomorrow, and
I just can t let it end. The
Long holiday weekend was
Filled with celebration, relaxation
And inter-generational
Family gatherings.

Now at two AM and I find myself
Inspired by so many diverse thoughts.
I ll list them now to
Exercise poetic license, and
Exorcize my demons:
-Turning forty-five Saturday.
RPM of obsolete, big-holed,
Vinyl music media, but more
Importantly, and no denying it
Like in years past got to be a
Half-life. Even optimistically
Make it to ninety (?);
– And isn t it time to finally
Grow up? And what exactly
Does that mean? A half-life.
What does that mean?
Radio nuclear physics
Ill suited for
Metaphors;
– Today my son is sixteen, and
All that it implies to both
Of us. Notice I didn t say turned.
Old milk turns. He is both more
And less mysterious to me than
Ever, but in a better way.
Words inadequate to express
Mysterious, but with advancing
Age comes more instances of
Emotional complexity beyond
Expression outside my psyche. Why
Bother trying? (To bore slam
Audiences of course!);
-Tonight, during a French sub-titled
Flick that found me recognizing
More of that Junior-High language
Than expected, heard actor say
In-sin -er-a-she-on when the
Bottom-screened verbiage plainly
Stated cremation. That ll make you
Think twice;
– TV advert for new film,
Scattering Dad.
Something about fulfilling
The life-molded wishes
Of the recently
Relocated.

That triggered a memory of my
Friend Derf s story of the same
Sit-com, Dad s-dead scenario.
The screenwriters must have
Consulted with him on
At least the title.

And I too have written willed
Instructions from beyond a future
Grave, to have ashes scattered
Over a body of water, but not the
Mighty Mississippi, like my friend Derf s dad;

My friend Derf s scatter-dad story
Told in his inimitable, over-the-bar
Gestulating, punctuating, four
Longneck Rocks later style
Always exceeds
Expectations.

I ll do the story, Derf, and his dad
A great injustice now, by trying
My hand at Cliff Notes version:
Family of grown siblings and
Grieving widow pile in van
For trek from Lakewood, Ohio

To Quad Cities, Iowa, in
Accordance with instructions.
Urn in the middle seat, like a
Top that quit spinning, signifying
Silence, which this trip was
Brimming with. On the bluff chosen,
Over-looking the banks of that
Grand, flood havoc-wreaking mud vein
Deciding this is it.

Do it now and head back to van,
Hoping to high heaven the
Ride home would find silence
Hitch-hiking to points
Unknown. Wind blowing
Conveniently from behind
As everyone grabs fistfuls
Of father to dash

Upon the waters not far below.
Simultaneously, on a long three
Count, one pitching, one
Flinging, one under handing.
Just one actually scattering
Like Johnny broadcasting
Apple seeds.
Three!

And at that exact moment,
Which they later realized to be
Reminiscent of one of dad s
Practical jokes, the wind direction
Does a one-eighty, blinding
One and all with pop s ashes.
Burning eyeballs blinking madly,
Coughing him back out

Phlegmatically, after which,
Following a brief
Eternity of bodily defense
Mechanisms, their chests
Spasmodically lurching
From lung-convulsing
Reflexes, to lung spasms
Of laughter.
Silence now well down the
Road and neatly out of sight,
Except for the giant cowgirl
Blues thumb waving in the
Recently reversed airstreams.
Logic eventually overtaking
Humor, the widow
Instructs Derf

To launch the urn and its
Remaining contents into
The slow, creamed-coffee
Colored river. They watch
Pop bob and weave, narrowly
Missing weeping willow
Tangled truck tires, driftwood
Stuck on underwater rocks

Sinking from sight, then
Reappearing like a drowning
Victim to a would-be
Rescuer who can t swim
Too good. A parade of one
Treading water gracefully
Past obstacles, but wait!
The urn

Is now in the same freeze-frame
Photo of their horrified
Realization, as a fly-fisherman
Casting from his near-shore,
Waders-on vantage point.
They all know what he s going
To catch. It s just been one
Of those days. But no one

Can give it voice to reel-in
Fisherman Frank, who just seconds
Later is curiously investigating
The odd-shaped package his
Rod dangling in front of him.
His eyes slowly scan to upstream
Shore, stopping at what appears
To be a family of tuxedoed
And veiled funeral attendees,

Eight hands on four heads,
Speechless. I don t know the exact
Ending, but it s all denouement
From here. Anyone hearing
Derf tell this story is laughing
Too hard to care or catch
The final details.

But now I m remembering a literary
River boy who arranges to
Witness his own funeral.
My friend Michael wrote
A poem about how he d like
His funeral to play out – his
Version of a Huck Finn fake finish.
Michael s candy-apple colored coffin
Is empty and he s embalmed, but alert in a
Nearby chair.

Just pretend I m dead, he pleads.
Great for a poem, but like our
Dear departed Tim, let s
Burn so hot in life, that
Pretending we re dead
Is impossible for any but those
Strangers who are friends
We haven t yet met.

Tim did that: lived a full life
In half a life expectancy.
He was possessed of a gentle
Beauty that inspired all
Who knew him to be as kind
Fair, and generous.

We pictures Tim in a beautiful
Place, dining on a heavenly
Ambrosia with all his friends
Picture that with us now, as we
Mourn, not for him, but
For our own great loss.                             11.4.01 Pete Dell

 

November Night Thunder

CRACK! Like a giant celestial whip
It sounds. I m bolt upright in bed
Straining to focus on the real world, reluctant
To leave the dream world.
Split second wondering
What the fuck!?
And immediately answered by the
Furious, low, house-shaking lumber
Rumble.

Intrigued by the unseasonable
High decibel weather phenomenon
Wreaking demonic havoc with my
Slumber, I roll off the bed and
Pad barefoot to the window, yanking
The blind, which does its obligatory cartoon
Imitation of a blind, Whap wap wap wap wap
Cause it can t stop spinning at terminal
Velocity.

Peering through the permanently crazed
Piece-a-shit, triple-pane, How d it get dirty
On the middle glass? insulating window. Outside
It looks like time lapse photography: everything s
Blowing atmospherically chaotic, while the
Landscape stays rooted to earth
Like it s supposed to. Is that precipitation
Pounding sideways at my
North face?

Unsure, I stumble naked down the
Steps and pull the kitchen blind up
Absent-mindedly grabbing a box of
Life to hold in front of me hiding
The potentially offensive plumbing
Now at an insistent, No, I m not happy
To see you, I gotta pee upright angle, and
Simultaneously munching the Life for
Sustenance.

I don t remember a November like this
With regular night thunder that wakes you
Like a crying baby, when you least want
Your dream to end: coitus interuptus.
Then it s gone and doesn t give the satisfaction
Of rain or lightening. Like Nature s dry heaves.
You lie back down wondering if it was
Dream thunder, but no, you felt that
Aftershock.

Tonight, looking out the kitchen
Window, munching dry Life, I observe
The evidence, gather the facts
Try to assess the nature of the nature.
Leaves transported in circles round the mailbox
Lamppost creaking frantically back and forth.
I automatically think of my friend Matt Brown s
Father.

It s blowin like a whore, he d be saying
Right now. What a combination
Of color and intellect; had a limerick for
Every occasion, sometimes two! I have a
Vision of his ghost blasting past, riding this
High-speed, thunder-driven wind, in front of my
Cereal box, fig leaf, crunch-mouth
Nakedness. I m mesmerized by my
Ability to see into some other
Dimension.

Is that snow driven off roofs
Sideways, or horizontal rain that makes the
Lucalox street light appear so other-worldly.
My front yard is a spirit world dreamscape or worse:
A swirling purgatory of undead souls, trapped
In a vortex of past sins, spinning hopelessly
Traveling nowhere. Yeah,
That would explain it, I
Decide.

Old Al Brown, the whirling dervish of the south
Shore of Lake Erie, spinning on the wind, like
The goddam Edmund Fitzgerald, circling the
Drain in old Gichigoomie. Al died unloading his
Suitcases from the trunk of his car, right in
Matt s driveway, twenty feet from the shoreline
The house just sold to his son
And he, just back for
Christmas.

That ll ruin your holidays; your old man s heart
Seizing up, like an unlubricated big-block Chevy
Oil leaked out drop by drop. Mouth to mouth in the snow
Just one fucking suitcase to go, trunk lid flapping
A staccato rhythm in the silence. Whenever shit would
Hit the fan, Matt would say, Cancel Christmas !
And now he has, every year since Al dropped hard, clutching
A bag of presents, face down in the snow-covered
Concrete.

At my kitchen window, I say a little prayer
For my old man, whose heart was been suspect
For half his life, fear of its failure invoked by
The trauma of Grampy s death, at fifty-something,
Playing golf , down on the ninth hole, too far to the hospital.
Pop s arrhythmia started at an age less than mine is now.
Ten years ago the surgeons bypassed seven little
Clogged arteries that fed his cadence
Keeper.

Seeing into the chaos outside, I reflect on the swift
Winds of change; the surprise of events propelled by
Invisible gusts of randomness into or out of our lives.
How some people, like the leaves on my pin oaks
Cling to sanity, avoiding major downfalls borne
On these pre-winter gales. I can t help
But think the dream-ending crack and rumble
Meant to put me here, snarled and naked
Crunching on Life. I ve heard no thunder
Since.                                                                                11/00

 

RUSSIAN ROULETTE

The difference is in exactly
How many bullets are actually loaded
Into the nickel-plated snub nose
By the stranger who offers the dare
And, in who goes first

I take dares as a matter of
Great personal pride
A cardinal rule in the church of
Perpetual acceleration that I attend

And being pure of heart
Not motivated by romance
Power or greed
There smuch to gain in an
Occasional brush with death

My dogma of risk for reward
Satisfies like no other
Especially when God s away on business
And the Devil left for brunch with Hitler

So how many armor-piercers
You got loaded in these six holes?
We playing standard or high stakes?
I ask the anonymous dealer

Your call, he coolly replies
Pupils glowing like a locomotive firebox

One for a night
Two for a fair
Three for love
Four for murder
Five for suicide
Six for insurance

[outloud] Just call it
[to myself] Be calm
It s thrill not fear and
You know the difference
[outloud] Start with one
You go first, I ll spin

I ll go second, you spin
Then two each, on so on
Until it s all over.
You game?

He reminded me of myself
Humans are automatically inclined
To liken others to ourselves
Later it turns out we are far from the truth

I had already been punished for it
Until my dying day scars on my heart
Will remind me of the unwisdom of it

AlI I want at this moment
Is a bullet in my head
Because I can t hold on anymore
I m tired and scared
That I will not die a hero

I m game, he statesmatter-of-factly
Followed by a pause, then
Good call.

Kierkegaard taught me that only a man
Who has despaired can properly appreciate life
He is at once the happiest and unhappiest of men

I’ve appreciated it
Howled and clawed at it
Only malice gives me the strength
To face another day

God forbid you should know happiness
Then live the rest of your life in unhappiness
I spin the chamber, he grabs the piece
Laughs, shoves the barrel down his throat

Faces away to give me
A blast of brains should I win
Only a great idea or movement or uprising
Could lend purpose to my empty life now

Every hour crackles with voltage
When your life is subordinated to a great idea
I lacked participation in a revolution
An upheaval could take away this sadness

Nothing less than employment as a soldier of fortune
I felt the sadness surrounding this stranger and I
Click, my turn
He spins.

The scene was filmed in sadness
The kind that makes a man
Take a machine gun and
Start shooting in a crowd

I remembered an old poster
With a quote of Barkunin s:
I shall remain an impossible person
Until such time as all possible persons
Cease to be so.

Aiming at my temple
I pull the trigger.

Click, his turn,
I spin.                                                         5/02 Pete Dell

 

Stick Shift Transmission, Engines Rev

Grab the stick shift swift
Click it into motion
Shift it into gear, shift into
Drive-shaft propelled
By motion

Road trip to your underworld
Double-clutching wonder
Amplify your senses
Top down winds
Have blown

Shift the mood erotic
Leather upholstered trim
Stiff stick shift transmission
Strip out of
Your gear

Neon red inflation
Weave around your pylons
Fleshy pink protrusion
Road hazard
Guarantee

Flip the switch for overdrive
Sport utility bumper twitch and
Overturned we
Slid into a ditch
With sticky sweet
Abandon

Oil overflowed and
Dipstick checked for leakage
Grease fitting nipples
Bastard thread
Revs per minute
Redline!

Steam hissing radiator
Burst with antifreeze
White moly grease ejected
When ball joints explode
Trip almost over. . .

Cars were crashed and crumpled
But should recover soon
To rev and race again
To slide around the road
And drag strip oval dirt track
Under a foolish moon.                                                                7/00 pete dell

 

UNDER THE WORLD

Amerika’s a pipe dream of beauty
Reserved for your ash
Burned enjoyment. Like
Ginsberg said: Under the world
There s a lot of ass, a lot
Of cunt. Yeah, it s there

Under the world. Just like
He said it was. We put
It there.
Praise the overlord: Free
Floating third person casual
Observer of our nascent
Desires latent flaws seven
Deadlies. Witness the sulfur
Spewing match head blue
Tipped dragon chasing smoke.
Where there s fire always
Inhale.

That swhere you ll find the
Flame swallowing forked
Tongue cloven hoof pubic
Monster we love to applaud.
You know the one, it s down
There where you keep your guilty
Pleasures: crotchless edible panties
Cock ring french tickler and
What not.

Christ, even Jesus had temptations
Flesh desires and flesh wounds.
My stigmata spouts blood
As I m flung about the
Room; like Jesus I pardon
Myself before leaving office.
Son o God s a great title
If you don t mind a little
Controversy.

Not In My Back Yard pollution pipe
HazWaste treatment
Incineration plant
Seeds in shit and see how
They grow, genetic engineered
Cross contaminated
Mutant vegetable protein
Supplement vitamin
Enhanced.

At farmcorps located under
The world where it can go
Unnoticed by the couch
Potato chip TV hypnotized
Denial squads. Under the
World with the organized
Religion icon banks that
Overflow with Pontius Pilot s
Wash water.

Our diamond studded gold leaf
Encrusted God is not in
Heaven above; absolute
Deity resides below, under
The world where we hide
The stuff we really love
Protected from view of
Coveting neighbor crafty
Jealous thief.

Stay sadly away from my
Evil loot buried treasure
Chest. Under the world
Where I admire my steamy
Stash pleasure dome trash
Heap love shack good
Buzz shanty, naked except
For Ferlinghetti s
Underwear

Clothesline pinned
Flag flying display
Of pure satisfaction                                                                   Pete Dell 6/01