41st Birthday Poetry Dump by David L O’Nan : Cassavetes, Old Boss on Friday, 1928 Skin Disease, Battling the Stars in the Brothel, J.D. Truckers

Cassavetes

I once lived in a canyon
As a starved mannequin
I felt nude
As my clothes melted into my plastic skeleton
You will not feel my shakes
As i'm a mute to you,
But, inside i'm an earthquake

I will not revisit the canyon.
Now that I've found gold in superiority
God smiling over our field of life
And you can go back -
To wearing your dirty stained robes
Asleep in your coalmine chambers
Your Cassavetes movies on repeat
On a television screen Green with cobwebs whisping

You will awake in thorns
The prickling stabbing will leave you to -
moments of incompletion.
I once lived in a heartbreak,
as a drowning boat
To the last breath of the lively sea.

I was teased by hearsay
I was dressed up in other's garments
Whom were in the "more impressive" crowds
I was a hipster on a day to be a gentleman
I was a gentleman at the party,
When you are supposed to scream for passion.
I was an ocean that had no life formations
I was only water
Salt was a stranger.
You want to live in a duel
Parading town as the social clown
You dream when it's convenient
Your nightmares shape your eyes -
To a sunken black tombstone.

Good luck impressing your kings and queens
With your coffee stained Santa beard
However, you'll never know if they will applaud
Once you create a dynasty out of your cheap imitations.
A lollipop for the mob.

Sure, you can impress
By making grenades out of seashells
But, can you pull the needles from your chest -
when you're robbed from all that you've loved.

I once polluted this Earth with a squalor empire
Spilling drips and drops of toxins
over a circular sun
Well, I was told by God himself
That you should learn to run
Run away from the burns and scum
That follow you into a shun.

Are you following me?

Always and always will
Always it the word that means eternal.

Even when hidden below the mountains,
And you're the forgotten mister.
The old cracking skin,
Picking lines from the bible and tattooing them on your brain.
To recite to all shabby crocodile hearts -
That walk by pounding on that narcissism drum.

You call for peace
When the world explodes in sin.

And, where are you?

Still watching Cassavetes films
On your broken waterbed.
Popsicles melted all over the damn creation.
Sloppy and drooling,
How elite are you?
In your painted brain.

1928 Skin Disease

Are we all heart attacks?
As Midwestern flu epidemics rips the town to shreds
We are cold, we are infernos
We are light, we are black and white
In Photographs
We look like we hate life.

Soothe me with old stresses
New stress is just new shit, a new grind
And they will take our drinks away
and watch us sell off our families
To protect us from the war sirens.

I'm not even sure we're alive,

Picking potatoes by burning coals
With copperheads swirling around the tractor
It must be a good feeling
To shed this disease.

Feeling death melt over the river
And watch the skies green up and shred away the clouds.
In 1928, the great grandfathers had to fight
The silver wind and the knives of the night.

To protect the women and children from unknown wraths
And the film negatives that leave the ill imprint.

Battling the Stars in the Brothel

Every day. He lives the grandiose Vegas life.
Always tossing the dice around floating hearts
He still lives in the cool amongst the foolish
While all the good men are pedaling in quicksand
He fights the unkempt,
With the ugliness that runs in his blood.

He bribes the orchestra
He winks to the greasy hands
Now is that absurd?
In Vegas blinders
Every day at the brothel,

Drinks all the expensive champagne
His habits are a smash hit.
While he displays all his truths and lies
While on the floor broken 
Watching soggy stars spin around -
the Vulgar room
In Pink Neon.

Every day, the puffy possessions
Stems of flaky roses
A melting superficial charm
You're the private in the glitter army
Sugar spoons begin to bend

And your pain resonates
In the women you've bedded
You're the needless paper heart
Aborted away the emotions
Now all that money is running thin
In a BMW suffering in starvation
Even you could use a meal.

Look at the magnificent 
Eating at the cheap diner again
All the ladies at the brothel,
are harmoniously singing -
at the beauty of your severance.

Oh, the sex symbol once dapper and proud
is just a cobweb father
With orbs lingering overhead.

In those stars you've met the spider.


J.D. Truckers

Neglectful boys they became
Women in nightgowns, children in He-Man pajamas
With a Hi-C box dripping on the light brown carpet
Those men,
Romanticizing about Jack Daniels
Some truckers whom believed they had wisdom.

From London, Kentucky
David and Jeff became friends
A grandeur imposter, tough, and reedy
They were,
And they, were locks and chains
Coughing, hacking, bleeding ulcer truckers.

Mom never told them "I Love You"

They were supposed to be at home when off from work,
but they were shooting darts,
Shooting Asian Carp in the lake
They were all firecrackers and gasoline hands,
Voyeurs at the maiden's motel.
Grocery store riots, plastic flower playboys, truckers

Empowered by the whiskey burns
Lighting in the bottle during the whiskey storm.
Torching the taste buds and watch Thelma and her sisters wave goodbye.
They found her discount store bra and stolen carton of eggs in their Semis.
Stained flannel shirts,
Gamy newspapers, they couldn't cry
Bruise out a tear.

Because mom never told them "I Love You"

They had to call Daniel Davis at the payphone
So they can more Jack on the icy roads
Riveting focus over the mountains to a new river,
On a new day,
and Double D had the money at least one more time -
For these J.D. Truckers.
They had kids at home begging for a stuffed animal, 
for a T.V. dinner.
They had women at home circling ads for new men.

They just sat in their trucks in the trashed depression.
With a toasted cheese frozen to the dashboard.
The open road was losing its freedom
And all of their dancers they'd visit we're becoming old like them.
Their buddies they used to brag about
Were either skeletons or in jail.

Because mom never said "I Love You"

Old Boss on Friday

On a morning that brewed the dust
A flock of geese flew over the trees
Above your militia hut
You're the sore,
An enabler of war
The captain to a whipping shore
All your people scare of your stare.

You act the part of a corruptive clown
Everyone believes your lies
The genius that you say you are

You have bought your charm
Like a violation of the Hatch Act.

The women you swoon
The same way you puncture their heart,
At the end of a bloody moon
Leaving it pale.

In a sinister snort of your "sugar dirt"
You claim you have paved the way
The gifts of your smile
And the guns you pack
Doesn't always make for a friendly holiday.

Vacations with strangers
On some pompous waters that you claim as your own
Wicked and paralyzing
You tell the young blondes what they want to hear.
Promotions, Promotions, Promotions.

A raise will come, follow me like the fading sun
And you will be rewarded with the bed of gold
And enfold you in my shield.
shhhh...keep your mouth shut,
Sign away your clarity for new fears
The Captain is a burning room,
full of many wardrobes and burning perfumes,

Come with me in this hideaway scene
In the glossy ghetto murdered by rain
See you there in your anxious fear
He laughs and makes you his comic book brain.

You are not ripe anymore
Too wrinkled and sour
Your politics too dire to his ideal
Pulling away, from his constraint
He's got piles of red hats and snake flags.
Packing to the rallies and the stores.

And you are now just a wish
elimination from your freedom
The flight skidding into a slavery war
Pumping at your brakes
Now your mind is an earthquake.

And your solidity as a king on Tuesday breaks down
Like the skeleton of a storm
Broken branches driven over by squealing tires
Streetlights fade on your cocaine parade
And your midas hands begin to fail
Your mid-life crisis begins to feel more permanent.
By Thursday, you're the talk of the scene.
The words don't come out easily,
You've been pawned and left raw.

Those paisley shirts and Raybans can't hide your lies
And false charms,
What is secure?
When the floor has been swept away from your feet?

The week will not lay down like a lady at your beckoning dream
DENIED in red ink!
Remove and brush away

Clouds spit out the greenish hue for you,
the Old boss on Friday.


Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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