all the stuff in grandfather’s pocket (1st draft)

eh, not sure what i think of this one, i like the idea, but it’s not congealing the way i want it to. i’ll have to come back and look at it again

grandfather is always talking in riddles, he keeps them in his pocket, the pocket with the hole in, all his riddles are escape artists, they fall to the ground and follow him wherever he goes, like baby ducks

“remember, wherever you go, there you are” 

grandfather is talking in circles again, talking about ferris wheels, talking zodiac symbols and goblin on unicycles, he says “it takes one hundred million revolutions to make one evolution, so make it a good one” 

grandfather keeps his third eye in his pocket, with his chapstick and a rusty key, an old baseball ticket stub and a broken golf tee, three red rosery beads and his favorite naked lady coin, grandmother is always sewing the hole in his pocket, grandfather keeps ripping it out, “a pocket with a hole in it is like a heart without a head”  
grandfather is talking crazy again, static in the attic, rubbish in the oven, magic in the madhouse, is it wisdom? is it life lesson or myth? mystery or mist? (or “vapour” as hughes writes it) nothing we can understand

“the faster the dog shits, the more tired he gets” 

“poppa!” grandmother yells, “not at the dinner table!” and the kids just giggle, then he sends us to bed with a riddle and a prayer “sleep deep, children, dream-birds will bring you skipping stones and magic bones, careful not to lose them when you wake”

his face is a lexicon of puzzles, eyes glitter like razors, eyebrows thick as encyclopedias, his smile a thousand years of love, and all the lines, a map of some otherworld long gone and yet to be born, his riddles unlock forgotten doors

“look at me, i walk just fine, even though my sock is falling down”

“What the hell pappa? what do you mean?”

“if there’s a hole in your soul, don’t fill it with yourself, a hole can’t fill a hole, that’s how we collapse” grandfather is always making sense, and he gets younger by the year, i see it in his eyes, he won’t be an old man poet crying old man poems, angels only sing in riddles 

“surprise surprise, sunrise in the graveyard” as he walks across the rubicon, walks upon the water, he is adopting otters and river dippers, puts them in his pocket, the one with the hole in it, they will swim together forever and fly away as riddles  

posted for the word list at shay’s word garden

word garden #8 the adventures of joe burden

great list shay, and rather serendipitous, i wasn’t familiar with this poet and enjoyed reading his work, and i have been wanting to write more prose poetry lately and this got the ball rolling for me, hope you enjoy

enter joe burden wearing his favorite bowtie
joe is an average joe with an average burden, so he deepens his load and carries the weight of the world, sometimes on the back of his neck between his scrawny average shoulders, sometimes in a bowling bag that matches his bowtie, joe loves the world... when it conforms to his reality

he listens to electric radio hellhounds pounding on his cauliflower ear, the world is postponing reality, perhaps permanently (reality all tied up and clogged up and beat up by reality) this is not good, joe is not happy 

time gets lost and dizzy, the big hand grabs the little hand and walks itself into the dark, vicarious gingerbread ghosts beyond the cellar door poke holes in the floor and make fun of his goofy bowtie, and the cowbell tolls for cowboy souls, all hell break loose in joe’s favorite bowling bag

oh well
hell is full of pollution, and revolution, and imitation information, and joe is an average bowler, he can’t roll a strike to save his life, or the world, and all manner of evil crawls out of his bowling bag and attacks his cowboy soul, tooth and tusk, beak and claw, hatchet and chainsaw, poor joe, with his average credit score and a ticket to heaven

but reality canceled and exit joe burden
as he crawls under the kitchen table and sticks his head up his ass, all the way up to his beautiful bowtie, “tuck and roll” says the radio to the world, “tuck and roll” says joe burden to his asshole

oh well
hell is full of hell, and reality 

“bravo! Bravo!” says the radio, reality discontinued due to lack of interest and bad weather, stay tuned ladies and gentlemen and average joes of all ages, for this year’s tastiest torments and funniest disasters, and always remember, three prayers are better than one, good god, good grief, and good luck

posted for Shay word garden word list #8

posted for d’verse

posted for poets and storytellers united