TKW

TKW

Described by Janz as

“eternal

adolescent,” but art is

an adult sphere for

those who end

being in

among the swarms of

color-flingers, bright

bulb idea guys,

women with

a brush to grind, you

still wear the

fedora, still hang, Weaver

Street itself knows your

foot beat, smell

laugh. The Louvre

Shack  was an art piece

in itself, socked-assed

puppets, some nudist

handed his

camera

to sophomoric coeds who

snapped away

anyway. Your stash

of music was one

of many

lures ladies young and old could

rely on.

Dennis Oppenheim

never had this life.

Gail

Gail

Baby blue eyes, soft face, five pierces per ear,
Gail struts with strong arms and a gnawing desire.
“Burrito babe” as she’s known by her secretive fans,
Has no idea just how capable she is, of arousing
Primal desires that cure the ills that slow us all.

If you eat too much broccoli, your legs go bad…

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Hargraves Blues

Hargraves Blues

No obstacles in the physical realm can stop the
Flow of fix or ruin. One bicyclist, content to move
In limited space, dodges traffic, kicks her stand
And heads in to read. She gets paid to read, not many do.

No life is long enough to support all the relationships
We build: kids to cats, Moms to cleaning, teacher-student,
Boss to worker. One walker strides down Rosemary Street,
Pulls his hat over his ears, holds palms open, seeking change.

No gesture, however insignificant, goes unseen
In a town full of women. Drivers bounce from one plan
To another, running reds. Phone calls, calendar notes and
Breakfast fill seconds between lane changes, defying death.

No effort, regardless of intention, can sew a revolution
Without mass appeal. Two men shrug, walking into shade.
Nothing for them to do but drink and smoke and go to sleep.
The truth is here to see but no one’s looking anymore.

No wind, even from Saskatchewan, can clean us now.
Some loudmouth stumbles in offering to teach, but
None will have it. A rider, bussing there and back for free,
Takes comfort when a man stands to offer her a seat.

No sandwich, ever so scrumptious, lingers past initial taste.
Sun shines on a bouncing orb. Four for four, he’s another
Wizard with his hands. He does not get paid to shoot a ball.
His hand-to-eye skills have no value in this part of the world.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.