Don’t Drive that way anymore

There was this man.  A regular guy only in his own mind.  To others, part big man, part child, part creative force, part jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none, and 100% emoticon.

One day he fell in love.  He had a great time of it until she had to go away.  Now he remains happy, but still can’t drive that way, not down that road, not near that place, not into that town, and just barely catches his breath on the days he has to snap out of it as he rumbles down the hiway, anywhere near the old stomping grounds.

This man, of course, not known to many, wants a full ride in life, wants to be whole again, wants to be loved, like anyone else.  For now he paints, he blogs, he reaches out to hands just barely touching: to those who can only care from a distance, those vital electronic charges, particles, words.

Keep track of your heart, he tells himself, gather in to your son, the one who loves unquestioningly, at least for now.  Play ball, paint together, cheer the games, and remind yourself, anything is possible, expect a miracle, keep tuned to the Creator.

It’s another beautiful day in the neighborhood.  get out an enjoy it.

Fish Window Number Eight

Fish Window Number Eight
(Save us Jimmy B.)

My life is trick upon myself.
A dead bird fell form the sky.

Jimmy B. jogged up a hill
In yellow,
Pushed through tree branches
And hugged a girl with
A ghetto blaster in her hand.

Is this how birds die?
I thought,
One last fling across the sky
Only to drop like a rock
Into the shade of fish windows?

How can Jimmy B. jog by
And let this type of stuff happen?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. 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.

Fish Window Number Seven

Fish Window Number Seven

Ever seen a willow in winter?
Scraggly horizontal branches
Dangle thin strips swaying
Against gray sky.

Wind pushes them diagonal:
The uncut tail
Behind a wild horse:
A wild horse charging.

Or a long-hair
Walking quickly,
Attacked head-on
By the same wind.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. 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.

Fish Window Number Three

Fish Window Number Three

Nothing moves fast in two-degree weather.
Snow stops, grass browns, trees creak.
A dangling pod denies an entire generation.
Five-step cloud lingers a quarter hour.

Fish window isn’t wide enough to see,
Isn’t Tall enough to breathe, isn’t old
Enough to feel it in its joints. But, a
Camouflaged manhole cover steams.

Two yonder trees make visible
Ten thick branches, contrasting light blue
Frozen sky. A silver tag twitches.
The active agent is two degrees.

One (it will be dead for three months) bush
Absorbs the manhole’s offerings quietly.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. 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.

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Ode to the Seedless Thompson Grape

Ode to the Seedless Thompson Grape

 

Oh Thompson you’ve done it you devilish man,
Made concords repulsive, made eating so grand.
The sensamilla of fruit I hold in my hand,
My thought is to eat it, what a great plan.

September reminds me to lay a few in,
Ten pounds or so in a Rubbermaid bin.
They might last a month (five weeks if I’m lucky)
By November my tears could turn springwater mucky.

Why cry, asks a friend, over some stupid fruit,
(I’d punch out her eyelids if she weren’t so cute).
Are you kidding I shout, have you no compassion?
How dare you insult my fruit in this fashion!

Next thing you know you’ll attack my banana,
Or musical tastes from Cream to Santana.
Back off little lady, this grape is near perfect,
It’s better than Brando or Raspberry sherbet.

Next year I think I’ll acquire a freezer
And dump this dumb broad just after I squeeze her.
Then I’ll enjoy grapes through the snow
As old vineyards wither and icicles grow.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. 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.

The Face of Death

Face of Death

A certain double-breasted bag-toter
Totters toward a balding muse.
She, red-haired proliferator,
Makes his dreams uncommon
With a mound, abstract, but dense.

She hails from Pennsylvania,
Chocolate covered glasses
Melting into cheeks
Above a smile; two hands
Stuffed in black wool pockets.

Now she laughs at fashion,
Leaks another glimpse: vanishes
Before the double-breasted
Has a chance to grab a piece.
A wake of snow entices.

Our gentle bag-toter
Unprepared to face
Her face of death
But hot to chase the rest,
Lunges, parries, turns into

The safety of a library,
Where he dreams the Muzak
Version of Beethoven’s Fifth:
Imagines Ludwig working up
Five thousand RPMs six feet under.

A syphilitic soul,
Nonetheless adventurous,
Ludwig forges through Bavaria’s bedrock,
Digging a tunnel to her door.
This attracts the double-breasted.

Allowed, by mere coincidence,
To follow Ludwig’s lead,
Double-breasted brings his bag along.
The face of death inspires
But demands sacrifices

Beyond double-breasted’s realm.
He may have to hang on
For dear life. He may have to
Get naked, be inspected
And ridiculed before gaining access.

The bag lends moral support.
“Ludwig is probably playing a prank,”
He thinks, as subconscious yearnings
Drag him through town,
Around rules, above convention,

Into the laughing, bouncing-butted
Body with the face of death.
She snarls. His actions verify
What she suspects: a gap between
Reality and his brain. She blends

Into his dream, asks him what he wants.
“Now I know your body,
It’s better than your face,
We felt good together,
Got some drugs around the place?”

This takes her by surprise,
So she pours a mushroom tea
And offers tea and oreos
Which he readily accepts.
“What makes you care about me?”

Spouts the face of death.
“My friend Ludwig led me here
After you had vanished.
He knows what I should do,
He wants me to do you.”

She often has to sit and dream
Of proper male behavior,
So she teases him along.
“You want me so much,
But you hang there unappealing.

Why don’t you masturbate
So we can go another round?”
Toter stiffened to the test,
And said, with a wry smile,
“Death on the doorstep.”

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1987. 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.

Barbee-Sue

Barbee-Sue

I sit in Barbee House unnoticed,
Uninvited, a mason jar full
To overflowing: crushed ice: an
Original wild berry flavored cooler.

I write, as the jar, wrapped in
A torn brown once-bag.
As the felt on the bag,
Exuding red water-soluble ink.

It rains. This disappears before you
Read it, and I, the lone alumnus
In this alumnae building, flow
Onto a white manicured davenport.

Then, as sweat pours down my
Hot-humid epidermis of glass
I stop enough to gulp myself
Before the last drop hits the floor.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. 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.