Tim Schaefer's Blog, page 15

A WOMAN'S SCENT...FADING

Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads




A worldly young man, tainted by love,
railing against the ruling classes,(promising a chicken in every potbut offering a payday loan joint on every corner)drives down a lonely road.The snow beyond the windows impenetrable.The wind whipping across the park.
In his mind's ear: 
flute music played by street musicians from Chile--portable lives in the nomadic sun.
He hears: The war drums of the Sioux.He hears: The voice of God singing "Hey Jude."
He wonders if he can reconcilewith the Antichrist in the kitchen.He remembers when she said "Teach me to love."They devoured each other likechildren with melting candy.(The just washed dankness of her hair.)
He drives past a billboard that says:WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH STRETCH MARKS
In his mind it is all compartmentalized--there are remnants of old lovers in each of these rooms.
And it's so puzzling to be a personasking why does anything exist?Time moves imperceptiblyuntil the world becomes a city full of strangers.
And he wants to be at a ski lodgein the Grand Tetons, sitting cozy by the fire.A young woman moves near.She is an African girl--so lovelyit makes him sad. It is her lovefor her youth, and for his,that draws them together.Could a dance like this go on forever?
And he passes a billboard that says:WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH B.O.
And he is back on the islandwith Marie--it is where they met.The alliance of sun and alcoholso conducive to romance.His imagination so fertile now,filled with ghosts and ballerinas.
When he gets home they will talk, like they never do. He will clear the air.He will ask if she's having an affair.And though he knows she isa sovereign nation unto herself,they must remain allies to preventboth their worlds from collapse.And he knows to some degree that hewill always be searching for the Holy Grail.
He glances at his watch
though he does not want to think about  time--the only constant in life being the questionof whether love will be there in the morning.
The snow swirls around his car.On the street a white-haired man bends haltingly against the wind.
He is almost home.
He passes a billboard that reads:WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE...JUST BECAUSE
He parks the car, then trampsthe few steps up to the apartment.He inserts the key. He opens the door...
A woman's scent, fading.
The past...
the present.. 
a blurry haze. The world is on fire.
The funniest thing...And now he remembers.
Marie has been gone for twenty-five years. And he is not the young man anymore.
He is the old one.


This is a revised version of a poem that first appeared here four years ago.

SAY HIS NAME

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads









He is heading outfor open road, big rig humming.
Thanksgiving morning.The day is crisp and clear.
He will eat his holiday dinnerat some truck stop,where his banter with the waitress--a kindred spirit--will be about keeping the world runningwhile the rest of 'emspend the day gettin' fat and happy.
In a while,he will put in a call to Janie and the kids.They'll be over at mom's today.In their pre-meal prayer,they will say his name.
And yes, he is thankful.Hell...lucky to have a job at allthe way things are going.
The road snakes on to somewhereanywherenowhere.
And the holiday travelersblow past him,just another obstaclein the wayon the wayto their overindulgence.
He remembers how,in the beginning,he thought this would bea romantic kind of life.But as he looks out now,across the endless expanse,he is struck by the thought that it's kinda like gazing at the moon in daylight.

IT'S YESTERDAY ONCE MORE (.doo-be-doo-lang-lang...)

Goin back
to a simpler time and place
where at the table
the family says grace
and father knows best

A place where climate change
does not exist
and those greenhouse gas emissions
like the truth
need no regulatin'

Back to a time where
her right to choose
means which pretty dress
in the storefront display window
she will wrap up and take home

Where if we all just stay healthy
there'll be no need
for that costly insurance
just make sure to get
your morning constitutional
in every day

And speaking of the constitution
well, that civil rights amendment 
(# 14 for those keeping score at home)
has not yet been passed
and being civil
means no disobedience--
we'll all get along fine
long as everyone stays in his place

With a chicken in every pot
and a piece riding every hip
don't look at me cross-eyed, boy
don't give me no lip

A land of equal opportunity
where any man
with large enough bills
can rise to the highest office in the land
even if he has no class
(even if he looks like the business end
of a baboon's ass!)

Back to a simpler time
and simple times were meant
for simple minds

So let's play a game of let's pretend
it's the fifties again
don't forget your lunch pail, dad
on your way out the door
and when you get home
mom will have a fresh apple pie
cooling on the window sill

Oh, and remember it's election day
so don't forget to vote
you can get there on your bike...

I LIKE IKE!!!

THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads


With her automaton smile
the six o'clock news Barbie
recites a litany of the day's
shootings
stabbings
muggings
rapings
robbings
lootings
burnings 
natural disasters
sewer main ruptures
and one arrest for
spitting on the sidewalk.

The camera zooms in
on a whopper of a loogie
oozing on the concrete
in all its wicked glory.

A young gendarme collects it,
gingerly,
to be analyzed at the lab
so that someone can say
on good authority:
Yep, that's a loogie alright
and tag it "Exhibit A."

The wild-eyed derelict
they've collared
for this egregious offense
manages to fire a parting shot at the camera
a real bullseye that does a 

slooooow

shimmering

hoochie-koochie dance

down the middle of your TV screen--

while the Barbie's pasted-on smile
and glib tone never wavers
like her counterpart on CNN
who dispassionately described
the incineration of eighty-odd
men
women
and children
live as it happened at Waco
for to betray a hint of emotion
would not be impartial
nor professional
when anyone with whit
of compassion in her soul
would have hung her head and wept.


But that's okay
it's all in a day's work
and it all blends together
after a while anyway...
the real blood you see on the news
looks like the ketchup oozing
in that old burger commercial
from the nineties
and everyone out there
in TV land
is just as numb as you are.

And the guy who spit at you, well
he's only trying to wake you up...
cuz like the old ad once said
If it doesn't get all over the place
it doesn't belong in your face.

NIGHT OF MY WRETCHEDNESS

Because you need to be somewhere
Because you need to be doing something
Because it's neither here nor there
Except for how it makes you feel
When you stop to think about it

Though you think too much about it
And in the end it doesn't make
A pitiable bit of difference
If you even think about it at all

Cuz you gotta be somewhere
All the time
Thinking about it or not
Total slug or genius
You are still gonna be right HERE
(don't try to be there
you can't be THERE
cuz I'M there 
and no two bodies can occupy the same space
at the same time 
if you get confused go to the map
that will obligingly  point out: "You are HERE!")

Yep
Every fuken day
Of your life
It's right there
Staring you in your fat face
What to do
What to do
That's your existential dilemma
Punky
So think about it
THINK THINK THINK
But not too hard... 

I wouldn't want to see
Your head explode 

KOKURA

d'Verse Poets Pub

On a quiet August morning
in Kokura
a child plays absentmindedly
in the street
as the plane passes
way up high.

The skies have turned cloudy
when only minutes ago
they'd been clear
and a snap determination is made--
too overcast to make the delivery.

On that quiet August morning
another child plays distractedly
in the street
of the alternate target.
The weather cooperates
and Fat Man
like his predecessor Little Boy
is delivered.

One of them survives
and grows to be an old man
who still speaks of
"The Luck of Kokura"
Fat Man's primary target
Little Boy's alternate
yet passed over on both occasions.

And while "luck" implies
a random roulette wheel
kind of universe
which his lady of lo these many years
is more inclined to believe
when she tells him
He doesn't play favorites
you'll never convince him
there wasn't something more at play
on that hazy August morning
as he steps out onto that same quiet street
with his cane
and gazes into the heavens
on another crystal clear day
in Kokura

SHE

dVerse Poets Pub

She superimposes his face
upon her own demons
cuz it ain't easy to beat the shit
out of a nameless, faceless entity,
and a punching bag
is always more therapeutic
when it's someone you love.

She knows
that he will absorb the blows--
bounce back grinning
to a standing eight count,
no worse for the wear.
Knowing in his knightly heart
what she still struggles to comprehend.

That the Devil made her do it.

AMERICA

Imainary Garden With Real Toads

over at da Wally store
da peeps dey waddle in
an' den dey waddle out
an' dat just de employees
cuz everybody fat
in America
fatter den me big fat cat
in America

everybody eat good
in America
compare to where me come from
where many say: "Food? What is dat?"

in America me see dis guy on tv
he cram down seventy hot dogs
just to set some kind of record
yeah, me REALLY see dat

where me come from
dey would call dat obscene

but it okay in America
where all da fat cats be gettin' fatter
fatter den me big fat cat
in America

don't get me wrong, friend
me mean no disrespect
cuz you are da new normal
an' me just a skinny guy
who feel like he don't fit in

wish me had some meat
on me bones like dat
cuz den me could wear all black
an' turn me baseball cap around on me head

maybe if me stuff down
seventy hot dogs
each an' every day

ugh...urrrrrrp...

'scuse me, friend
but me feelin' sick now 

VAGABOND

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

the only thing he can say for sure
the only thing the irrefutable evidence points to
is that she loves wandering
more than any person, place, or thing

and anyone who wishes to curry favor with her
must first scroll to read the terms and conditions 
and click on I accept before proceeding

it just goes with the territory
or province
where she may materialize
at any particular time

in between

she's a caged cat
pacing back and forth
back and forth
waiting

still
he's happy he gets to rock
her Gypsy soul on occasion
making sweet hot music together
(one ear invariably cocked
for the sound of distant drums)

long past remembering
what she's running to
or running from

soon she'll be coiled tightly again
ready to spring for glimmering stars
though they're only in her eyes

so near
yet so far away

MOST MEN IN AMERICA

Outside my window
the raven beckons
to follow him again
as in that kingdom far away
in a time when hoods
of muslin saved our sight
from the diamond in his eye
that blazed like a thousand suns

And wasn't it you
who told me that love
is like a banana
you've got to peel away
the facade

And wasn't it you I saw
seething inside your skin
at the Metropolitan Opera

Grunting like a pig
when the fat lady sang
hooting from the balcony
like a Portuguese pimp
a break with tradition to be sure
running amok till they pinned you down
inside the ladies room

Tempest in a pisspot

And isn't that Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
sitting right over there
sucking on her
mint julep
trading tales of the good ol' days
when men were men
and women were horses
and giddyup ol' paint
was the prelude to a kiss

Her entourage
of the rouged and the wrinkled
hanging on her every word
well aware that most men in America
in this year of the locust
in this decade of the plague
would rather be sniffing
through the long abandoned ruins
of an old haunt
than to give up the ghost
to some baby-faced whore

And now my old friend the raven
has moved to Baltimore
where he works as a squeegee man
on certain odd numbered holidays
and plays the guitar
with Eric Clapton
and sometimes Charlie Byrd
while all the sweet young things chant
GO CAT GO!
GO CAT GO!

But well you know
the whole world's a stage
that you're going through
just to get to someplace else
and though they stomp and shout
for another encore
quoth the raven: Ain't no more!

It was a lively time
says Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
well aware that most men in America
take their pants off one leg at a time
all grist for a story of some kind
and you know dahling
you really should write it