Bulldog for Jesus

 

Won’t you be
a bulldog for Jesus?
Be a bulldog
for Jesus sake,
bite them all on the butt
and tell them Jesus
made you do it

cause If you don’t
have a little light
you can’t let it shine

but you can
be a bulldog for Jesus
and bite them
on the behind
any ole time.

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Spirit Airlines

 

Little old ladies
Who insist they
have our seats
Even when we have
boarding passes
seats assigned

Poor people fly too
And bring their
crying babies.

I was a crying baby once

But two hours at
thirty thousand feet
body parts touching
strangers ala sardines

Good spirits from
a pleasant interlude
with my son’s family
And the promise
of a safe arrival
makes it almost bearable

Pleasant underpaid staff
Do their best
With smiles and kind words
And still the babies cry

No head phones
No tv no internet
But in two hours release
Sooner if we crash
And still the babies scream

 

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Houseboat Days

 

 

One of my rich uncles
owned property
uponthelake
in Alabama

his wife,
not my aunt,
was very particular
and though they only used
the place about five weeks,
and a couple weekends
besides, every year,

no one was allowed
to use the lake front house
when they weren’t there,

but one summer
my uncle had a houseboat,
a gift, I believe,
docked at his pier.

He let me stay there
a glorious quiet summer
of painting and writing,

(I was not very good either)
and an occasional drink
on the deck
and occasional friend
to share an occasional
drink on the deck
and more than
an occasional mosquito
to bite me
or me and my friend
when the sun went down.

Horseflies during the day
to keep me company
I was alone most of the time
but I was rarely long alone.

I can’t say I’d like to spend
the rest of my life like that
but I have never dreamt
of a more wonderful
summer either.

 

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This is a Chinese Poem

I am not Chinese,

I like Chinese food

or at least American

 

Pretending

 

I dont speak Chinese

or Mexican though I know

a few words in Spanish

 

Chinese

 

because this person

says so

and as everything is made up

 

why not?

 

And I like the little houses

and stick figures in the characters

I do not understand

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Old Lincolns 

at Burger King

no AC

power windows

don’t work

coat hanger antenna

rotted plastic bumper guards,

 

nobody saw this

at Ford Design

decades ago

they should have-

there were old Lincolns

at Burger King then.

 

Glory fades like

A dashboard

on a 10-year-old

luxury car.

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Every day with the rug

First in Brooklyn
now in Lake Worth

She takes up the doormat
from her second floor
one bedroom condo
widowed and retired longer
than she was married or worked
she beats it on the railing
so the dirt falls to the hedge below

 

every day with the rug
it’s her reason for getting up
in the morning
to make sure nothing
comes in her house
from her dirty rug.

 

The neighbor below
tried to complain
eventually gave up
sold her condo
and moved away.

 

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Brown Glass Bottle

Sometimes a smell,

or a sound

transports me

to another place and time,

like taking a bite

of the wafer

takes a Catholic to Calvary,

 

but this morning,

washing out a dish,

a bit of Palmolive bubble

flew up to my nose

and reminded me

of PineSol,

a smell I love.

 

Somehow,

the thought of PineSol

reminded, me not

of the slightly sticky

CLEAN smelling wood

floors of my youth,

 

but in a way

only the memories

of smells can do,

to little shabby trailer parks

along the Mississippi,

where we rented

furnished trailers

for 4-8 weeks each summer

while my father

tromped empty river beds

and cypress knee ringed former swamps,

wading tall grass of

Arkansas and Mississippi heat,

alone, earning

a week’s wages each day

to support his preaching

habit in the winter.

 

Poor Momma, tasked to entertain, “raise”

and generally keep tabs on two wild boys.

 

Whenever we parked the old Dodge pickup,

or the long green 4 door Belair

in front a run-down trailer,

while we “men-folk”

unloaded the car

and explored the surroundings,

Momma, mop-and-ragged

the entire trailer

with a bucket of warm water

and a couple of lids full of Lysol,

poured carefully from the brown glass bottle

with the yellow metal lid.

 

The smell lasted a few days

and made wherever we were

a safe facsimile of home.

 

 

This I remembered from a bit of green liquid soap

in a modern plastic bottle.

I’ll never know if those trailers

needed disinfecting,

nor how well the Lysol worked,

but it was a comfort to know

my momma made the place safe.

 

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