More Scrap. Clean Desk.

M

munk

Joined
Mar 22, 2002
Messages
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Nothing written in the envelope
but a picture of each child, smiling
staged with the presents
we sent for Christmas
What I am? That want this?
This accolade for my heart
this proof my gift achieved
this intended target
that Dad isn't playing with the trainset?

"It's what they do now."
My wife said
"it's the..Thing.

How do I know the kid wasn't coerced?
I want to see the toy
rubbed against his cheek
Is that a real smile on his face
or something worse?
Let the camera dog the toy
after leaving Christmas

Prove it; after loss of a wing
record for science
a walk on the roof
I want to see the rain
ring this toy
I want to see the foot
squash this thing
And when it's done, in the yard
with the chicken bones,
and flattened basketballs, I want to see

Spiders lay their eggs
Seasons fly over their face
until the bottom of the can
the lid closed black
Send This Film To Giver:

I enjoyed your toy
but soon it was like everything I owned;
gone
and they made me take this picture.


>>>>>>>>>>>>

munk
 
..Ron Offen, editor of, Free Lunch

for some damn reason Ron decided I was a serious poet.


Write Ron and ask him, Why?

I never figured it out.
One year I wrote him a bunch of s-it.

I have in my hands now his book:

God's Haircut:
and other remembered dreams

(To my friend and poet Brad Epperson)

Ron always believed in me.

There was absolutly no reason for his belief.

But because of it, one year,
Poets of America
wanted my autobiographicl data

I mean
Who's Who In Amerian Poets?

I know thats as far a stretch for you as it was for me

and I laughed, and I never answered who's who?

Why?
I may have made the fu niest laugh on the American public and academic
circles


But I did not care about it, other than being funny
If you think I am lying:


Contact Ron Offen and the Free Lunch Alliance"
Othe than that
Rusty and I used to laugh our heads off

munk
 
Nice:thumbup:

Staged pictures creep me out---especially if I've been browbeaten into taking part in one's creation

My mother in law makes us stage pictures when she visits. She gets so uptight about them that they all come out the same: she's smiling her very convincing "happy vacation smile" and we all look like we're sucking on turd losenges.
 
... because Rusty and I used to laugh about who was the most "paranoid"?
He, with his gun ships;
or me, with mine
we laughed and laughed

because you see

it was not a condemnation then
not a cut


it was our happiness
how many back up system sss

God, how we laughed our asses off


If Rod Offen thought I was a poet

I wish he could have met Rusty

but the funny thing




Rusty thought I was a poet
not him
not one dag gumned grain

If My friend was here now

I'd trade all the poet for a single sharp word
From Him



munk
edited
no more tears formula
 
I fired off 6 rounds of his reloads against the cliff face this evening...they were hot.
I figured it wouldn't hurt the rock wall any, and the tourists would think they were in a real wild west town.

Then I layed back in the tall grass.


munk
 
Josh, there were clouds...and Robins. I've never seen the Robins so fat and so happy.

munk
 
Robins are wise birds. I watch them at the campus where I teach, and they are very industrious, and not particularly afraid of humans, which is questionable wisdom I guess. They're very beautiful creatures.
 
Tasty too with a big ole bunch of breast meat.
 
There was a janitor at the Psych Ward I worked who 'had dreams' and could occasionally see glimpes of the future.... (there's a TV Guide joke in there somewheres..) She 'saw' my picture on the inner sleeve of a book.
I was pretty excited to hear this.
"Is it a well known book?"
"It's successful, known."
"Wow. When is this going to happen? I'm writing one now."
She looked at me and grinned.
"It was you, alright, but you were a lot older and your hair had a lot of grey."

She told me it was longish, streaked with grey. Very becoming. You know- must be good writing cause the guy has caught a few?

Three years later I showed her a couple of grey hairs. Not enough. Today my hair is turning grey and falling out too. I may have to tape some up there in order to meet the requirments of the prophecy.

The Janitors at the Ward were really something. One was a meth head stoner who'd come in for the night shift on a wave.... I used to get a kick out of watching him. Tunes on the boom box, no one bothering him, safe and 'high'. His boss was my friend, the one who 'saw', and she was pretty laid back about the internal condition of her staff as long as the work got done. Especialy at night. Now, day shift was different. You had administration around then.

The wild man and I had a falling out. A long time ago he'd been at a party, quite drunk. He got up from his seat and after a few minutes came back. There was a guy sitting there and the guy wouldn't get out. That was me, in my days. I guess it was pretty traumatic. Someone told him I was that guy, from all those years ago. He stopped speaking to me. On the day I left the Ward, he sent a message to me from his boss. 'No hard feelings," she said.

I left the Ward hard, and some day I'll talk about it, probably in fiction. Not because of Wild Man. I'd had my eye almost removed from the socket, I'd been punched, kicked, clawed and strangled. But one day after being hit by a particularly vicious sociopath, I lost my temper and struck him twice under each eye, opening up each cheek. I had to leave. Very sad. Shame is tough stuff.

I walked into a gun shop soon after, and while standing at the counter sold a gun to the guy standing next to me. In talking to him I found out what he needed and pointed to it on Coburn's shelf. The next day Coburn gave me a job, and the next year I managed his store. Never made half what I did in Mental Health, but it was fun.

If I'm ever going to do my thing, I'd better get back to writing. When I found HI, it allowed me to keep my hand in, so the dream wouldn't go away. I'm grateful for that. Being published is praise. Being here and amusing you is having friends.
I'm going to keep a roll of tape handy just in case.


munk
 
Poetry is simply prose stripped down; there's nothing left but the meaning.

The best of our writing - of your writing - is poetry. Whether it's set in stanzas and rhyme, or more unobtrusively in paragraphs ... there's not a word but needs to be there.

Keep putting it up here; it's great fun to read.

t.
 
Damn Munk I know you had it hard dealing with the constant stream of sick people streaming past you . I never realised it was that much of a threat to your health . No point in staying if you are going to become one of the walking wounded yourself . Even a fair amount of good people looking for help does not make up for that kind of stress and threat level . Even a straight shooter like yourself is going to end up with baggage from that kind of crap .
 
That's what happened- they had three of us on the floor for years with a pop that exceeded even the firemarshals regulations. The nurses sat in the secure stations where it was safe.

For awhile, I was in my element. One of my favorite patients, told the adminstration that only munk and ---- were worth darn .

I was so gleefull back in those days. I used to shout as loud as I could in the building;

Set My People Free

I'll never forget the look on the face of the team leader and chief Psychologist...

The only thing that compares is raising children. You cannot understand how many constant, conflicting chores 'must be done' throughout the day. Imagine starting one task only to have your head jerked around as three more presented themselves, and then 3 more.....and so it goes. The county made money but little came back to the ward. Neat beds more important than healthy heads.


munk
 
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