Friday, August 29, 2014

lippy waits for it

the cannibal trailer park
stuffed with rice

han' it to me! gimme!”
coal faced stinkerman
diving at a stickybun

gimme! gimme!”
and his hand flaps at the wind

the wind tries to blow
but can only inject itself
in the free spaces between the teeth
teeth that the stinkerman tries to hone
on a tinker elf's file

tinker elf taps out a merry little tune
and the stinkerman taps along
taps an empty bottle against the ground
clack clack clack against the concrete
of the cannibal trailer park
stuffed with rice

tinker elf pulls out the stops
and the stinkerman pulls down his shorts
shows all the world what he's made of
nothing comes between him and the wind
the wind that tries to blow
but can only inject itself

tinker elf reaches over
with a platinum mallet
with a tiny tap
a tiny tap
a tiny little tap
the mallet rings a bell

and the coal faced stinkerman thinks back
thinks back to a time when he was young
when his face was pearly white
when his teeth were nice and tight
when the wind could blow
and the tinker elf
was just a story
and a song
and a melody in that
cannibal trailer park

stuffed with rice


Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Why, oh Why?

I – the fool.
Strung out in piles of confusion
waste-o-matic smiles
in piles of waste-o-matic dust -
dust in a huff of conversation.

The piles of confusion
came tumbling to a halt
in a winter-never-wonder
of a January freeze;
a January freeze
that made February all the colder

when a chicken bone whistle
played a merry hornpipe
and the drops of
clear,
clear,
crystal-cystal clear
chemical confusion
in a waste-o-matic grin
played heavy on the brow of life

There it was that I had to stop
and push myself away.
Tearing at my throat, I screamed
and shouted an inky ave
an inky ave,
black
black
and black as the
crystal-cystal drops
that clouded your pen

Crystal-cystal deafening
and perched on a dusty ledge
the haymaker moonbeam
let out in a windy morn
so dark that it looked
like that inky ave
inky ave
inky ave
that rattled around and
helped me tear my throat
so that my own clouded pen
ran dry.

That darkened, windy morn
was colder than any ever recorded
the science-men drooled
and rubbed their bellies
to see such a cold and frosty day.

We all knew why it was,
but we didn't let on to anyone.
The day was cold
when the fire went out,
when your spirit took leave,
kindly excused yourself,
said goodbye
more politely than can be expected.

You bowed low to the crowd,
and in silence the day grew cold.
Yours, no inky ave,
(but only light)
and I – the fool,

left to stack the firewood.



Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Wishing Again

Tremble at the dawn -
don't let the words pass away.
Tremble at the dawn -
not a word pass away.

Staring, breathing.
Closed-eye shuffle
drawing near
Haunting, loving.
Breathe, and breathless
without fear.

Tremble at the dawn -
don't let the words pass away.
Tremble at the dawn -
not a word pass away.

Lost and losing
only one hope
drenched in sweat.
Found and silent
redeemed the ticket -
holy, holy debt.

Tremble at the dawn -
don't let the words pass away.
Tremble at the dawn -
not a word pass away.

And the words that you wrote,
shadows
of the words that you spoke,
glimmers
of the worlds that you wrote,
embers
of the worlds you could dream.

Tremble at the dawn -
don't let the words pass away.
Tremble at the dawn -
not a word pass away.

Tremble at the dawn.

Tremble.



Thursday, March 27, 2014

Crusty Lena (by Denise Janikowski-Krewal)

Crusty Lena from the Pizza joint
thought that all sailors were her heroes.
Not for obvious reasons

Didn't give a rat's patouti
about war games and politics;
didn't think that
their woven blues were hot.
Her desires leaned more to worn,
mussed up messes

A sailor once saved her day,
when she accidentally locked her purse
(and Ramone's tickets)
in her Dodge Omni.
While her girlfriends
swore at her in 15 languages
they they tried to learn at Berlitz,
the wholesome shore leave
picked her locks,
saving her face.
Another bluecoat danced
with her plain and shy friend
in a bar.
Even though he was flammable,
the anchor-tattooed arm
made her perpetually sad
girlfriend smile.

Lena remembered
her aunt telling her
to always treat a sailor
to a drink or a meal
because they were away from home
and lonesome.

So Lena gave the drunk sailors
a ride to their hotel and dropped them
into the hands of an understanding concierge

As she waited
her last table of the night
the boys in blue politely placed their order
with the middle-aged woman
who was weathered,
but still had a twinkle in her eye.

“2 pepperoni and one with everything...

on the house tonight, boys,” she said.

by Denise Janikowski-Krewal, February 2014

Friday, March 7, 2014

Denise Janikowski-Krewal, Poet. 1959-2014.

I can't write any poetry as of late, it seems.

Regular readers know that Denise died just two weeks ago today, and there has been a quite noticeable vacuum in my creative life.  I have every reason to believe that with time things will return to "normal."

Denise was my cousin, and as I said before, she was the sister that I never had.  In the last three years we had become so very close and our writing developed together.  We were on the phone every week, sometimes every day. We would email drafts of our work to each other and demand answers for what the other was trying to say, all the while helping to shape each other's poetry and fiction into something that we hoped was respectable and worthwhile.

My writing partner is gone, and I almost feel like I don't know how to put words on paper anymore.  I know it is just fear, though.

As soon as I post this, I am going to close the browser and find myself staring at a blank page of Libre Office on my desktop.

What I do with it might just well determine where I go from this point on in my writing.  I watched one of my favorite movies, "Slacker" on YouTube last night, and was reminded of one of my favorite themes - that with each of our thoughts, the universe splits into another universe that we chose not to inhabit, while we go on in the one we did choose.  Things from other universes sometimes pop up in our dreams, and so we might have contact with all the other things that might have been.

What a hoot.

If I could dream Denise alive again, it would be the first thing I would do.

On the paper is the memory of the choices we never made, perhaps.  Or maybe it is just a dream.

Memory eternal.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Goodbye, for Now...

It was with the heaviest heart that I had to bid farewell to Denise this past Friday.  My cousin, my dear friend, my poetry collaborator, and the sister I never had departed this earth in the early morning hours.

The world is a colder and darker place, suddenly.

I will be reposting some of Denise's work here for a while, and her husband Todd is going to try to get me some of her latest poems, and I will be sure to publish them as soon as we can.  She had a couple of notebooks full of new poetry, and was writing in the hospital right up to the end.

Please keep her dear, loving, and devoted husband Todd in your prayers.  Her funeral will be this Thursday in Racine, Wisconsin.  If you need information regarding time and place, please feel free to email me at martinipen@gmail.com  I will get back to you as soon as I can. You can read a bit about her life if you click on this sentence.

I am in agony over losing her.  I know that many of you loved her poetry, and more importantly, loved her. She was truly one of a kind, and one of the sweetest and most genuine human beings I have ever known.  Her poetry was wonderful, and as she told me just a short time ago, it seems, she had "not quite hit her stride yet" as a poet - it was only getting better.

I will have more information and reposts of her work here, as well as links to her soundcloud account, where you can listen to her reading her own works.  A true treasure.

Please keep our family in your prayers, and please keep reading.  That is what Denise would like, I think I am safe in saying.

May her memory be eternal.

Tom (Janikowski)

Denise and me at a tapas bar two summers ago.  She was fond of saying "I thought you said 'topless'..."

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Barometric Drop

Watching the tornado
Swirling, whirling,
Around your fragile
Window
Hearing the sound,
The warning,
Out of my power
To pull back,
Change course,
Shuttering against
Winds
Rattling your spirit,
Releasing a siren,
Invoking a miracle
From benevolent clouds
For the phoenix
In you
To rise
Unscathed
From the debris



Based on We Write Poems Prompt 195, Weather Report