casa la reina ii excerpt

casa la reina is

home

to spiders

crickets (they

came back)

grasshoppers

lizards

ants

various other

squiggly things

i cant or

wont name

(we will not

talk about the

m o u s e)

cats (not inside

the house)

possums (with the

cats)

various birds

including

hummingbirds

sparrows

crows (occasionally)

as well as

fairies

satyrs

elves

dwarves

nymphs

(depending on the

party)

and others

and ghosts

some demons

once in awhile an

angel

and even a few

unwanted

visitors

but i am the one

who has to

write

out the check

for the water

and the power

you cannot

be

a star

without

power

and it

seems you cannot

be

a hermit

without

an entourage

i wake up

in the morning

(well what i

call the

morning)

with a headache

a new set

of wrinkles

and a bite from an

amorous insect

on my cheek

everybody has

to eat i

guess

i am

a meal

for many

the spider or

other

bug that sucks

my blood

gets eaten by a

bird

which is caught

by a cat

which poops

at the foot

of the

persimmon tree

which produces

fruit

that strengthens

my blood

in winter

when all the

bugs and

everyone else

want to be

inside

with

me

* * *

there is no

electricity

at two sockets

in the bedroom

i thought i

was too young

to have no

electricity

in the bedroom

but apparently

age is not

a factor

when it comes

to spark

if you have it

you have it

if you dont

you masturbate

the temporary

sleep

of wine wears off

during the quiet

time

but i cannot

turn on the

light

to write

the list of what i

cannot turn on

increases

the need for light

increases

and the actual

writing

is without

juice

a possum walks

its scratchy

walk on the roof

over my

dread

its vision

so poor

it could not

see if i

were a football

stud

or a rockstar

or the boy

who reads shelf

by shelf

in the library

also squinting

at the

light

* * *

the clothes

need to be washed

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i need

to be washed

also

both of the

body

and of the

soul

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i am the great

unwashed

from hole

to shining hole

elizabeth

walks in the front

door

and fills the

kitchen sink with

hot soapy water

letting the dishes

soak

then starts a load

of laundry

she talks the

entire time

but does not notice

i dont

listen

it is the

perfect

relationship

the essay on the

abstract

painting is

finished

and she says

wow

i thought

you only looked

at porn

on that thing

gesturing

toward

the computer

art is porn

i say

at least the

good art is

bad art

is anti porn

the cold

shower of the

soul

but she listens

to me less

than i

listen to her

she makes

a couple plates

of food

crackers

avocado

sardines

humus

olives

and we eat

in the back

the stick garden

budding out

the sun

clicking its teeth

the air

fresh

and clean

* * *

a word

nazi

attacked me

today

the word

nazis want

to control

speech

and by controlling

speech

control thoughts

and by

controlling thoughts

control behavior

and by

controlling behavior

control people

completely

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

fuck

fuck fuck fuck fuck

fuck

they do not care

they do not even care

if i do

fuck

they promote the

illusion

of tolerance

and when it comes to

fucking

and me

someone somewhere

will need

some tolerance

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

cunt

well in america

cunt

is worse

than fuck

and though

they might

not like me saying

cunt cunt cunt cunt

cunt

they would promote

the illusion of

tolerance

but would not

invite me

to their

dinner

parties

henry millers

great line

when i fuck

a cunt

it stays

fucked

is no longer

invited to

dinner parties

either

nigger

is another

word

if you are

black

you can say

nigger

as much as you

like

young black males

seem unable

to communicate

without it

sup nigger

but if you are

white

nigger nigger nigger

will get you

shot

stabbed

beaten

and raked

through the news

there is no illusion

of tolerance

there is no

tolerance

there is no

equality

even mark

twain cannot say

nigger

anymore

jim is now

a slave

which is worse

because it has

no style

and style is the

hope

of the unfortunate

only a nigger

can say

nigger

only a fag

can say

fag

only a whatever

can say

whatever

what ever

(insert your

favorite

politically

incorrect

term here)

(insert your

favorite

profanity

here)

thank you

but the word

nazis

do not care

if i

say these

words

as art

as part of my

poetry

fuck

cunt

nigger

shit shit shit

etc

but if i

say

i am sad

i am poor

i am lonely

there is no

illusion of

tolerance

there is no

tolerance

the word nazi

jumps down

my throat

as if he or she

could push the

words back

to the source

back to another

reality

the word nazis

want me

to say i

am

happy

i am rich

i am surrounded

by love

those lying

fuckers

the secret is

that affirmations

are a

lie

and blowing

sunshine up my

ass

wont make me

happy or wealthy

or loved

but if you

use a breath mint

you can

try

so if i

want to convey

any honest

emotion

or condition

i have to

say

i am fucking sad

i am nigger shit

poor

i am goddamn

motha

fucking son of a

cunty bitch

lonely

(you wonder

why

i swear)

and maybe

just maybe

my

tears

can pass

uncensored

* * *

i thought

i would write

tonight

i got into bed

like i like

and sat

up with pen

and paper and

light

but didnt

write

nothing

presented itself

to the paper

nothing

stimulated

the pen

and my pen

needs

stimulating

these days

or nights

once in a dream

i saw

nijinsky dance

he was young

and

i was younger

he was the

dance

itself

that night

i did see

baryshnikov dance

afternoon

of the faun

when he was

young

and i

was younger

and he was

himself

light

a poem may

remain

on the page

longer than

the paper itself

lived

a dance

leaps off the

stage

of life

and only

air

remains

only twinkle

when the star

is dead

some would say

my poems are

air

hot air

farting actually

but a rose

by any other

smell

would still have

thorns

maurice

would make quite

a faun

tangled in bramble

munching roses

his naked

form would

stimulate

pens for

decades

one leap

would live

longer

than any

poem

i could write

one step

would live

longer

than anything

that

arose

from my paper

tonight

* * *

i could sit

on the chair if

it werent

piled with junk

i could eat

at the table if

it werent

piled with junk

i could walk

out of this

life

like an angel

my feet bare

ly touching

the floor

if it werent

piled

like a new york

barge

with junk

but it is

i am a

junkie

and this this

this life is my

dump

what a dump

jeanne comes to

casa la reina

to bring me

a book

walking in the

front door with

a shout

a newspaper

that was lying

in the street

and a coupon

for razors

maybe this is

a hint

to make a clean

start

or a messy

finish

she looks

for a place

to sit

she is not

the buddha

who could sit

anywhere and

did

on a corpse

on a cloud

on a candy machine

i move

three mountains

of

miscellaneous

papers

books

boxes

a small forest

of clutter

all important

in the scheme of

things

the scheme

of things

from the end

of the couch

so she can

settle

and from across

the room across

the universe

of my life across

the stupas

of trash

she looks

at me

with a smile

* * *

it is cold

casa la reina

is cold

and i

am colder

an electric

heater is bare

ly an orange

light bulb and

a prayer

and i

have never been

a praying man

i

have never been

a praying mantis

i

have never been

a praying

abolitionist

there is nothing

worse

than a cold

praying

abolitionist

someone

who wants to

change

the world

but hasnt the

sense

to light

a fire

expects

the fire

to light

itself

expects

the world

at some point

by some means

to change

itself

in

the fireplace

i light

a fire

using early

drafts of my

poems

it might be

kinder

to the world

to use

final drafts

but they

dont burn

the fire

gone from the

soul

yesterday

casa la reina is
a ruin

the ceiling has
fallen
in the back room

and a large
crack stretches over
the writing desk

maybe word is
coming from heaven

pennies arent

the toilet leaks
so you want
to stand
at the door to
pee

and the only
eating
done in the kitchen
is by the ants

the neighbor knocks
at the door
wanting to sell
vitamins
or god
or cable television

i dont have a
television that
works beyond static

i dont have a
god that works
beyond static

and im suspect
about vitamins

if i close
the door
turn off the light
sit up in bed
with the covers
pulled against the
cold
maybe i can
write a line or two

and i will have
done something with
my life
today

* * *

victor fixed the
back door sagging
on its hinges

i can walk into
the stick garden
now

sit on a
rusty chair
search for the
sunlight

a heavier jacket
would have been
smart

but it seems i
can never judge how
cold i will be

i can never
judge how cold the
air will be either

i am not a good
judge of cold
even though I have
gotten the cold
shoulder
from life

i
sit in the back

a winter wasteland
where the crisp
air hurts
whats left of the
nostrils

and look at the
sun
which seems to have
given
up

this is me
getting out

i wrote a
couple lines
yesterday

i wonder if i
will today

* * *

there is no
friend
like a blanket

it will not
protect
you from a bullet
or a wine bottle
thrown at you
or even a bad
phone call

but it
buffers you from
complete intimacy
with ghosts
and loneliness

i drag
from room to room
a flowery quilt
wrapped around me
like a robe

it was once
cheery and bright but
time
with me has remedied
that disease

im such a healer

ronnie wants me
to meet
for a drink
at a tranny bar
but i havent shaven
for a week

and have only a
curse to wear

if i sidestep
the mail on the
dirty floor

maybe i can get onto
the bed
and write a poem

there
i can wear
what i want

but its only worth
reading

if i wear what
i am

* * *

jeanne bought me a
salad with crusty bread
and a
glass of wine

what a good breakfast

we walk to the
thrift store
for a light bulb

maybe we can find
something to sell too

but the store is
closed
and i havent sold
anything in months

it doesnt cost
anything to write
a poem
but power and piss

but it doesnt pay
anything
to write a poem
either

an angel may speak
to you
feed you something
fresh

but those moments
pass

and you are left
without even a bare
bulb
to hold against
the dark night

* * *

downey is not a town
you go to to
write

and if you write it
would probably be
happy
to see you go

but here i am

the house attacking
me
and protecting me
from the streets

realtors knock
at the door wanting
to sell
casa la reina
they have buyers they
say
and give me tablets
of paper with
their faces
on them

finally
a gift i can use

or so i
think

the tablets stare at
me
the faces watch
what goes on inside
here

maybe better
than i do

writing sometimes
talking sometimes
moaning sometimes
drinking
staring at the walls
wrestling with
ghosts
making toast

sometimes there is
music but music
is an escape

and there is no
escape
from downey

not as a writer
not as a ruin dweller
not as an empty
page

* * *

dorothy called to
ask if i needed
money

she didnt need
to call or
ask

i am a poet i
cant even afford
mice

there hasnt been
anything friendly in
the mail for months

and what jobs i
get take more than
they give

if i peddled
door to door poems
fluttering
from a bamboo stick i
would fare no better

people have doors
for a reason

to escape the
walls
when no one is
looking

if i had a million
dollars
i would buy
a night on the town
for you

but just to be
smart i
would first get new
shoes

and ink for the
printer

* * *

i wrote today

even a few lines
can keep the
wolf from the
whore

maybe i will type up
what it is
and look at it

i do that

look
at the poem on
the page
for longer than
anyone should

i read it and read
it

trying to understand
what
i have

luckily
it is short
and not very
deep

and luckily i
am familiar with
the subject

if my poetry were
taught
in school i
would get a
c

im kinda average
in my own
life

im even worse
in others

a b
motivates you to
do better

a c
lets you be

obviously im
zen about it

if i could get an
a
in my poetry
i would sit back
on my laurels

and twirl
the long golden
curls of my hair all
day

* * *

the house makes
noises
at 2 am
it doesnt make
at 2 pm

but so do i

the windows
are black mirrors

maybe a shadow
passes but
not the moon
not the stars

a light from the
road
hits a key on the
wall

a voice from the
back fence
says something about
responsibility
lightly as a spiders
web
but i dont listen

a glass of wine helps
with that

my knees creak
laugh at me
as i tap the pen
on the paper
trying to prime
the pimp

many nights
the house is
restless
unable to describe
itself

many nights
the moon is
absent
the voice unclear
the paper
blank

* * *

i have an appointment
tomorrow
but I wont
wear a tie

if i get some
sleep
i may be pleasant
i may be charming

but it is unlikely

i will make toast
and take a
shower
and wear something
clean
the striped shirt
maybe

the sun may
be
out

and a girl on
the street
may say hello
as she passes

but im a soda
at this
appointment
i will be drained
the fizz consumed
the glass left
empty

and tonight already
I begin to
go flat

* * *

the computer is
fucked

if this were a
movie i
would throw it
against the wall
with abandon
or out
the window
with abandon

but no matter how
it is sold

in whatever media

life is not
a movie

and i am not
handsome enough to
be a tragic star

media tragedy
only happens with
beautiful people

the rest of us must
suffer
without the benefit
of hair and makeup
and wardrobe

a typewriter
has so little
to go wrong and
so much
to write

i have so much
to go
wrong
and so little to
write

but i
am here and
i am right

a typewriter is
not

and the computer is
fucked

* * *

i have four
pens next to the
computer
and none of them
writes

they are like
me

one says
milestone mortgage

it should read
millstone

one has dorothys
name
and the lakota
indian reservation

i must have stolen
them all

useless is
as useless does

even when i want
to write
even
when i can

the fickle finger
of fate
flips me off

yanks the plug

infects the computer
with a virus
a bacteria
without a trojan
on its horse

i am like the pens
not able to make
a mark

i am like the
computer
needing penicillin

i am like the dog
walking on a
leash

not the master
not in control

looking forward to
scratching
in my bed

* * *

one side of the
sofa is beaten to
hell

i leave a
poem
about a key
written out by hand
on the other side

to wait
for millie

she has to pick
it up or
risk a spring in the
ass

what i will do
to get
read

millie will come
in the evening
to talk about
writing

but i will have a nap
before then

maybe more maybe
less

and splash
some water on my
face

to appear
presentable

the day is warmer
so i can open
a door
a window
and the house will
smell less
of mildew

i have half
a bottle of wine
to offer

and the poem

and she will be
intoxicated

* * *

casa la reina
is a ruin

even the crickets
have abandoned

but the sun
is out
and the stick
garden has sprouted
some green

the traffic sounds
the arguments
the construction
sounds
the miscellaneous
noises
of life

are somehow
muffled

and i sit in the
back
with leftover bites
of a tuna sandwich

and watch the
sky

facebook poem

Roy Anthony Shabla

no friend no love no god above
no hope no song no right from wrong
no time no place no happy face
no here no there no place to share

November 15 at 11:47pm ·LikeUnlike · Comment · View Feedback (5)Hide Feedback (5)

Christina Seely from this place a new beginning emerges.....meet yourself there.....I am drawn inward from your words tonight....sweet dreams.
November 15 at 11:54pm · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

sweetie dreams
moonie beams
patty cakes and
krispy kreams

November 16 at 12:02am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco There's no way I could sleep counting krispy kreams!! :D
November 16 at 6:20am · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

silly sheep
not a peep ...

November 16 at 9:05am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco ‎:)
November 16 at 9:42am via · LikeUnlike

if you have not seen the earth
from the sky
you should go.

if you have not been a slow-moving cloud
you should try.

if you have not been a gentle breeze
give yourself the gift
of flight

and know
the caress of leaves.

land is where you end

but sky
is where the heart is light
and the soul is free.

* * *

with my finger
i trace on your chest
the shadow of a leaf
waving from the fig tree

then trace another shadow
of that same leaf
on the window glass

and as i am placing my hand
over your heart
the shape of the leaf is on my hand

and it is the shadow of my hand
that first touches you.

~ ~ ~

when we sleep

i dream we are sleeping in the grass
on a hill
in the sunlight

and a cloud passes before the sun
like a hand before the eyes~

the shadow of the cloud
moving across the hill
touches me
then touches you

and i shiver with the touch of coolness

then you shiver

then we are each warmed.

~ ~ ~

i ask

is this what we have
between us?

these bits of darkness,
these silhouettes of life?

with the morning
i see how easily they pass…

* * *

if you have not seen the sky
really seen the sky
with the open heart of your eye

you should lie on your back
in the meadow of time
until you cry.

if you have not watched
a slow-moving cloud on a summer day
if you have not drifted off the cluttered page
of life

you should find an open meadow and lie
in the timeless flowers
until you cry.

if you have not let a gentle breeze
arrange your hair
and whisk your face

what is there to say?

please take a leave and lie
in the open meadow of time
until you cry.

earth is where you end when all is done~
the flower closes
with the setting sun~

but sky is where the wind can fly
and where the clouds will wipe
your tearful eye.