Goatsmell's Idea Box


Introduction to Cursing

Grandfather was always a little hot tempered
And doubly-cursed with clumsiness
Dumb things would happen
Damned things were said
Well within earshot of the church
Deep across the street

When I was a young child
I remember a walk to the creek
With our fishing poles
I watched as he blazed the trail ahead
And saw his leg shoot down a gopher hole

Stunned for a moment, up to his crotch in hole
The world stopped as he sucked in breath
A breath deep enough to weave
A ghastly tapestry
Of curses and profanity hard enough to make nature blanch

He raved as he heaved his leg out of the hole and failed
He grunted and laced the world with swears and flailed
To the gods he gnashed and railed about
Inbred gophers, goddam fish, fucking planet
That spun blue and able through the universe
True to it’s course and he was to his

Exhausted when he was done
He bent to retrieve his boot from that hungry hole
We did not fish

Oct 7

A Sentense Moment

Once upon a time
A verb was conjugated
Until it could produce
No more action
The nouns were left
To stand watch
Still and silent
Bereft of adjectives

Oct 6

Conversation with a Truck Driver

The road is callin’
Can ya hear that?
Callin’ in loud, round vowels
Words as big as mountains
Like a billboard with lights and everythin’
Man, that Alaska Highway is yellin’ for me
Windin’ all about
I still don’t know if I’m heading in or out
Sitting here behind the wheel
This here, this is what’s real
Crawlin’ around on this planet
Sendin’ diesel inta the air
Sendin’ me like an arrow to my drop
It’s like that Zen archery stuff
All in the mind

You smoke?

You should

Maybe you’d hear the road callin’ too

Oct 3

Pie Jesu

I’ve heard, but never listened
Spoke without saying much
Breathed a lot but never really lived

The sun creeps past the clouds
Parting the rain
An early autumn wind separates the leaves
Sending some to the ground
Yellowish with understanding
Winter comes

A brave child tests the playground outside
Hands unsure, feet rocking
I don’t know if his mother knows

I don’t know if this patient
Shuffle of words will enable me
To breathe among the clouds
To walk among the leaves

The golden light hides, returns
Grey clouds part, gather
Coffee sits on the counter, cools
Sometimes I sits and thinks

Other times I just sits

Oct 1

A Tree by the Lake

I touched the willow you
Used to give your fears and
Hopes and wishes to
You’d smoke and
Drink chocolate porter
In your tin cup and
Hear my compressed voice
On your orange Motorola
With earnest love

It’s all still there

Dewey Decimal Meets The One-Ball Man

I never thought of having
My name, stamped on a library shelf
Until I came here to
Our local and friendly library
Took me five years, or so
To get here and to see that

So, who chooses to put
Whose names where?
I’d forever have my name
Etched in that crisp Courier font
In the heart of Metaphysics
Or the Paranormal
I’d like to be near Joseph Conrad, but
Heart of Darkness is in Fiction
Every space is taken over yonder

Or, maybe…

Maybe in the far corner
Where the windows don’t reach
Where things change from friendly library
To Cold War bunker
Where the things that suck go
And stay

The signs indicate that these things
Do not, indeed, suck
But they really, really do
Those shelves are nameless
The biographies of
Al Gore and Lance Armstrong
Are there
Cast out like the weird kids
In any high school

Boring Meetings Suck! Is here as well
Lying on its side, just goddam exhausted
In passive resistant protest

This is where my name must go
Right here, at the intersection of
Intellectual Desert Street
Looking-for-Something-to-Find Road


I never wanted my work to be complicated
I wanted it to be beautiful
And I hated those who made me feel
A simple line was an error
A simple sentiment a weakness
As if the terror eradicated the light
Well I knew terror
I knew the sound of a world dying since I was six
And I still woke up before the sun came up
Just so I could say to it
You beautiful golden disc, you lazy thing, I was here first
I win

— Stimie

(Source: howitzerliterarysociety)

May 9

God Damn, the Fernando Man

ABBA is the musical equivalent of a breath mint
No, it’s like a wonderful sudsy wash
Through a Swedish washing machine
Or it can be the musical equivalent
Of a good string of quality anal beads
Sort of “metronoming” their way out.

Oh, did we wear that album out in that summer
Played “Fernando” deep into the hearts
Of so many average afternoons
The lilacs bloomed hard enough to
Cover all that 76th Avenue exhaust

Oh, there was something in the air that night
Hung in the air
A burgundy velvet curtain
Over a dusty gold shag rug

Reflective of Stuff

I look in the mirror and see my father’s face
Lines are a-startin’ to draw
Down like a bad day in the Dow Jones
Sculpting a frown that only gravity will love

I look through space and see my father’s moves
So slick and fast compared to what he was
So destined to be entrenched
Into a Hall of Fame with only one exit
And one tiny entrance

Oh, those moves…
Pull my finger (I always did)
“That’s for nothing.  Wait until you do something.”
(I always did prefer nothing)
Or the famous thousand-yard stare
And 20 degrees down

It’s in the eyebrow, not the eye
Right at the apex of the hairy arch
Dawn of the Dad was long ago
Grandfathered away into long, farty nights

I wonder…will I?
Will I sleep in an easy chair instead of a bed?
Will John Wayne be on the television
As I slip into snorgly, gorgly sleep?

Could I hold a glass of scotch perfectly level
As my body slides, Cirque du les lune
Into near prone positions?
So easy in the easy chair

He has moves, my father
He has perfected them
His body bears the round, soft shape
Of a near sphere of ecstatic old age