troysherdahl

Hank is rank

he’s tanked and

he’s cranked

listen to the rants and raves

barfly snippets he’s gotta save

writing out the biting waves

I cry, I laugh, and more I crave

a pint of the you know

gets the juices to flow so

he’s typing the words though

‘Schnapped in San Pedro’

underlying sadnesses

ordinary madnesses

Buk-olic badnesses

alcoholic addresses

underbelly strife

the lowers; smelly, rife

sex with Shelley— wife?

escape to telly— life?

chuckle, Charles

howl, Heinrich

snarl, Karl

banter, Bukowski—

Hank, you are rank

you’re tanked and

you’re cranked

tacky Jackie is

all camo whacky

is fighting fabric fabulous?

or olive drab, a mottled mess?

this hunter man in field dress

grassy tan, all fragrantless—

let’s shoot a deer

or

go to the theater

cap and shirt

and vest

and pants

jacket

boots

a camo-mance

but

underwear?

the brown dappled stick

and grass

hide this hunter’s dick

and ass

I mean,

desert khaki

on his back, he

really gone

all camo whacky

tacky, tacky

I shake my head

tacky, Jackie

then there’s woodsy Rene

with mossy trees on her lingerie

real oak, a cloak soirée

the great outdoors, a body party

the garden of Eden all artsy-swarthy

wilderness wearables

are invisible terribles

hunters, truckers

feather pluckers

pseudo-soldiers

weekend warriors—

he’s got his

camouflaged vanities

she’s got her

camouflaged panties

what’s next?

a bush bash?

a forest fling?

will they find each other?

shoot something?

camo ka-blamo

blasts outta control

the cable guy

wears it

and so does J. Lo

camo is whamo

it hits everything, see?

mugs, lighters, panties

made in China

for me

my camouflage reportage

is tainted, the way I see it

and

my camouflage reportage

is painted so I can’t see it

the gods must be baking

’cause they’re sifting

icing sugar down

on St. Albert town’s

bundt cakes of blanco

so let’s grab a slice

of the lumen ice micro

our mega dessert, so white

marshmallow puffs

white power tufts

of woolly cumulus

earthbound

floating, falling

no sounds

calling

just silent stalling

ermine mounds

piles and piles

of albino flour

miles and miles

of polar powder

dumping wild

hour by hour

DQ blizzard bright

towers of dee-lite

pokey, pokey

pillows like

feather down

all around

it’s snow

snow, snow

sweet ice cream

frosty latte domes of foam

taste the crisp, white linen dream

that is my frozen winter home

the gods must be baking

’cause they’re sifting

icing sugar down

on St. Albert town’s

bundt cakes of blanco

so let’s grab a slice

of the lumen ice micro

our mega dessert, so white

I’m gonna treat my toboggan

tongue tasty

to these Seven Hills

slopes on Sunday—

and lick the bowl

Big Chuck Buk is at The Drake

he’s supposed to read some poems

he’s drinking beers and smoking anti-social

maybe he popped some pills to

fortify for focus

a buzz is the barometer of his bravado—

the words came from a bottle

so does his voice

he really is alone in his sauce

lowlife liquid courage chronic

lowlife liquid courage rage

lowlife liquid courage brilliance

soaked on his soapbox

and who cares? it’s a goddamn riot!

the sober applause does nothing for him

he pissed away his ego forty years ago

Chuck likes the dirty girl in the front row

he reads to her

he reads for her—

a hundred bucks later

Charles, you’re a crazy genius

she says in his bed

then she leaves

before the bacon and eggs—

Big Chuck Buk sits naked in a chair

by the window with a notebook and pen

he hates Chicago

he really is alone in this sauce

lowlife liquid courage chronic

lowlife liquid courage rage

lowlife liquid courage brilliance

soaked on his soapbox

and who cares?

he doesn’t

he’s drunk and writing it all down

in this spin city gritty

near a dumpster downtown

the graffiti walls gag

an entity of dusty air stirs

papers, wrappers

a plastic bag

floating, flying garbage

a centrifuge of grime

is V for vile

but he’s sure got style

he’s a whirling dirvish

of wild waste

he’s a tiny tornado

of ill taste

he’s the urban alley vortex

cleaning up one corner

to dirty up the next

in this spin city gritty

candy red drips

off cherry lips

of maraschino

man-made

buffed and

polished

to glow

contrasting

curvy cream

sheet metal dream

light bounces in

acrylic rainbows

amplified, their

liquid fender

renderings

appear

bending the

stratosphere

red-hot

cinnamon hearts

beat in spicy chests

under glossy

enamel

unnatural but

so tasty

plastic apple

sticky and

magic milky

mirrors slick

are still

the deep shine

reverie

Milton mumbles his muttering

shuffles the papers, stuttering

while office space is shrinking

move his desk one more time

he’s quitting

he used to be over by the window

and the squirrels got married outside

they moved Milt’s desk four times this year

now his cubicle makes him cry

but he kept the old Swingline

because it doesn’t bind

and he still listens to his radio

at a reasonable volume

from nine to eleven so…

he didn’t get the memo saying

the corporation let him go

but a little glitch in payroll

kept him collating and complaining

this, Milton wants them all to know

move my desk again

and something’s going to happen

don’t take my red stapler or

I’ll set the building on fire

I better get a piece of cake

because I didn’t last time

they promised me

but I didn’t receive a piece

the ratio of people to cake

is too big

move my desk again

and something’s going to happen

I could set the building on fire

Bill took my stapler

and he never brought it back

Milt, we’re gonna need

to go ahead and move

you downstairs

to storage B, uhm-k?

I believe you have my stapler…

Milton mumbles— hey,

that’s the last straw

something’s going to happen

I’ll set the building on fire

a charred stapler rescued from the ashes

we know a guy that might want this

or does he?

excuse me, Señor?

I said no salt

NO salt for the margarita

but it had salt on it

BIG grains of salt!

something’s going to happen

I could put… I could put…

strychnine in the guacamole

strychnine in the guacamole

I could have this place condemned, Señor

I could shut this whole resort down

and take my travelers checks

to a competing resort—

Milton mumbles

the waiter grumbles

lo siento, Señor