troysherdahl

fifties scene so hip

a bebop beat city trip

is beat bop whack?

look out Jack

you’re a hep not a schlep

you lucky duck

quack, quack, quack is

beat bop deluxe

twenty-first century beat city tripsters

snap, snap, snap is

beat bop reflux

flow back

to a throw back

chinos man or, dungarees woman

horn-rimmed glasses are black

canvas Chucks are black

counterculture is back

so hip

flat flip

flies straight to reach

a whamo ka-blamo on Pizmo Beach

khakis, white tees and goatees

mano a mano—

the words don’t hurt

go holler

go change the world

Jack K.

loves mad peeps

the crazy peeps

like Paul Kane slammers

counterculture jammers

never yawn, snap!

just burn baby

diggin’ their beat

daddy-O—

the words that don’t hurt

go holler

go change the world

Dizzy and Dexter blew

their beat gen too

bebop for me and you

fast tempo altered chords

spliffs for riffs

harmonic sophisticates

with counterculture solos

diggin’ the sounds of

Charlie P.

blow your horn as I

blow my mind—

there are no words so

go blow

go change the world

Blossom Dearie

light and girlie

“peel me a grape”

jazz and beat

take shape

’cause she’s hip

a Greenwich Village

to Paris trip

diggin’ the sounds—

her words are suede

go sing

go change the world

twenty-first century beat city tripsters

snap, snap, snap is

beat bop reflux

flow back

to a throw back

counterculture is back

stinging verses attack—

but the words don’t hurt

go holler

go change the world

I rake this sand because I think that that’s zen

it seems zen-like to rake sand in my new zen garden, right?

then Jack runs through it barking, wanting to play, making a mess with paw prints and holes

freshly raked sand is his play box

and I wonder, what’s the point?

is ten minutes of raking perfect rows for one whole minute of permanence— zen?

I’m momentarily angry

his eyes dance, his tail wags and he barks

I smile at him

I love Jack

I love this moment

zen is temporary

zen is impermanence—

it’s raking for Jack

tough guy Lars

Lars full of muscles, whole—

bulging at his seams with

snarls, sneers and plastic squeakers

proud of his hairy back

snarling at the puppies

plush puppies

love his smell, are

crazy for squeakers—

teeth tear, claws tear

furry plastic tubes, they

rip at helpless squeakers

ripping and crunching

a deafening, squeaky death

of still snarling Lars

Lars once full

tough once Lars

Lars once whole is

full of holes—

flat

no plastic tubes

eviscerated

no squeakers

silent is

still snarling Lars

pieces in a box

pieces on the carpet

pieces of Lars

still snarling Lars

the king of the Caribbean is thirsty

at the funky Café Del Mar

sipping on rum, sipping on

a silver crescent sliver of moon

sipping on a thousand salty stars

pouring from the Big Dipper

pouring from the coconuts

as cool jazz and the queen

fill up the white sand gloom

the queen of the rustling palms

wears her famous Trina Turk

bright yellow in her majesty

smelling like a jasmine sea

smiling with white pearls

out of sun-licked radiance—

and the king wants to drink

her royal dimpled dominions

wants to drink her rustling palms

in the white sand gloom

outside the funky Café Del Mar

under a silver crown of moon

under her shower of salty stars

under her rustling palms

the king of the Caribbean is thirsty

and the queen

smiles with white pearls

and eats her coconut ice cream

words blown away

by the tropical sublime

stay in the moment, man

use that Caribbean time

record my million monkeys mind—

as a sizzling sun heats

an endless, singing surf

mojito madness approaching

Margaritaville’s all exploding

words tumble out of the ballpoint

some funny, some the poignant joint

get it all down, get it all down

before the sizzling… cools down

her dangling, sandy foot

lulls me to sleep and

my palapa promise

is a notebook full of

flip flop, bikini surf, Chopra-infused

boozy… sunbaked

nonsense

serial news makes

famous killers major newsmakers

glorify the gore, evil sells

25 to life

for taking a life

saved by insanity

alive with insanity

instead of death in the big house

paroled to the halfway house— with a book deal

is John DeRipper

serial news makes

anonymous victims minor casualties

just details to

minimalize the loss of

forgotten dead, tortured innocents

bloody formalities on 48 Hours

crime scene photographs

coroners report, remains in a box

cops with a lifetime of bad dreams— bad dreams

oh yeah, what was her name?

serial news

the vigilantes snooze

whatever happened to

an eye for an eye?

exit from a .25 caliber

exit in his twenty-fifth year

body dumped by the dumpster

his girlfriend’s screams are clear

flashing lights and crime scene tape

cops are asking questions

residents saw a black SUV

speed away from this location

a mom saw it from her window

and read about it in the news

she felt for the young victim

felt another mom’s deep death blues

but seems Evan T. was a bad, bad boy

at least that’s what

a bad boy blog had read

Evan T. messed with all kinds of kids

and many had ended up dead

but when you double deal with the Russian mob

you’ll get your just dessert

you better not fuck with Moscow Bob

or he’ll put in you the dirt

was Evan T. a cheating pusher man?

a double dealer dealing all bad hands

did he mess with kids?

screw with the mob?

did he really fuck

with Moscow Bob?

if you read a bad boy blog

like we did

you might form a sad opinion

the reality is we’ll never know and

there’s two sides to a door kicked open

exit from a .25 caliber

exit in his twenty-fifth year

poppin’ wheelies in the new ‘burbs

poppin’ wheelies in the new ‘burbs

four-eyed bros

are jumpin’ those

high rise wheelie bikes

off the fresh curbs

when King Street was gravel

and handlebars were chopper high

it coulda been a trip for smokes

with a note from Dad to buy—

rides with four-eyed bros to secret forts

farmers fields made into tracks

was BMX before the gear

faded t-shirts on our backs

high rise wheelie bike

my banana seat is golden

sissy bar flares shiny fender

ape hangers tightly holdin’—

knobby on the front forks

wide white-walled slick on back

Kangol cap before the helmet

knee high socks for shin attacks

sometimes I laid ‘er down

skinned my suntanned thigh

bro patched up the dirty road rash

and back on flyin’ high

trickin’ with the gang

feelin’ summer groovy

Huffy, Raleigh, AMF or Schwinn

they shoulda made a movie

poppin’ wheelies in the new ‘burbs

poppin’ wheelies in the new ‘burbs

four-eyed bros

are jumpin’ those

high rise wheelie bikes

off the fresh curbs

she slips

into my mind

like she slinks

out of a slip

and slips into our bed

slipping me the smile

winking me while

she slips me her hand

and I slip out of my mind

reality slips

forward—

she slips

into

memories behind

like a banana split

you ate ice cream, chocolate sauce

and cherry hearts

but left the banana

you took your whip creamy love

and hid it away

in January’s cold anger—

my heart split open

like that banana

and the cherry juice

spilled into my

next month’s anguish

a banana split

is not a dish for one

not a February dish

nor is it warm

like cinnamon hearts

when the fourteenth came

I gave you the hearts

you gave me cold shoulders

and goodbyes—

like that banana split