Officer Clancy

By “OBSIDIAN!!!” and HoboBob



So, now you’re
Talking the badge and the gun
I’m trying to catch a nap
Before the sun
Comes up…

What you say?
You want to see my I.D.?
What’s the offense? So I was sleeping
Horizontally…

Commissioner Kelly sent you
To HOUSE me off the bench
Saw me while he was riding by in a car
So, now you’ve come to ROUSE me
Within an inch of my life
Wanna HOOSEGOUSE! Me
Check my pockets for a knife?

Run me for a warrant
See if I could give a FUCK!!!
“Please officer Clancy, YOU SUCK!”



Driving to work one night,
Cold and dark.
I see your patrol car in the rearview mirror,
Moving bright and stark.


Officer Clancy. You pull me over,
And haul my Black ass out,
Oh, my tail light was busted,
‘That can’t be true’ I shout.


But now you smell alcohol on my breath.
And on goes the cuffs,
And push my head into the patrol car
‘cause enough is enough.


I’m fucked for work,
Because I’m sitting behind bars,
And what do you know,
No more driving cars.


You take my picture.
Oh that’s just for good luck.
Talk to you later

Please officer Clancy, you suck!

A Poem From Master Li-Fi of Bensonhurst

The stage is empty
The microphone's shut.
All the lights are off.
The power's been cut.

The doors have been locked.
The curtains have been closed.
And the Hobo on the couch
continues to doze.

He sleeps until he sees
the bright morning light
and wonders what the hell
happened last night.

Did he get to do a reading?
Are his poems all the rage?
Or did he just make a giant
ass of himself on stage?

So many things to ponder.
So little time to think
when all the Hobo really wants
is another stiff drink.

So he pulls himself from the sofa
and brushes off the lice.
Then he shuffles to the bar
and pours a Jack with ice.

HOBOBOB

Hobobob is homeless and living on a street near you.

TWO GAYS FLIP ME THE BIRD

I see you,
Outside of the Starbucks,
Smoking a cigarette,

You are skinny,
Tall,
Black,
With blonde hair.

You notice me,
You don’t smile,
I don’t smile back,
I simply look away.

I look at the people outside,
The window before me.

Where are they going?
Who are they meeting?
You meet your friend.

You both walk past my window.

He is tall like you,
He is skinny like you,
He is white,
But he is blonde like you.

And you are now smiling at me,
Flipping me the finger.

- Hobobob, 2007

ROBERT MUELLER

Robert Mueller lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. He approaches writing from a base of modest achievement as a practicing literary scholar. Essays appear online in Jacket and at the Barbara Guest home page in the Electronic Poetry Center. In his poems Mr. Mueller contributes to vibrant cultural and community goings on by way of experiments in verbal fantasy and free humor. The spontaneity of his writing can be slap-dash and it can be roughhousing or quieter feeling. When the opportunity arises, he reads his poems aloud at open gatherings, sometimes on the same day.




To Too-ta-loo the Schubert Herr
by Robert Mueller


Ticker-tocker Heimweh Schleim!
Minstrel strews reversal coos
cascading into delight set
altitudes where thou art cowl.
Loosey Goose fly in chink of thy may-thistle.
Then thou art hastening sugaries,
art embosomed in enamelling boom.
Little gleaning
wanting to start sheets come in parts.
Or daintily the violins, no cob-webs tholed,
clatter like a shrine-a-line in scurry.
I have half a mind and I am scrolled
to cashier hides,
to send thee, quickly, to Arachnidae school,
to worm, to bleed, to bowlover, and nothing cool;
for of swift anneal I please steed,
steed feared and mangled in the flying night,
steed fluegeling bright to you tonight.
Ho Pindar ho, bedubbing Crown,
more monkey grown, of Beard-Mistress thorough thrown,
snatch mead anon of dangling fire,
make shine your schimpfy grackle choir.
The Speedos’ harms are itchy, harms are bold,
Geigle Spiegel Giddy Gold.
May then the beam-quick Clause of Many
cataract to full card’s slick, the boo-birds brimmed
within the Way-Ocean tumble-flick.
May all these chime
in mystery, or Isolde’s
sirens be.
May all these capstanated clay-bums be,
may all, may all, commatteration.
It snoofles, it sneefles,
its tattery twos tease and mingle.
The dome-lit highs suffuse
the sky, and meanwhile
grommeling grooms supplease the Queen’s squinching,
her Tame-Lord ease, her sooth for these Innings.

BACK LIKE A RASH!...

Yo...yo...yo...yo!! i know i've been a little absent, in the writing department, due to certain constraints, like not remembering my own password!...dah!...but i'm back like a rash, & want to make a few contributions to my own, and Hobo Bob's blogsite. 1stly, i like to thank all you wonderful poets for your amazing contributions. WOW! i'm almost moved to tears-i said 'almost'!. O.k., so what i'm gonna do is begin with a tribute poem, i wrote along time ago, as a birthday present to my brother, Hobo Bob...many moons ago...by-the-way, this poem was read at the "Saturn Series", co-hosted by Su Polo and Dave Elsasser..back in the daze...bon appetito!-"OBSIDIAN!!!"



Ma Vodka Bottle
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" [Excerp from "Zen is Now c. 1992]



As long as it doesn't show
and as long as it doesn't fall out
i can endure the humiliation
of human dignity

As long as i don't slurp
when i draw
and as long as it doesn't
slip from my paw
when i hit the floor
i can enjoy the brief illusion
of serenity

As long as i don't run outta bills
and as long as i
can still make my way
to the liquor store up the hill
i aint gotta a’ member 'bout
my loneliness

As long as i can just
…keep it coming
THE HELL WITH THE NUMBING!
yeah…and the dumbing
i can have the thrill of
being real
and get to feel
my one and only-ness!…Whoooh!!!

YOLANDA COULAZ

Yolanda Coulaz is a poet and photographer, and owner/editor of Purple Sage Press (when she’s not working at her “day job”). She also teaches poetry workshops to middle and high school students throughout Long Island. Her poetry has won a number of awards and has been widely published. Her signature poem “Cool, Cotton Comfort” won first place in the Mattia Family 8th International Poetry Competition. In April 2004 she coordinated, hosted and was a feature reader at “Poets for Pets”, a fundraiser for Loving Touch Animal Rescue, and has published the anthology For Loving Precious Beast to help benefit their cause. Her first book of poetry Spirits and Oxygen was released in October 2003. Google her name on the internet, and find out more. (Photo provided by Yolanda Coulaz)

COOL, COTTON COMFORT

I wore him like a tight pair of jeans,
and he looked damn good on me.
It was almost obscene,
that tight pair of jeans.

He didn’t fit,
and I was proud of it
and the way they’d stare
at that man I’d wear.
It was almost obscene,
that pair of jeans.

Well, I’m older today,
and I’ve got a man that fits
like a pair of sweats, heather grey,
and he looks damn good on me.
And that tight pair of jeans?
Well, I threw him away.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

CITY GIRL

She reads cheap paperbacks
and bibles and takes them
at their word, wears black
and lives on caffeine,
cigarettes and stress.

Her nails are nubs;
cuticles ragged and raw;
hair, Midnight #36.

Her skin is pale
in sky scraper shadows,
and she is lean
for lack of transportation.

She eats soft pretzels
soaked in humidity,
seasoned with salt
and carbon monoxide,
searches for something
in subways and taverns,
and she doesn’t read
the funnies anymore.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

EFRAYIM LEVENSON

EFRAYIM LEVENSON'S new chapbook, Dances With Tears, will be available for general sale March 20. (Photo by Hobobob)



JONES
by Efrayim Levenson

The record climb
the record fall
Don't look now
There go your balls!

The next ball up
can't come too fast
Yolanda Vega
won't save your ass

La-la-la-la
la-la-la-la
la-la-la-la-la-la-la

BURDEN OF A MAN

Adrift in time
at peace with space
the love in this place
sledge-hammered into his head
shatters all levels
of dissonant rhythms
He cannot sing what it reveals
The chorus in his disturbed quietude
is slapped across his face
left, then right, then left again

"Please let me breathe", he gasps,
"just for a moment to regain my composure
in the maze. Perhaps the auto-tracking
on the VCR in my mind will accomplish
something soon. A swirl of nausea reels me
as I dance between the city people during a
brief furlough from the numbers game,
the calculator's click-clack not far away."

If only for a little rain
to soak his disposition
in the rhythmic splashings
of his long walk home
Perhaps tonight he can write this poem
if only the day would end

"If only the day would end", he thinks,
"I could lay down with you
to feel my rhythm in your pulse,
look into your eyes that always lure me in.
I love the song your trigger finger sings."

Good morning!
Back into the fitful grind
to ride the rails once again
rattle shake squeal of brake
back to the rustle of purple paper
the CPU click again, again,
again the stiff roar from the humorless
Only a few know the size of the real picture
Is the clock friend or foe?
All he knows is smallness in the world
but they keep knocking on his door for answers

"Just a little comfort with you in my arms
quiets the incessant buzz. Hold me down
while there's yet time for peace."

For soon the morning light rages
with the burden of a man
in search of a place to stand
So many discordant pieces to assemble
for the walk up the battlefield's hill
where the images are never concrete
His final rest lies at the top
He feels the pull of a new day
while he awaits the rattling shatter
of the vice that flattens his head
Pound the drum
Scrape the string clean
Shield yourselves from his burden's burst
Have a good laugh at the clown's expense
You'll feel sorry when it's too late
Tick, tick, tick, adrift in accelerated fading time again
Wake up!
We're not done with you yet.
Your egg isn't scrambled enough
The shots fired are just your synapse snap

Relax.
It'll be fine in the morning.

Efrayim