AT THE PUBLIC LIBRARY...

Misty
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2008



i saw jack kerouac today
and i'm misty
drops of fallen rain
against the gurgle of
a waterfountian
leaves me misty

beat poet's existential hunger
for emotion and pain
beat poet's eternal hunger
to be down and out
and i'm misty

broke
empty pockets
empty bed
full of 'bennies' and booze
empty head makes me wonder
was herbert huncke misty?

luminous mysterious lines
play on my sanity bringing
me solice in my solidtude-
existential way
and i'm misty

mystic new jersey life
filled with karaoke blues
filled with karaoke booze
made me ponder
'am i a really a mystic'?
-misty

mysterious words scribbled
on discarded notepads
saved in paneled glass
in a side show makes me
feel misty

i saw a jack kerouac
in a side show today...
-and i walked away
feeling very
misty-

PAYS TO BE AROUND...

Where's Daniel?
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c.2008

where's Daniel at?
in alleyways
and sleezy barbacks
on cheapened souplines
with hands in pocket
against the wind

where's Daniel at?
in porno-shops
brothels and
opium dens
sleeping in libraries
and bookstores until 10

in central park after
dark with a bottle of
coors scribbling poems
with discarded pens
looking for a pair of
shoes with vagabond
blues on street corners
way after the sun's gone
down

where's Daniel at?
in front of churches
and synagogues that
pass their time giving
away swag in paper bags brown

in smoke-filled bars
playing movie star
in poetry joints
at liquor stores
in front of cigarette machines
and waiverly's public assistance
haunts

on concrete floors
bodega stores
wooden park benches
piss corner stenches
stairways
and alleyways leading to
county jail stretches

i'll tell you where
Daniel wasn't at!
at a funeral parlor
as the chorus rose louder
roses adorning
your body lifeless and grey
where friends and family met
with handkerchiefs wet
as the pallbearers carried
your body away

THE POET AMIN...

The Poet Amin lives in Connecticut. He was an actor for The Second Step Players and one of New London's Backroom Poets. He had a chapbook produced in New London, ENTITLED: "THE BIRD THAT FLEW OVER THE RAINBOW AND OTHER POEMS."




Not Interested

Look at all the pretty ladies in the short dressesI am focusing on cleaning up my messes So I'm not interested

How about that one over there with the big breastsI wouldn't care if she was chest less I'm not interested

I have a bucket of apples you can pick the freshestI have a bucket of pears I'm not interested

They say George Bush is a killer in the danger waters he testedLook, I'm a rebel without a cause I'm not interested

What about all the children that are being neglectedI don't work for DCF I'm not interested

Why is it that only Caucasian men that are elected presidentJesus was against politics I'm not interested

Do you create your poetry with a certain methodIf it's not a positive creationI'm not interested

Arabs are planning to burn the oil in TexasI wouldn't care if they blew up the countryI'm not interested

It seems to me that you're purposely acting indifferent That's because they teach that the word Nigger means ignorantWell, since it is two mes can you be a litte clearer The true definition for the word Nigger means builder

I really think you will be a disgrace to poetry publicationWhat if I give my manuscripts away for freeWouldn't that be interesting

-The Poet Amin

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.