Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 7, 2017

The stay at Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

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June 10, 2017

Covfefe

It’s a noun.  It’s an adjective.  This is my objective and subjective
covert midnight objective.  For those who think they know me- Covfefe.

In Pennsylvania I’m the steel, coal in West Virginia, in Michigan I’m
the wheel, in Wisconsin the cheese and the real deal. Rushing to try
to stop me or Russian to try and block me.  I’d like to say fuck you.
Instead I’ll say Covfefe.

Yes I’m the commander, the chief and El Jefe I can tweet-
lasejfldkfjalsd and tell you it’s Icelandic.  Anyone who tweets this
late is manic but I have plans for you so…  Covfefe.

Homey- You don’t know me or own me.  Trying to stop me by building a
wall with James Comey.  It won’t slow me on my way to infamy. What’s
the conclusion?  No collusion.  Democratic arsonists smell smoke and I
think it’s a joke.  They want to break me, bend me, ABC, CBS and CNN
me…  Bitch, get out the way- Covfefe

Paris ain’t Pittsburg, London or Hamburg.  I got news for the French,
Dutch and Merkle…  You’ll find I’m a little tougher than former
President Urkel.  I sleep well and what you think of me matters very little
to me…  So now you know… Covfefe.

January 18, 2017

1-20-2017

Pendulum, conundrum, electorate- ho- hum, persuaded and dumb.  Where
did this come from?
Crazy, frightening yet strong.   Simply put simplistic and genius with
a finger on the pulse tapping in to that, which is wrong with us. A
clown to some and they laughed but it was never meant to be funny.
Money, wealthy, ballsy billionaire.  People of color scared of the
unpredictable. Patriotic, simplistic people waving a flag awaiting the
arrival of the despot, in the best spot, at the best time- finally as
ludicrous as revolutionary, scary, obnoxiously brilliant- Americans
are many things but are they resilient?

The modern Prometheus?  What is this success?  Fascist? Genius?
Childish and clueless? Powerful and forceful, bold and amazing the
nasty hero of silent plurality in manicured, sanitized for your
protection suburban subdivisions in search of change of something
outspoken and blunt, unqualified, unbelievable, unstable,
unpresidential somewhere beyond the strip malls.  A clever, vulgar,
realist, opportunistic bombast of a new class- brash and crass.  The
ugly American uber alles.  Better to be feared than loved by the
progressives, the new recessives clinging to the coasts focused on
talking headed arrogance on news television.  A new shrewd, yet lewd,
entertaining aggressive who saved the republic- ans from going the way
of the dinosaurs.  Like Brexit, will he fix it as part of a horribly
refreshing nightmare of less kind and less gentler future?  “Sorry,
this is complicated business…”

November 12, 2011

The Beat Your Ass Cafe

 

Patrice Fort was born and raised in a really small town that most people never heard of in Alberta.  For those of you in the states, Alberta is a province, which is sort of like a state except that it is not a state.  The Fort family slowly moved from the Plaines of Abraham near Quebec City and over the years kept moving west like the Mormons in search of a new town called Springfield.  The Forts wound up in no place Alberta.

Fort, if you know the French language, means strong and Patrice was the epitome of a Cro-Magnon man of the modern age.  Patrice was a hair over six feet tall and weighed 250 lbs.  Patrice was a solid mass of muscle like a human pit-bull.  At a young age, Patrice learned that his ice hockey skills were mediocre at best.  Patrice was not fast and did not make the best decisions on the ice nor did he have the best shot.  Patrice was able to fight and from the age of thirteen, Patrice never lost a fight.

The thing that scared people most about Patrice when they were faced with fighting him was that there was no anger or malice.  It was just something he was born and bred to do and so he would pummel opponents who messed with the premier players on whatever team he happened to be playing on.  It was during juniors that life suddenly changed for Patrice.

Patrice’s Quebec junior team had gone south to New York City to play in a tournament sponsored by some bank that no longer exists in the states.  Patrice had never been to a city as large as New York and had never imagined so much humanity crammed into such a small space in a place like Manhattan.  Patrice went into a Starbucks and ordered a tall hot chocolate and watched the unique people that walked down the sidewalk near Times Square.   From the Starbucks window, for Patrice it was like watching a freak show at the circus. There were so many different types of people, in varying sizes and shapes. An older woman of about sixty years of age came up and spoke to Patrice in a way he had never heard before.  Even though the woman was older, she was shapely and confident.

“Many years have come and gone man and you’re one of the last relics of the Neanderthal period, man.  All swelled up with muscles and I suppose you never took one supplement… Man, dig that crazy tune.”

Herbie Hancock was playing Cantaloupe Island over the speakers in the Starbucks.  The woman put her hand on Patrice’s large forearm and closed her eyes as the song played.  Patrice looked at the strange woman and sort of dug the tune that softly played.

“People are always saying that this or that is the shit.  I’m here to tell you that this is the true shit, man.  You weren’t around when this shit was devised.  People were swinging to Benny Goodman and then cats like Herbie came round and opened people’s eyes to music that could speak without words.  1964, we all thought the world would end, man.  Kennedy killed and a cowboy with his hands on the nuclear button, man.  Beatles came and what did they say?  They said too much but listen to this here, man.  I know you can feel it, cave man,  baby…  I bet you’re hung like a horse.”

It was the first time that Patrice had ever had sex with a woman and the woman was older than his own mother and twice as shapely.  There were very few sags and lumps on the old Beatnik woman. They made love, if you want to call it that, several time over the course of an afternoon while listening to cool Jazz and hearing the woman read Beat Poetry by Ginsberg and Kerouac.  Patrice left the small basement apartment in Manhattan and was never the same.

As the years went on, teammates came to understand that Patrice was a bit out there but they respected the difference.  And wouldn’t respect a man who could kill them with his bare hands.  On planes and trains, Patrice listened to Coltrane, Miles Davis and Thelonius Monk through earphones and wrote poetry.

What colour is blue when the sky is gray.  Walk down the streets of Detroit like I came from Mars, come to visit bars full of coulorful coloured folk and they think they know me because the press wants to own me, ride me, pride me like a pony and it’s phony.  Won’t eat gluten. I’m free like Putin who wants to keep Russia from anarchy after the fall of The Wall and Soviet dynamo.  The Red Army Team came to town when I was young.  Ate biscuits and drank coffee in a vast land.  I followed the road from Alberta to everywhere, man.  Everywhere is nowhere and yet I’m somewhere between where I should be and where I am.  Sit in the shade  sipping wine no words to this Monk tune that rolls through my mind.  If the colour blue is true, I hold out hope for me and you…  Coltrane, last train try in vain…  Gonna sit outside in Portugal or Spain and write a few words on the balcony in the rain…  Rinse and repeat that, Cat.

 

Now to you and I, words strung together such as this meant little or nothing.  A long stream of unconsciousness.  Patrice was traded from Phoenix, to San Jose to Boston and then went to Nashville and landed in Detroit at minimum wage for the NHL.  The Detroit Red Wings were a finesse team that really did not need a lug or a goon to go out and fight to protect the true hockey players of the team.  The fighters were an outdated necessity from days gone by of clutch and grab hockey a la Philadelphia in the 1970’s.  Detroit grabbed Patrice and never really played him until one day against Chicago, a heated rival who happened to be winning the game and taunted the Detroit team.  The Detroit coach, Mike Babcock, nodded to Patrice, who on his first shift, beat up two Chicago players and mistakenly punched a referee.  From that point on, Patrice had a home in the hearts of Detroit Red Wing fans.

Most people don’t know the story behind the finger snapping when Patrice takes the ice.  To those from out of town or watching on Versus, it may sound like the theme from the Adams Family is being played.  Before long, large groups of Beatnik poetry types who frequented Patrice’s café in the Detroit suburb of Hamtramck, began going to Detroit Red Wing games, wearing jerseys that had the name FORT on the back.  Scruffy faced young men who appeared to be anti-sports, showed up wearing Red Wing jerseys, snapping their fingers violently whenever Patrice got on the ice or fought.  Before long, everyone got in on the act.  It was like throwing octopus on the ice.

After home games in Hamtramck on Jos Campau there is a Beatnik café where people drink and read poetry to Jazz.  It is called, Beat Your Ass Café.  It is nothing more than an old Polish watering hole that Patrice bought to host poetry readings and feature live Jazz.  On the walls are pictures of some of Patrice’s best fights with the dates and names of opponents. Patrice usually appears after games and reads his latest poetry while young Jazz musicians play behind him and others.  It is standing room only after Red Wing games.  Dig that.

August 11, 2011

The Next Beat

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:10 am
Tags: , , ,

Sangria Maria, don’t know no Jazz

she discovered Bossa Nova at Starbucks one day

don’t like no mondays cause you know Saturdays

are for sundaes like whip cream and fluff.  Read the

papers about that stuff.  This is up and that’s down

obituaries and the funnies and some coupons for the buffet.

A smorgasbord of taste, smell and sound.

Dig that young cat with the mascara and the hair covering

his eyes.  Despondent resident of a subdivision and momma

always had food in the pot.  He learned them power chords

gonna make a band.  Don’t want no conventional stuff.

Full of angst and anger about all kinds of stuff.  You know

them southern California kids was so mad once upon a time

with their Punk Rock.  Now they got the perfect life, a mortgage, kids

and shapely wife.  Crack open the wine they bought at Napa for the

company.  Jim is a swell guy and a great golfer.  He might want to swap

wives for the night.  No need to trade lives.  Got the same cars, same homes,

same distant children with everything they used to have when there was real Punk Rock.

Drop the needle on some Black Flag or Fear and call your old girl on your momma’s

rotary phone. Momma was always there when daddy was busy.

Daddy was a Mason and an Elk, Republican and Presbyterian and a little Welsh.

You ain’t gonna get old and you ain’t gonna die but if you do, they got it all picked out for you.

Next to nice trees by some shade not far from the interstate and a billboard about 4Gs.

Because in the circle of life, they ain’t no corners.

Just the things that go around and come around.  No real forest, hill, groves

or real parks except for the industrial ones with their industrial strength.  More caffeine, less stress, less pressure,

more leisure  more comfortable shoes and a numbers when you sleep next to Sangria Maria after Tapas Tuesday

with Swell Jim and his wife in this comfortable life in that tract home in every town in every state…  No matter the state you’re

in.

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