September 8-14, 1997: Jerry Hicks and Lob 


 

week of September 8-14, 1997



Jerry Hicks and Lob


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Jerry Hicks
beach.poet@worldnet.att.net

Bio(auto)

Los Angeles slam-master, Jerry Hicks–an A.S.U grad–reads his poetry widely and has been featured at major venues His poems most recently appeared in “Spillway,” and his third poetry book, “Advertise and Consent,” is scheduled to be published in 1998

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Jerry Hicks and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Coup d’Asia
Revisionest History

After General MacArthur had that pansy
Harry S Truman assassinated
He blew up all North Korea
and killed seven-zillion Chinamen
(and their goddamn dogs and cats)
to boot Totally polluted the Yalu with Americanium!
You can bet
it gave those candy-ass Rooskies an enema right
in “Das Kapital “

The “ol’ boy network” took care of Mac all
right—-
Hell! the VFW Grand Wiz nominated him for
Yoo Ess President and he was a shoo-in
Turned it down, though Said the job would get in the way of mopping
up them commie gooks Besides, he wanted to be China Generalisimo–
make everything shipshape Organize the Chinks like he had the Nips
I can still remember him: The rock hard jaw, the
corn-cob pipe .the shades—-
Christ, what a dedicated patriot!

They say he slept with a rattlesnake in his bed
every night two years
to make himself so damn fearless.


Gone

The house plants are brown sticks
Daddy-longlegs stake out the doorways
with multiple, invisible strands Dust obscures the coffee table and graces all
but the latest un-opened mail
The phone, disconnected, never rings He doesn’t even know
At noon, shoeless, in soiled shorts, he makes
a gallon of O.J , piles in the sink more dishes
He swigs gin while the T.V flickers–
till all the channels are test patterns
On the way to bed, raking cobwebs from his beard
with long nails,
he sits on the pot, pees, stares
at black hair-strands curled and matted on the floor
He brushes the vomit stained sheet
once and plops on the waterbed
As the room whirls, his last thoughts: What
day is it? Should I have one more cigarette?
What month is it?

He feels around for the soft nylon
panty, finds it, crumples it, clutches it to his face,
begins to wail like a wolf snared by a steel trap

or a man on a mine.


Winging It

I’m in TGIF with my daughter
who’s everything a man could want
in a woman–
young, blond, poised, smart,
& horny enough to start a fire Naturally, she’s gay
Audrey and I are waiting for chicken wings
& sipping beer in this straight bar
watching groups of women prance by
Audrey’s into exactly the same type of
woman I am
& we track each target
with identical radar systems
until she daintily sits down
then our eyes lock and we both nod
We are in this bar sipping Buds
& sucking chicken wing bones
looking around to see
if anyone is glancing back Audrey, who is not only hot,
but beautiful enough to bedazzle
a fire department,
is checking out all the same women I am
& thinking similar thoughts (I guess)
On the way out, Audrey and I,
we hit on the foxy young cashier Charm her–father and daughter She says she gets off at 7:30,
& we say
we’ll be back to getcha!

Later all laughing
we squeeze into my Corvette I can’t believe what we’ve started
Can’t wait to see what will occur
when my daughter–
who’s hot and beautiful and clever–
& me warm up this straight chick
And I haven’t the damnedest idea
what will happen
nor who is going to end up
doing what to whom, and
don’cha wish this poem

had a few more scenes?

Primer on edges
& planes

Those
who
lick
their
knives
too
clean

often
slit
their

tongues.

Lob
instagon@netcom.com

Bio(auto)

Lob is a creative artist from Huntington Beach, CA He is the director of an artists alliance called Thee Instagon Foundation, editor for Thee Neverending Page .a publication of thee creative current .and is the current business operations manager at Next Magazine A major member of the So Cal performance poetry community .Lob likes to read in intimate locations where he can smoke canabis, doesnt like the cold, and would rather eat mayonaise than mustard any day of the week.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Lob and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.


friendship (a haiku)

temporary state
a feeling that is so high
you would lie for it

-/-


surreal poet’s dream, in Sestina

trip with one and make it two
then find a third that fits you
deny the forth, no reason why
stop to wave as it goes by
words in play, they love to rhyme
here it comes, a twist in time

behind a cloud walks father time
he sings a song of lovers two
he tries but cannot find the rhyme
that calls to him and speaks to you
in a flash he creates, it passes by and the gods all sigh and wonder why

i sleep late, i don’t know why
i wake up un-caring for the time
sometimes morning passes by
i meet the afternoon around two
has that ever happened to you?
awake moving in rhythm to my own inner rhyme

i find the poem, it finds the rhyme
i dunno how it happens, i don’t ask why
i write it down and share it with you
i hope you will listen if you have the time
you say you only have time for two?
“allright”, i sigh, as another flash goes by

each day, like this, sleep awake, passes by
i capture some in free verse, others in rhyme
sometimes i even care for a good one or two words play, words kiss, words take and ask why,
in rapture, caught in the curse called time
like a pair, dreams and poems come to me and you

i dream of gods and words and you and forget some as they go by i awake and ground myself with time
it never ends its it’s own rhyme i live and ask the question why,
and scribble a poem down, or two
was this a dream this time, right here, or just a rhyme?
did it have meaning for you, as it went by as one asks why, the answer becomes two

-/-


buketry

i once heard Charles Bukowski
say how writing a good poem
was like taking a hot beer shit:

” that one just lets go
and it just happens
and when you are done
you look at it, and it’s good
that’s poetry”

so i thought about how
profound of a statement this was

last night i went out,
i ate 4 chili dogs
and drank 11 beers and this morning,
i am a writer
-/-


cyber sestina

i have a six color monitor screen
i have a light touch keyboard
i have a mega mega bite hard drive
my modem sets me up on-line
i search the web and surf the net
i trip in the place called cyber-space

it is not like outer space
you have seen on your TV screen
broadcast by one of the networks
with commercials to keep you from being too bored it is something that sometimes steps out of line
like a drinking friend who wants to drive

but i can take a virtual drive
thru cyber-highways in this wierd space
and then with one good URL line
spill another new dimension from my screen
all from my keyboard
as my fingers surf the internet

sometimes i get stuck downloading from the net
and it ties up my hard drive
so i take my hands off the keyboard
and take this opportunity to adjust head space
have a bonghit, add some music .a good Coltrane line
and blow the smoke at the glowing screen

there is a dead bug smashed on my screen
it gave it’s life to the net
it was my sacrifice to the cyber-god on-line
so blessings may befall my hard drive
and protection from viruses from dark space,
where the hackers type on old Amiga boards

with nerves of rock and Email hard as boards
i fight the flamewars, as they scorch my screen
i love this new place called cyber-space
i feel so alive without a face just a name on the net
just characters or numbers with an “at” symbol in the line
an Email adventurer, just learning to drive

feeling confident in the space, removing the saftey net
fingers fly across keyboard, making changes on the screen
line after line, html and Unix directed direct drive