March 24-30, 1997: Hank Hyena and Wally Richard

Week of Mar 24-Mar 30

Hank Hyena and Wally Richard

Hank Hyena
Hankhyena@aol.com

Bio(auto)

Hank Hyena is a “witty quirky writer with a knack for the provocative twist” (San Francisco Examiner) He is the editor of “CUPID” (a journal of amatory expression) — the author of a short story collection: “Miracles of the Flesh” — a member of the 1996 San Francisco Poetry Slam team — the director of a San Francisco theater called, “Grasshopper Palace” — & he’s presently working on a spoken word CD entitled: “The Whole World Lives in My Bedroom “

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

der Fater und der Feminist

Dear Poppa — it’s okay that you invited me & my fiance over for dinner —
but I told you, “she’s a feminist” — remember?

Poppa, it’s friendly & amusing that you gave her a big hug & a kiss
& you shrieked, “this one’s cute! I’m glad we’re gonna keep her!”
— dear Poppa, I warned you — why don’t you listen?

it’s clever that you got me to help Mama make a cole slaw
while you kidnapped my fiance —
you took her for a stroll in the orchard
with your paw firm around her & your cane waving stiffly ahead

Poppa, she says it’s okay
that you talked incessantly about your prostate condition
teling her that you’ll never lose yours
because, “a man without a gland is not a man”
it’s intimate, Poppa, but alright — just remember — I’m marrying her,  not
you —

dear Poppa, it’s even acceptable that you inquired about our sex life —
you told her that you produced 7 children & 3 miscarriages
& you said, “horniness runs in the genes, right?”

she laughed when you said that — my fiance, the feminist —
but she did think you were rather forward for a father-in-law
when you turned on the jacuzzi & yelled, “clothing verboten!”
she says you had a grin on your face like a rutting wild boar

she ran back to the house then — troubled but silent —
you trailed her — your red face wheezing —
you proceeded to guzzle your 6-pack of Heineken

dear Poppa — I believe if pot roast was served, or meatloaf, or ham —
the meal would not have been ruined —
but the entree, unfortunately, was the arched & bulging Bratwurst sausage
one on a plate with a wad of mustard

Poppa, you were swimming in Heineken then — lost in nostalgia
remembering when your prostate was strong & Mama turned you on

my fiance — the feminist — eats quick when she’s nervous
— she gobbled her sausage —
dear Poppa — you were clearly overboard when you looked up leering & said, 
“you can chomp on mine next, schnookie-liebschen!”

my fiance, the feminist — she picked up the Bavarian crockpot
— she circled the table, she dumped the steaming saurkraut into your lap

dear Poppa, she’s sorry the trauma agitated your prostate —
but she’s stubborn, she means it — it’s her special day —

you can’t come to our wedding
unless you wear a strait-jacket & a gag in your mouth

Shoshona, My Wife

I inhale the air that seeps out of your nostrils:
sinus wind escaping the caverns near your brain
I lick your agate eyes bobbing in grottos of salt
I nibble the seashell architecture of your ears
I gnaw your amphibious lips

Shoshona, my wife, I swim in the vapour of your damp mahogany lungs
I stroke the lattice of your ribcage & nuzzle your mammalian chest
I groan with your organs that labor with obscene & mysterious functions
I slobber on your silent, confident legs, I drool on your feet twitching like
puppies
your hips are the delicate handles of a porcelin vessel –
I lift them & drink from the oasis of your groin

I envy your underwear, Shoshona
I envy the follicles in your armpit
the benign polyp in your fallopian tube
I envy the lint in your navel — the plaque of your molars
the scum in your eyes in the morning

I want to be tiny, Shoshona
squirt me past your epidermis into the rivulets of your arteries
I will dwell in the ashram of a single cell
meditating forever on the perfect harmony of your DNA

Shoshona, I want to grow haggard & infinite with you
with leathery skin, like a turtle
my fingers are blind men — you are the Braille
my brain is a wild kitten, you are my kibble, my lamb/liver canned
combination

Shoshona, I was a cadaver, I was ash, I was rust
you ressurected me with your cinnamon-kiss, your olive oil tongue
I was a bursting blueberry, you embraced me & I fell, fearless of thorns &
the earth
now I devour you like a starving man, face in the soup bowl, slurping the
broth

inside you Shoshona, I am a rodent adoring a rainbow
I am a squid making love to a mermaid
after our love-I am as placid as a primordial pond —
as content as an expended volcano

my lust for you is ancient, Shoshona — before nebulae flickered
& comets bobsledded, their heads covered in ice
in the genesis, when Cosmos was explosive & solitary
burning into itself, wrathful, confused –

my ache, Shoshona, is the same terrible suffering as the original lonely
Universe
& my smile now-in your arms — is the ecstacy of the Big Bang itself
dissolved-I am everywhere — we are energy, motion & matter

this is all true, Shoshona, my dear wife, but still, really –
I find it annoying the way you pick at your cuticles until they start
bleeding
and please, honest-to-God-it’s driving my crazy –
can you just close the door, when you sit on the toilet?

Boob Request

Taylor, you’re the human slime, once again —

Taylor, I understand that you need religion —
I got no gripe with your powerful Buddha
Taylor, it’s fine that you chant, “namu myoho renge kyo, namu myoho renge
kyo”
every man mumbles with his Maker — what you say is none of my business

Taylor, it’s wise that you chant for a woman to love you
— you do need indeed some spiritual help with that —
I was impressed with the customer service of your Renge Buddha
who quickly complied with your request, but — damn!
I was indeed distraught & surprised that the victim turned out to be
my innocent tennis partner — Yoko Kinomo —

in hindsight, though, it makes all sense —
only a Japanese person would comprehend the magic words,
“namu myoho renge kyo” & thus, bid heed the call

Taylor, I was worried about Yoko Kinomo being your lady —
you being the human slime & all —
& now, with Myoho Buddha pitching for you — you’re capable of astounding
scum

Taylor, when I saw you drunk in the park, chanting
“namu myoho mammary yoko, namu myoho mammary yoko”
I asked why you altered the prayer & you explained
that you were chanting for the enhancement of Yoko’s breasts
’cause she had small & you wanted large —

I thought then no Deity in a sensible universe would listen to your boob
request
but your Buddha’s a deep-cup fan himself I ‘spose
’cause all of a sudden Yoko starts swallowing birth control pills
her breasts bloom huge with estrogen — they’re flopping into her tennis
serve, slamming a halt to her forehand followthrough

Taylor, you say you’ve entered eroto-heaven —
you say you got paradise in bed — but I know —
you being the human slime & all you’ll get caught in a greasy act

Taylor — it happened — Yoko Kinomo is at my house right now —
she’s jumping ’round & round in rage
she spied on you at 6 am this morn —
you thought she was asleep but she was watching you —

you were in the kitchen crushing estrogen pills into powder —
stirring them into her cottage cheese — your greed was going after a
Double-E
that’s why she ran out the door on you —

Taylor — you can chant “namu myohoho-hoho” all you want to —
Yoko Kinomo is never ever coming back —
she’s praying now — to the Purifying & Compassionate Sun-Goddess Amaterasu

Taylor, it’s over — slime lives only in the dark & wet —
it shrivels in the light of the Highest Power

Wally Richard
Walleee@aol.com
http://users.aol.com/walleee/index.htm

Bio(auto)

A popular, Los Angeles, performance poet An accomplished writer and teller of poetic stories Lives with his aussie shepherd “Lili” and his no good, rotten cat, “Cinco de Mayo” The three are very close and reside in the lovely San Fernando Valley of sunny Southern Calif He has been published in many local poetry journals and is featured, recurrently, at several of the many poetry venues in and around the Los Angeles area.

His audience appeal continues to spread .

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

This Friend

“Thank heaven for little girls For little girls get bigger every day “

* One of Chavalier’s grand thoughts


I have this friend this trim, lovely friend Who attracts men like flies Like flies at a pancake breakfast
in the warm, morning sunlight
She reminds me, in– some way of my own unwary daughter My– gorgeous, enchanted, unwary daughter,
my baby-girl– my angel
I have this similar, daughter-like, feel for my friend
With one slight distinction– just one little spoonful of incest,
Gnawing, far in the background of living Way out, in rightfield, in the tall grass.


Both have this marvellous covering of– irridescence,
Both some magnificent inner– illumination
Which casts its splendor out
Past the– footlights of skin
Past my daughter’s peach-like, creamy, olive glow Past my friends olive, creamy, peach-like glow Textured smooth Like delicate, flowing silk,
Radiating quality to the world
Radiating an unassuming warmth to passers by
With an emerging– vulnerability
That, at once, captures and brings out
The Don Quixote in all the flies
Radiant energy is the honey
Which attracts all of the flies Luminescence is the– syrup
Hypnotizing all the flies into slow motion
Struggling to get closer Yet ,
Striving to escape the– silken net Wonderous-strange Intoxicating No ? ?

The Artful Ingenue
   ( I was impressed )

She walked, she sauntered, she swung up to the podium She was tallish, she was leanish, she was put togetherish Surely not a mean bone in that lovely bod An angelic demeanor A tad on the schoolmarmish side one “tiny” tad Picture Sharon Stone’s little sister in wire frames With such soft, sweet, poetic thoughts
An almost delicate, saintly air
But holy shit, guys, what that girl did to a former lover I’m here to tell you her words, without speculation, 
Would deball any of us in two shakes of a lambs tail And we wouldn’t even suspect Don’t I repeat don’t ever cross this girl
She can She will with no hesitation in alphatical order
Atomize your anus Jellify your genitals
Abuse your balls Guillotine your gonads
Blister your butt Penalize your pecker
Cauterize your cock Parody your penis
Castigate your candle Rip your rocks
Crucify your crotch Stomp your stones
Decapitate your dick Squeegee your scrotum
Electricute your eggs Tromp your testes
Phry your phallus Whomp your wick
Flog your family jewels And zap your gazingies

God !! That girl ! Got great capabilities
that girl


In The Eye of My Mind
(A Burnt Offering On the Alter of Lust)


These are the times that twist men’s souls When I wish I were a few years younger,
or, my physical indurance
were as everlasting and enthusiastic
as my emotional desire
I am acquainted with a poet A refreshing, terribly attractive poet,
magnificently honest in her prose,
who scribbles some very personal stuff,
who sensualizes every written word,
every written phrase
Which is more than a bit frustrating
To those of us who have become
somewhat less secure
with a passing of the years

Furthermore, this poet’s intonation
To her captivated listeners,
this poet’s body language
to her palpitating viewers,
Undulates, unconsciously, 
with each savory word Grinds out, unconsciously,
with every succulent phrase
To the delight of her, unconsciously,
spellbound audience
Usually, in these times, the wistful thought is–
“If I were only younger, if you were only older “
That hackneyed image will not suffice You need never get older in my mind Live, always, as sensual,
as lovely as you are
And I will turn back the years of my mind And in the eye of my mind We will wrestle wildly, passionately
from the podium to the floor
to the laps of the front row
then back to the top of the podium Right here in front of God and everyone
Right here in my mind’s eye.