The Poetry of Max Burbank: Part 8
by: Max Burbank

INTROSPECTION

Untold joy!
To see the hilarious dance of the Organ
Grinder's Monkey with Brittle Bone Disease!
Capering, fracturing, flailing
Its little tin cup!

Laugh 'till it hurts! But
At least its
Still laughter

THAT DAMN FINE LINE

Samovar Cactus,
I'll drink your scalding Russo Mexicali coffee
Straight from the spigot
If that's what you want.
Let my esophagus poach!

Go all crazy Lycanthropic and shit!
Throw down with some
Spanish monkey where the golf course
Turns to scrub and dry wash
Just beyond the
Halo of the sprinkler
System.
I'll do it.

Samurai Cactus,
That's a different thing entire
And ludicrous to boot.
Wooden nickel gim crack
Bullshit is what and an insult.
Wise up next time!
Don't be fooled. It takes
A keen eye
Is all.
You'll get there.

CUBICLE APE

Open the cast iron
Door of the wood stove,
Hear that nearly silent roar
As the fire eats the air
You just let in and
Grabs for more.

Only a putz
Would stick his wiener
In there

And yet we
Do it day after
Day after don't
We day?

WITCH CITY

Iron Dave the Rat bastard
Only tells the truth and
Can be found shirtless
In the pool hall any
Friday night.
He had that full sleeve tattoo
Before any old asshole went
And got 'em on impulse all over
Like a fad haircut or bellbottom jeans you
Could just chuck the second they
Went out of fashion.
Retards ruin everything eventually
But Dave has not noticed.
He's been standing there dimly lit
predicting the physics of
A particular bank shot since
1978 and I
avoid him like the plague
out of respect.

A block away behind
The Witch Museum
Drifts of disaffected teens pile up
Like leaves, newspaper and garbage
Knowing shit all nothing beyond
A torn black hoodie and an attitude.

And Look! A Flock
Of tourists
On a Ghost Tour, each
One with a candle of their own;
The Docent with a lantern. I'd
Like to walk among them and make
Spooky noises
But Dave
Would slap my head.
"Let 'em, let 'em, let 'em,
What's it to you anyway you
God damn snarky dip stick?" he'd
Say which is why
I stay away from him.
He doesn't like to let me
Have my fun, or more
Precisely, points
Out that my fun
Is cheap and thin and easy, like
A trick sandwich filled
With sticks.

He's never read Nathaniel Hawthorne and
Neither have I, but I might
Tell you that I had and
Summarize the finer points
Of several lesser works,
'The Marble Fawn' for one;
Which is why, I guess
He won't shoot pool with me.
But the truth is I don't have the sack
To ask a game because he's brutal and no
Fun at all.

Oh, it's always Halloween here
If you want to buy a T-shirt,
But I'm okay
With Halloween
And so is Dave for
That matter. On that
Much we agree, I guess
Although I've never asked him.

He's still standing there
Available in the corner
Figuring the angle on a chipped striped ball.
There's a pay phone but it isn't
Like I'm going to call.
He's my best friend, Iron Dave
And how I hate him,
Damn rat Bastard
Of the Pool Hall.

APALACHIAN HAIKU

At the Hootenanny
I punched Cletus in the face
Because I could.

PEDIGREE

Their Old Man strung
up a million
Lights in the attic,
Bare bulbs dangling, entwined,
Looping vines of tiny Christmas lights,
Incandescent curtains of wire and glass like
Hanging drifts of Spanish Moss you had to claw
Your way through to reach
The old clothes, forgotten toys, tennis racquets with
The catgut long gone sprung.

He built the basement up
With layered stacks of flares and
Candles, kelp forest of gas lanterns
Swaying on poles, clustering under
Exposed and rotting latticework
Leering out like lit up crab eyes from
A skree of rusty and abandoned tools, old paint
Cans and whatnots of grease rag and cobweb
Threatening to send the whole damn place up
Any moment.

On other landings
Life got lived,
A normality sandwich of kitchens and
Bedrooms between
Two slices of ecstatic, moldy
Bread. Windows you could see out of and into let
Out Little hint of the
Great Works that ground on inside.

Without suspecting
any neighbors house
Might squeeze out much the same,
A delicate crop of
Hothouse Genii
Were raised up inside
Mom's domain,
Home schooled little Hot n' Tots.
Eventually shot forth brandishing
Inhalers, bedecked in orthodontic headgear,
Lilting memorized Broadway Cast "King and I"
"Oklahoma", "Annie
Get your gun"
Ready to be beaten
Like Chinese gongs.

ANGER IN THE 'HOOD

Elmo
How the other Muppets must
Hate your ass
Like Pete Best hated the Beatles,
Like all the other X-men must
Be dying to give Wolverine an
Atomic wedgie,
Like six hundred pounds of
Enraged James Doohan
Went to his grave
Cursing William Shatner

You furry red
Bag of crap,
You've ruined
Sesame Street.

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