My Work My Love

From Dane's Desk

Thought I might start a new page where I can share some of my own work with the community at large. These are a combination of excerpts and complete pieces. Some of them are done as exercises to sharpen my own skills and craft and some of them are parts of completed works already out to publishers or works that are on their way to completion.

Mostly they are here to share with you and perhaps get your comments and feedback. I thought, as most of what I have published in the past was poetry, that I would start here in that medium. As I said, some of what I will put here is in the realm of expanding my own art and skill and with that in mind I have, first, two Haiku followed by two Nonets. Enjoy!

Reflection

Lilly dotted pool

Pines growing up, growing down

From a common root

The Geese

Foggy morning chill

Goose calls passing overhead

On unseen gray wings

ZEN?

The Buddhist Atheist walks homeward

Sandals tapping sutras on heels

Dust touched by all touching not

To touch all again once

Before settling there

On thin bent toes

Bending steps

Pausing

Here

Wired

Ink wash dots arrayed against heaven

Linear gray monotone score

Circumstantial arrangement

Upon a light blue page

Above the traffic

And life's passage

Perch and coo

Pigeon

Song

These are the opening couple of pages to a work I've just sent out this past weekend. The title I put to it was " No Humans Involved ". No, it's not sci/fi but a gritty bit of slice of life with more than a hint of satire and irony. If the whole thing sees the light of day I'll be sure to let you know where. Until then, enjoy and, as always, I welcome comment and critique or just a note to say hi.

Dane F. Baylis

 

“Barkeep! Yo, Lester!”

Lester looked up from his newspaper and sighed. Picking up a towel he started towards the end of the bar, pausing along the way to clear away empties and refill other patron’s drinks.

            “Innkeeper,” the voice insisted, followed by the slap of a hand on the bar’s mahogany.
             “Keep your shirt on Benny,” Lester chided. “You ain’t the only one here.”
            “Well I was almost the only one here three hours ago and you weren’t no faster then,” the skinny figure at the end of the bar quipped.
            “Yeah, well you keep busting my chops and it could get awful thirsty down that end.” Benny lifted his hands in mock submission, his head bobbed a bit uncertainly. Without the solid wood of the bar to steady him he tipped into his neighbor, causing him to slosh beer down his chin.
            Looking down at the spreading wet stain on the shapeless front of his grimy tee shirt all the offended party could do was mumble, “Hey! What the hey, Benny!”
            Leaning against the bar for support Benny looked at the damage, then slurred, “Ya gotta be more careful there Rog. Jeez, yer makin’ a mess a yourself.”
            By now Lester had reached their end of the bar and, after clearing away empty beer bottles and shot glasses, mopped at the rings of condensation they left behind. The sun had been down for over an hour but the day’s humid warmth hadn’t relinquished its grip and it made him wish for the hundredth time that Tommy O would install air conditioning. Without looking up he asked, “What’ll it be?”
            
              Benny pushed a pile of loose change towards him, “Another round around, por favor, Senor?”
             “Two beers, two shots. No expense spared,” Lester’s voice carried a sarcastic edge as he reached for the bar brand whiskey. Seeing that Roger was trying to mop his shirt with a damp cocktail napkin Lester handed him a dry bar rag. “Miss your mouth there, Sport?”
             “Naw. That clumsy bastard,”Roger jerked a thumb towards Benny, “run into me and then doesn’t even offer a‘scuse me or by your leave or nothing.”
             A hoarse female voice mumbled from Roger’s left side, “That clumsy bastard.”
             Lester turned his attention to Mary Lynch who, if it was possible, was wearing an even grubbier and baggier tee shirt than her companion, and admonished her, “That’s a bit harsh, there, Mary. Let’s try to keep one foot out of the gutter. Okay?”
             “Yeah, sure thing, Lester,”she slurred, showing the bartender the extended middle finger of her left hand.
              Lester’s eyebrows shot up and he pointed a menacing finger at Mary but Roger reached around her and pushed her hand below the edge of the bar. “She don’t mean nothing by that, Les. Do me a favor and get a taste for my honey here, okay?”
             Lester didn’t take his eyes of the woman as he replied, “One more round. If she starts getting nasty or mouthing off though, I’ll eighty-six both of you.”
             Still holding Mary’s hand out of sight, Roger replied, “It‘s okay. I got it handled, Sport.”
             Benny nudged Roger, “Keep an eye on the piggy bank.” He handed over a
rolled up potato chip bag. “I gotta hit the whizzer.”
             Lester came back with the beers. “That’s a buck and a half each for the brews and two each for the booze. Ten fifty total.”
             Roger counted out eight singles and a couple of quarters from the pile on the bar. Pushing this towards the barman he paused as if considering the significance of the transaction. Then, unrolling the top of the potato chip bag, he reached in and pulled out two more singles, shaking off some loose crumbs before adding them to the pile.
             “There you are, Chief. Cash on the nail.” Carefully, he rolled the top of the bag closed and set his elbow on top of it.
             “You know, Rog, a wallet might be a little more sanitary,” the barman suggested as he took the cash, giving the bills an extra shake for good measure. He had a look like he wanted to say something else but changed his mind.
             Mary poked at the bag, “So how come you got your dough in the bag?”
             “So nobody knows where we got it.”
             “Where you got it? It’s right there. Everybody can see where you got it.”
             “Naw. Benny says if we keep it in the bag nobody knows where we got it.”
             “What’a ya saying? Right there’s where you got it.”
              “Jeez, you can be so thick when you got a snoot full. Not where we got it here. Where we got it from.”
              Mary mulled this over for a moment, “Right. Whatever. I think maybe you’re a bit tipsy?”
              Benny’s voice came from behind them, “Listen to the pot calling the kettle black.”

            

                                                                  

Idle Ink



                                                     I think about the things long done,

                                                     So many others just begun.

                                                     Blazing triumphs and tragedies,

                                                     So gently fade from memory.

                                                     Or simply lay in idle ink,

                                                     No bond nor joint nor delicate link.

                                                     To carry them along in time,

                                                     Or else recall they once were mine.

                        

                                     

It's All Terminal

That's the one thing

No one gets out

Alive.

Coming in

Screaming and shaking

Living

Loving

Marrying

Breeding

And breeding and breeding and

Wondering what it was

You felt

About?

Small things

A job with perks

New car

Every couple of years

Someone who calls

Or visits

Or says you can

Still be friends

At least on the holidays.

Dignity

Going out

To an anonymous

Stone

Among other

Forgotten stones.

Your manicured spot

In the country.

Autumn Reaches Down

Brittle breeze
Slides from winter’s

Mountain

Across the valley

Down canyons

Wearing

Death’s cold glove

This invisible

River over a river

Brushing

Sycamores and Cottonwoods

Into shivering gold

Cascading a thousand

Seer brown

Scatter leaf canoes

That drown

Without touching

Angel City’s

Forever summer beach.

Brood


Swimming across the sky
Wood duck hen leads her brood
Wake dividing clouds.

Santa Anna Thanksgiving

Cold wind

From the west

Sending the news

Snow should be

Sneaking down the street

Except

Where it's just

A border

Around sand

Sea

Santa Anna arid

Thanksgiving lies.

Carpenteria Afternoon

Left coast

Dissolving gray

Mist

Swallowing islands

Ocean

Surf

Gone

Leaving

Tumble roll

Sounds

Invisibly washing

Beach and jogger

Beneath

Red umbrella.

Conceptions

The muse is

A whore

Giving herself

To everyone

With a pen

Cooing

Lies about

Fidelity

Tomorrow

Inspiration delivered

Like the sincerity of

Horseshit on roses.

Fame is

A prostitute

Who will only stay

When

The minutes

Are paid for

With

Raisin dry remains

Of my testicles

Inevitably

All that's left

In the strong

Sunlight praises.

I have been

A coward

Before both

Hiding

In my garden

Sipping coffee

Tending tomatoes

Worrying

If I would

Ever get it

Up again

For either.

I have been

That eunuch.

Toast on the Side

Ham and eggs

Black coffee

Toast on the side

Looking back

From the last day

This year

To the next

Of existence

Another three o'clock

With her butt

Tucked where

I would sorely

Miss it

Is all this

And more

Yet

Far less

That has kept me

From sliding away

To where

Meals are served in trashcans

Love is a handout

The only words left

Being

Please and why

And I'm already

Convinced

The second is the answer

To the spinning

Of galaxies

Through

Too familiar

No boundaried

Black

I stagger into

Relieving myself

Against a wall

The immense feel

Of simple

Physical satisfaction

Is perhaps

As encompassing as

Ham and eggs

Black coffee

Toast on the side.

What Does This Mean?

It means

Tear it out

Tear it up

Or hide it

Between the mattress

And the box spring

With all the hidden pictures

Of other desires

You can't possess

Or

Tack it to your wall

Poor man's crucifixion

Then accept reality

There are no resurrections

Better yet

Just take it outside

And burn it

Let it go back

To the hot beginning

Before your feelings

Cooled enough

For formulations of

The unanswerable

I can only tell you

What this meant

You own it now

So tell me

What does this mean?

SORRY SOIREE

I opened the door knowing in advance this wouldn’t be an easy evening. It never is when they show up wanting to talk about poetry. What’s to talk about? Better to spend time buried in the sad state of pugilism or the gutlessness of alt rock or drowning in the takeover of all government functions by both ends of the lunatic fringe. That kind of discourse can keep me awake and enervated for days, filling pages with honest ideas devoid of solutions. Talking about poetry only gives status to bastard solutions devoid of honest ideas.

What was I supposed to do? I’d posted my real address, instead of my P.O. Box, on some forum and he’d seen it. Once, sometimes twice a week, a letter from him turned up in the mail. They were always steeped in fawning praise and real bullshit about my visionary insight. Crap! I’m first to admit to being delusional at best and barely lucid only occasionally.

Sometimes he reinforces his case with emails. All of this intrudes on time when my own ideas want me. Unfortunately, I try to answer everything he sends whether it’s digital – Which really irks me as lazy – Or involves physically laying pen to paper which impresses me because I assume I’m the last troglodyte still long handing his thoughts. Not that it matters!

His letters showed up with grinding regularity and he openly wondered if I’d look at his work? Right away I was trying to weasel my way out of this thing I’d made no commitment to in the first place. That’s how it starts…They want you to take time away from your own work. Then they want your honest opinion, which is a bald-faced lie. The minute I get honest about some overly wordy bit of adolescent angst he’ll want to nail my testicles to a blog page, any opinion or suggestion being evidence of my jealous failure and over the hill bile stifling his ascendancy.

Like I give a malignant rat’s ass whether I’ve lost it or not? The world may be right and I veered off two decades back…Or it just could be the glorious inverse, and I’d taken eighteen years to measure the content of my own heart and soul. This is no small matter. It’s comparable to Augustine or Van Gogh crawling around in the gutter looking for answers and being content with hints. I have prevailed over myself and I don’t expect anyone to appreciate what a messy damn thing that is.

But here he is, a sheaf of papers under one arm and a six pack under the other, as if that will even begin to grease the slide into hell he’s attempting. Thank god I’ve kept the day job! Wandering into the kitchen with the aspiring poet in tow, I break out a bottle of top shelf rye and a couple of glasses. He doesn’t have the somewhat seedy demeanor of a professional drinker. With a bit of luck and some clever avoidance I might be able to divert anything to do with the merits, or lack of, in those pages and get him on to something really creative…Like lying about women. Anyway, I know how the plot develops. I end up sleeping on the couch while he snores up a hangover in my bed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

STICK BALL

by

Dane F. Baylis

"This one's over the freakin' line!"

"Your ass is over the line!"

"So's your mother's."

"Hey! Don't be sayin' shit about someones mother!"

 The rules were written

In sunshine blasted strips

Between the blocks

Of deep tenement shadows

In the side streets

Off the busy avenues

In clean white t-shirts

Stretched over hairless chests

In the sound of life

In the neighborhood.

 "Hey, Diane! Those yours or d'they come with the sweater?"

"Screw you, Ricky!"

"I can only hope."

"Play the game, scumbag!"

Tight blue jeans

Filter tips

And a six pack of Bud'

Under the bushes

The sweet taste of

Impending manhood

Girls in knots

With slender tan legs

Dancing short skirts

Their smiles swirling

Noon sun on windshields.

"Hey, Angie! Dance at the K of C on Friday?"

"Can't do it, Sean."

"Your ol' man still pissed?"

"He's gonna kick your ass!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

In spray paint

On school yard pavement

In the hot sun

On rooftop tar

In the sweat of young bodies

In secret places.

In promises

And lies

And hidden tears

And dreams of getting

Out of here.

 "Jacky...!"

"John T. Devlin!"

"In a minute, Ma!"

"Right now, Young Man!"

"Throw the ball ya lame-o!"

 All of it

Written in the sting

The palm buzzing vibration

Of a stick ball bat

Your heart racing

Chasing that half-ball

In a clean

Long

Hard driven arch

Out over the freakin' line

Because your dreams

Of sports cars

And houses on the North Shore

Are out there

Beyond the second manhole cover

In the home run zone

And are alive in the brag

That hides the knowing

The not knowing

If it was you

Or just the way it was written

In the rules

In the sunshine blasted strips

Between the blocks

Of deep tenement shadows

In the side streets

Off the busy avenues.

LAUNDORAMA

by

Dane F. Baylis

Standing in the back

Of the Cambridge Street Laundorama

Yesterday's "Boston Globe"

Draped from the waistband

Of my underwear

My modesty

Guarded by the world's tragedy

Reflected in the porcelain and chrome

Of this coin operated confessional

Where a city

Washes away its stain

And everything I own

Tumbles over itself

As wrinkled and damp

As the fat old woman

Who is holding my clothes

Hostage for a back rent ransom

Because I cannot get drunk enough

To do like the fey young men

Who live upstairs

And work off their debts

In her creaking bed

Then rush to the communal bathroom

To wash away the memory of that tariff.

We're really not so different

I guess

Washing our agony

In sacraments of Clorox

And poetry

And writing

A fat old woman's phone number

On a laundromat wall.

THE MOST TOYS

by

Dane F. Baylis

Cute sayings annoy me

"He who dies with the most toys wins?"

Has any one given consideration to

"He who dies with the most toys is still dead?"

Is he

More comfortably dead?

Feeding a higher class of worms dead?

Bones bleached whiter dead?

Better dead than

A Skid Row wino

Lying beneath weeds

In a nameless potter's field dead?

Perhaps you're just survived by

Other "Most Toys" boys,

Sweating how long

They'll have

To enjoy the most toys

Left behind?

UNTITLED 2/19/13

by

Dane F. Baylis

    I’ll be honest

This isn’t about you

Even if you’re reading it

In your darkened room

Enjoying

Just you.

The fame thing?

It’s over rated

Strangers standing there

Speaking candied falsities

A second before you

Become the focus.

It’s harder to be a counterfeiter

Or cop

Or drunken neurosurgeon

Poets are just

Petty thieves

Flashing down like crows

Stealing shiny baubles.

The best ideas

Are just lying there

In the newspaper

On the table

Available as inebriated barflies

Willing to give it up

For a pack of smokes

Or a shot and a beer.

When morning comes around

You will lie in bed

Smelling the pillows

Then make up lies

Of passionate desolation

That you will imprison

In bottom drawer dungeons.

Later

You will stand at the podium

Clasp your breast and sob

“All of my best moments

Are as degenerate

As Easter

Amongst the Spanish flagellants

Raking off flesh

With spiked chain flails

In my deepest heart

I cry for clarity

And long to lick their wounds.”

SAD DADS

 

by

Dane F. Baylis

The sad dads sit

Thin gray shadows

On Sunday playground benches.

Watching weekend children

Whirling

From swing

To slide

To sandbox.

Cyclone laughter

Spinning around

A carousel empire

Weaving sunlight make believe

Into sparrow chatter voices.

Fading to memories

Across empty rooms

Of sad dad lives

The shape

Of a familiar

Silhouette

Turns a stranger's face.

You wonder

Where intimacy goes

When the playground

Is closed.