Thoughts on Phil Ochs

I wish I could have known the man

Not too many liked him then,
Not too many know him now.
Not too many cared enough to hear what he had to say.
But I hear him now.
I hear him now.

ATTENTION

I've been talking with the missing Toadie and we've got some ideas. We want to publish a short collection of the poetry of Starving and Useless and have the authors do a reading. Hopefully I'll hear back from him in a day or two about the cost of publishing and I can let you know how much it will be to get your work in it. The plan is that once we have a published journal, we will organize a reading (we figure that that would be the best way to get people to actually buy them). We are talking about doing it in the Attleboro area, or maybe Providence, but nothing is set in stone. I think this can be pulled off at minimal expense. But, more crucial than the cost, we need to people who want to be published and to read. Reply to this if you want to take part in this or have any ideas.

-FP

A Sonnet

As the moon shines across your face,
I realize that we really won't live forever,
And as there is nothing but this place,
Fear, like love, is also an endeavour,
The fear of losing you because too much,
Too much to drink, too many bottles of wine,
Fear of using you and not it as a crutch,
Fear of pushing too hard or crossing the line,
Or, perhaps I worry that I will pull you in,
Maybe I don't want you to be as I am,
For you are Catholic, and confess when you sin,
I failed at that, and tried again and again,
And watching you sleep, I pour another glass,
And smile because I know soon this will pass.

I Eat Francis Bacon for Breakfast

My father says
That all arts are understood in terms of oratory:
Pick and cater!
Clarity!
I’ve been chastised
For not taking a class in sitcom writing.
I listen to Klaus
And don’t know to laugh or cry.
A speech will not defeat speech.
Only direct!
Only straight!
Emily is crying.
My father has hurt a woman.
He belongs in metaphorical prison
With the ghost of a story
Told under the lamppost of July
And the walking past to an electronics window.
I’ve read a book on Charles Bronson.
Did you know his real name is Buchinsky?
Still, I can’t read prime time
And there’s no point in typing my mouth shut.
Robocop is Burroughs.
It’s all come full circle.

Doves

And all you said was,

'there is a time and

a place to grow up.'

But maybe I did not

want to, maybe if I

acted my age, then life

would become too serious.

I knew how to masquerade, and

play the part of the full-fledged,

but I wasn't ready to

take off my mask of

youth. Perhaps I had to

leave my puerile days too

soon, and this was my

way of not letting go.

Because once it slipped out

of my fingers, that's it,

there would be no going

back. No more ditching plans,

and staying out for days,

no more packs upon packs

of cigarettes just because of

boredom, or lack of better

things to do. That's it,

no more midnight bike rides,

or drinking until dawn in

the park. I could see

all my glorious wasted days,

falling away. Now, it's strange.

Part of me wants to

follow in my father's footsteps,

part of me wants to

be a man like he

is; give everything I can,

and raise my own children,

and be as loving and

selfless to my wife as

he is to my mother.

Part of me wants to

get up when it's still

dark to put food on

the table, and live a

quiet existence, up in the

hills of Maine or Vermont,

with my pen and paper,

stove and axe, while the

other part of me wants

to leave my mark of

existence on society, by doing

nothing, and doing it well.

Part of me wants to

stay in bed, tangled in

the sheets, skin to skin,

all day long; champagne and parliaments,

no responsibilities but to love,

and to be loved. An

existence that says 'I did

what I did.' Maybe those

days will never be quite

over, they will be like

a bird on a wire,

balancing when the wind blows.

The Recipe for Fun

The Racist Space Helmet
is just for show,
in the typical sense.
No guarantee over
cosmic vibrations
and vigilante rays.
It is intended
for the soft, the squishy,
that unrisen dough.
Consider a cookie mold:
a christmas tree
or star, only bigger
and without the violence
of an oven. Perhaps a self-
rising agent is more appropriate—
a hard plastic baking soda—
or ceviche—cold and slow.
Though, anything with cilantro
is a poor example.
No, it must be sweet, for, you see,
toys are always palatable.