sungsang

late night concrete parking lot floor cold
synthesized orchestra ancient thai xylophone drums warm
retro dreads classic long hair glorious young beauties
arizona gas money needed for oregon
musical paradise laidbackness
with skate borders providing dissonant backdrops

i asked the girl beside who was playing
his impromptu concerto of spiritual song
i forget - i forget she said
but in the moment it didn't matter

sungsang - it's one word the clarinetist later told me
if that's what you call an electroincial gizomized magic stick player
the pied piper could only dream about
but only on days with too much sunshine and just enough wine
and his fill of well fed laughing children

ON BEING A POET

You hope that the muse gives you something to say

Something erstwhile and worthwhile and good

And if she should speak

You will write well that day

Just like a good poet should

But if she won’t speak

If she’s nothing to say

You sit and you stare at the wall

You would sacrifice a child

Or a lamb or a goat

If it would just make her call

One must avoid triteness

While aiming for brightness

And please don’t sound like the bard

The reader won’t know

You’ve ripped out your soul

And are spilling your guts by the yard

It’s not easy to be green

I’ve heard poor Kermit lament

Well I suggest he try his hand at verse

Where I know on his street

He couldn’t pay the rent

That is the poor poet’s curse

Sometimes I think I’ll get a beret

Or a scarf

To wear so gaily

But generally I wait for the muse to speak

For that is what poets do daily

Chafing and Bloating

He hadn't actually intended to reveal so much to strangers.  He thought he was speaking to a confident.  Someone to whom one could share his secrets.

She had, after all, seen him naked, sick, happy and sad.  She had nursed him back to health and she had dyed his hair twice.  Green for St. Patty's day, and orange to bring the Giants good luck.  It had worked too, for the Giants won the world series that year.

But this illusion of personal propriety.  This status of trusted confident was vanquished.  If only he hadn't shared his problem of chafing.

"You're what?"  She asked rather loudly he thought.  They were after all, walking down 18th Street towards Mission.  Because the locals weren't able to tolerate anything above 70 degrees,the streets were full of hot sweaty families and their thirsty dogs.

"I'm chafing."  He said.  A bit more quietly, leaning in like she'd taught him.  He was sending her the secret signal for intimacy as previously instructed.  It was their code for me talking to you wanting love, or so he thought.

"Your chafing!"  She said even louder as everyone on the sidewalk looked at him.  When she had everyone's attention she delivered the coup d'etat.  "Are you feeling bloated too honey?"  She smirked and laughed.

But she was laughing at him not with him and he knew then and there, on 18th Street heading towards Mission, that their relationship would end.  He included new retirement plans to his speculation about the benefits of baby powder products.

DRAGON FLY

ancient
flitting
bug eyed
shimmery gossamer
hued green
buzzing almost silently
it's greatest grandparent
a thousand fold older than mine
we're far too young to have learned to fly

I AM AN ASSHOLE

Before you award me with ribbons,
before you engrave me a plaque,
I want you to know it came natural,
I was born an asshole in fact.

I yelled at the doctor who slapped me.
I yelled at the nurses it seems.
I took up the room for two hours or more,
and used up the gauze by the reams.

Upon entering school my plight worsened.
My teachers all thought me a cad.
They would draw straws to see
who was the teach of me,
and the short straw was the teacher I had.

I entered the workforce with guts,
but the boss that hired me went nuts.
I'm a challenge un-sweet to all that I meet.
That's why my carer's in these ruts.

Looking for love is a challenge,
weather I'm up or I'm down.
No matter how I should smile,
my face always looks like a frown.

Where will I go to retire?
Where shall I lay my head?
Everyone that knew me,
and they're sure they saw through me,
will secretly hope that I'm dead.

When St. Peter greets me in heaven,
he'll inform me it's true that I'm bad.
But I'll be the asshole in heaven
and St. Pete and I will be glad.







Kevin C. Watkins - copyright 2011

What Life Has Revealed To Me

there were some wonderful days
the day i graduated from college
i was so happy several people
asked me if i was high
or on drugs

no i said
i'm happy
i just graduated from college for pete's sake

there were the two surprise birthday parties
the only two birthday parties
one arranged by a boy named michael
one by a friend tiffany from school
she drove all the way back from kansas city
her homemade spice cake and frosting were made all the more especial
i loathe spice cake and love the memory

there was the day my third grade student cried
he said i
his favroiatest teacher in the whole world
wouldn't love him anymore because he was gay
i told him i loved him even more now
as if i could have loved him more

there were some lovely days
sadly the were well spaced between
heartbreaks and tragedies
between the taxes and corporations
between deaths and divorces

there were some wonderful days
mostly however
the things that were revealed to me
included not looking too closely at the homeless
least you catch poverty
like a cold

it was told to me
that one should stop
and smell roses
but when you do
people think you are crazy
or that you are about to pick them
without permission

they said that the children should lead them
but the children were told
they should be seen
and not heard

they said that the grass was always greener
on the other side of the fence
but I discovered
through simple observation
that the grass is almost
always the exact same color
no matter which
side of the fence
you are standing on
it all has to do
with the angle of the
sun's own light

the gay man from sunday
said he had
never been discriminated against
by the church

when did you marry that man
you said you loved so much
where were the
it's ok to be gay
sunday school teachers
where were the
it's ok to be gay
sunday school lessons
when did they condescend
to allow you to hold hands
like the other couples do

no they discriminated
in ten thousand different ways
in big was
in small ways
in all ways

they told him in  ten thousand
ten thousand different ways
you are not of worth
you are less than

there were some good days
some brilliant days
with intelligent conversations
with actual philosophers
but mostly life has
revealed to me
my nation and faith don't
by - and - by
put much value in thinking

it's considered
if it were ever considered
threatening to the status quo
thinking is boat rocking
boat rocking is not tolerated

you will silently
be complicit
in the lie
the lie of equality
the lie of worthiness of all
or you will have to go

because we, "want the church back for the church"
pastor jamie will tell you
before he tells you of the hate
how he hates you
how he hates the church
then he breathes in
and pretends
to
be
a
friend
but you will have to go

and when you cry out
to Ron Smith
the top preacher
when you point out the lies
when you point out his lies
"oh well" is all he will say
that is the depth and breath
of his sacred ministry
"oh well" are his exact words

we hate your message so much
your instance on truth
we will condemn the form of delivery
said pastor midgorden
just before he asks
"what are gay people to us"

you will have to go
we don't like that example of thought
thinking simply will not do

there have been some wonderful days
some gloriously fabulous days
the miracle of my son's birth
catching his slimy body
when his mother pushed him out
the bloody blind screaming
quivering mass
that refused to look at me
untill three days later
when he did look
and i could see
he was only half
as afraid
me

this was overshadowed
by his dying in my arms
murdered by a drunk driver
"why daddy"
his very last words

i had no answers then
i have no answers now

there have only ever been
unanswered questions
and we can all see
the good they've done

His Prize Possession

His prize possession is an exquisitely constructed Japanese cricket cage.
It is so special, sooo VERY special, that he keeps it in a box.
He keeps that box in a locked cabinet half-way hidden behind his chair.

"Look!"  He will exclaim, after the ritual of the unveiling.
After moving the chair and with a certain kind of gleam you haven't seen on any one's face in such a long time, and after he reveals the key's secret hiding place.  After opening  the first box, and after placing the ancient cricket cage before you.

"Look!"  He will exclaim.  "Not a drop of glue, not a hint of a nail or brad!"
"The art isn't in the object itself.  The art is in the making of it." 
It's important to him that you understand this part.  This is the teacher's lesson.

Although the ratty thing looks to be about a thousand years old.
And even though it's constructed out of slivers of bamboo thinner than tooth picks.
And even though there isn't a drop of glue not a hit of a nail or a brad.
He will astound you when he leaps up doing a perfect handstand on top of the little thing.
His feet will stretch towards the ceiling and he will wiggle his toes in a most curious manner.
He then informs you that couldn't, just simply could not ever fit back into his cage again.

He will tell you of the songs of the cricket.
He will tell you that those songs are lodged in his soul.
He will tell you of the secret prayers of crickets.
He will tell you that crickets pray for the same things and you or I.
To stand free, on top of your cage and look for drops of glue or hints of nails or brads.