Wednesday, September 3, 2008

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING WILL KILL YOU
DON’T LET THE SWEET MILK
SIT IN THE SCORCHING SUN
SO IT COULD SPOIL.
SOME THINK THE SUN WILL
SHED LIGHT ON ONES DAY......
BUT DONʼT LET ALL THAT SHINY SUN
SPOIL YOUR SWEET.

a spankin belt
Loud leather lashes against human hide.
Whips callous soft skin to strengthen your lid.
The strop has not lied nor has it died.
Force fear in the happy heart of a blind being.
To those who beat me: THANKS CRUEL CANARIES!
A nightmare, to stay tender. God forbid!
A stunner, to find that life isnʼt fullaʼ berries.
Belts clear false fruit. What a great corrector.
Itʼs easy to get lost in marry tarries.
Grimness is a trustworthy informer.
You belt me into realtity.
From sappy to strong. A cold reformer.
Ruthlessness is now normality.
In a place that praises brutality.

OUR TERM IS A TUNNEL WE’LL ALL HAVE TO TRAMP
TRY NOT TO TRIP, TRY NOT TO SLIP,
ON ALL THESE HALF-HEADED-NIT-WITS.
DONʼT MEAN TO DISAPPOINT
BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO DASH, DART, AND DEFY
THOSE DOPES THAT DUNCE.
OF COURSE THERE ARE FEATS,
BUT EVEN MORE FOES.
THERE’S NO NEED TO LOOK BACK SO
BUCK THOSE BYGONES
AND BRING IN THE BLISS.


EXCERPT FROM SHORT STORY

Those old haggard fools sit around that radio like they normally would be doing after we play the club on a Friday night; throwing cards around, watching LATE NIGHT BOXING, each one blabbering on about how "If I was fighting I would jab like this and punch like that.." Do they know anything about fighting? No they don’t. They don’t know how it is, going head to head in the ring with a guy who’s tryin’ to crush your nose into the back of your skull. They’re just interested in seeming like they knew what the hell they were talking about; in hopes of seeming like the big cheese, the wisest old geezer out the bunch. I’m stuck at this flat tire they call a club, playing the skins with this pack of hounds tillʼ I come up on some bread. To think that all the dopes across town will be watchin’ me from their metal boxes probably shootin’ the same breeze as these boneheads.

A guy don’t make it big by playing with a bunch of old dogs like these wrinkled raisins. A man needs to able to dart off with some dough and dash off with a dame whenever he pleases. I needa getta wiggle on outta here before this place swallows me in for another sucker: another futz, another fried up flapper, another dried up drugstore cowboy. I’m off my nuts to still be stuck at this grummy, good for nothin’ joint. I need somethin’ to get me outta here, and quick.

We had just finished another gig at the “Cat’s Meow” nightclub. Don’t let the dopey name fool ya, this place is nothin’ more then another two bit juicer serving Dumb-Dora’s and a mound of meat-heads from all across this town. They all try to tell me that the band plays it hot, that "Jack plays the skins as sweet as a shiek." But I ain’t gonna be takin’ no squat that’s comin’ off the cob from any these hooched up nit-wits. All the things that any of these bent up fellas say is bologna anyways. I don’t futz around with any of these fools in this joint. Im here to work for the small change I’m makin’, to eat the free grub, and to shoot down the booze which is scattered across the place.

I get home, late into the night as always. The only reason I stay after I’m finished playin’ that dump is because I don’t even got enough dough to buy some chow for myself. Ever since I’ve been down on the rocks my dog don’t even bark when he hears me get to the door. He looks just as wasted as I feel. When I enter the door he flimsily walks up to me wagging his skinny tail; I’ll pat him on his sides feeling his thin grey coat and bony ribs. When I open up a small piece of paper revealing the small chunk of steak I took from the club for him my sack of dope falls to the floor. He’s as eager to eat that piece of steak as I am to shoot that horse into my veins.
After I get out the shower to rinse the days stink from my bones I look into the mirror. I got sores colored black and blue all over my corpse from getting punched into shape for my next fight. As long as my face still looks good, that’s all that matter anyways. I can’t shoot the dope in my arms anymore cause people will start thinkin’ I’m a freak if they start to notice all the small red scabs where I prick the needle into my flesh.

Puttin’ the junk into my body gets rid of my hunger, it takes my mind off the fact that my pockets are filled with lint, it drains out the sound of the couple who’s pichin’the woo above my head, it gets rid of the rats runnin’ round this place, it makes me feel as copacetic as I use to feel before all this mess began. But when I wake up the next morning I’ll feel like the same ole fink as I did before the dope was in my veins.

As I expected wakin’ up the felt like a bum-rush. I had my last Chesterfield and the brew which was in my fridge for breakfast, packed my bags and walked over to the Big Six Boxing Gym. Every time I walk in the place everyone seems to stare at me, like if im some big pallooka. But I’ll show ‘em up, I’ll give ‘em an earful once they see that I donʼt go down that easy. I might not look like much but I can throw my mitts just as good as the rugged piker im fightin’ on Monday. As I messed with the bag I caught myself glarin’ at him in the ring shadowboxin’. Maybe he might be as much of a hard boiled live wire like everyone else says, but I could take ‘em, I gotta’.

After I finished foolin’ round in the gym I went to the back to get dressed. Verne, one of the only crumbs I can handle in this place, was getting’ twinkied up to start sparrin’.
He told me to "Take Five" and I shook his hand.

Carlos Chavarria