chewing on thoughts.

lighting up the last one
taking the last sip
I slip into the garden
lay back and prepare myself
for the grand event.


it's a cancer
a undiagnosed disease
that is fed by the anger
and inability to cope.
the where, the when, the why
is irrelevant
there is no need for useless explanation.


tracing the nonlinear patterns
on the ceiling and walls
chasing down the one thing that clearly
gives no release.


the perfect kind of romance.
is this it
the final truth-
the perfect kind of romance?


you walk into the bathroom
half naked
and leaving the door open
you pull down your panties
sit on the pot
leaning over
laying bare breasts onto your knees
you begin to talk about something
that is lost
at the moment the turd
hits the water.


the perfect kind of romance
is there such a thing?
life begins to get boring.
we become complacent
as the years go by
together- us alone in our made up world.


is this it
the final chapter-
the perfect kind of romance
or are we only characters
in this long and horrid fairy tale?


from the window.

obsessive
neurotic
erotic thoughts fill her mind.
thoughts of her:
the one she views from her upstairs
window.
the one she can't speak to because the fear
overtakes her.
the fear of failure-
of being turned down
left flat.


obsessive
neurotic
suspicion of the world
holds her back
from the love growing
within her rundown room
and her neglected heart.


the first.

as her legs spread
my hands begin to shake
knowing that it was the first
for both of us.
the first kiss.
the first taste of the soft skin
that would eventually engulf
every inch of me.
the smell was something new
but I was instantly hooked
forever trapped by the urge
for more.


independent thoughts.


the voices rage at me
obstructing my thought
as I try to write
drink, pray.
random words that distract
the regular musings of the day.
images of hatred, humility
and madness
causing me to go on some tyrant
stopping the normal people
in their every day motions
leading them to whisper, point
and gawk.
my mental outbursts
are exhausting-
I'd sleep
but that is interrupted, too.
this process of creating the art
I love has all but ceased.


Keith Wesley Combs

 

A Garage Band Sayonara

Jack Bogan died last week, the last

of the Whippets, a garage band big 

in a small way back in the Sixties. 

The Whippets had a following 

in Chicago and its suburbs. 

They played high school dances,

holiday parties and graduations. 

Like other bands they believed

they would fill Yankee Stadium. 

They practiced late at night 

entertaining friends and strangers

and driving the neighbors nuts.

Perhaps with the right break 

they would have made the charts,

appeared on American Bandstand 

with Dick Clark, his hair perfect,

praising them to the sky before 

bringing out the superstar. 

Lightning struck for a few, it’s true. 

But as it did for Jack last week 

the music finally died.

 

Donal Mahoney

A Sidewalk Cemetery

The soup kitchen 

opens an hour late. 

The rain finally stops

and the hungry file in.

They’ve had a long wait.

Cigarette butts  

line the sidewalk,

early tombstones

in their wake.

Donal Mahoney

A Day in the Country

The cur dog

tethered to a stake

across the road

runs back and forth

barking all day

then breaks free.

He’s off and running

down the road, happy 

as a dog can be.

Across the road Willie 

in his rocker on the porch

cheers the dog’s escape 

and tells his wife 

knitting in another rocker

that he’s a cur dog, too,

tethered to the Earth 

but only for a spell.

He’ll break free as well,

something he has told her

many times before in

50 years of marriage.

Despite his fantasies

she loves him still 

and fills his pipe, 

sticks it in his mouth

and lights it as he did

for himself for years. 

Then she tells him we'll

do what the dog did, Willie.

We’ll bark all day and see.

Donal Mahoney

A Drop-Off Problem

We have a drop-off problem in America.

We must decide which restroom 

one can use when nature beckons.

So far, tumult reigns among the people.

If we declare both genders equal

as well as every variation within the two

everyone can share the same restroom  

and stand or sit as necessity requires.

But some find this approach offensive

and if they win, perhaps we should

evaluate what some Third World folks

have used peacefully for centuries.

They dig a hole behind the bushes 

and stack some leaves nearby.

No need to have a plunger. 

When so moved, just drop by.

Donal Mahoney

Both Sides Now 

I told my wife today

I won't leave the house again

except to feed feral cats that gather 

on our patio at dawn

to yowl for grub and water.

Otherwise I'll stay home except 

to go to church on Sunday.

At the very least I want to say hello.

The day I die, however, I'll go right

to Feldmann's Funeral Home.

I'll need a lift, of course, but 

I paid Feldmann's long ago 

to wake me on my stomach, 

pants pulled down around my knees 

so folks can read my new tattoos, 

one ablaze on each buttock,

easy to read in red calligraphy.

The left one screams "Kiss this" 

and the right one shouts "Or this."

I'm pro-choice, I guess, 

when it comes to this.

Donal Mahoney

A Chance to Say Good-Bye

After World War II 

before television, 

before women had tattoos

before men wore earrings, 

I was a child in a world

with kids as odd as me.

I’m still here but tell me

where are they?

Remember Joey Joey

who yelped in class 

every day before 

doctors knew the nature 

of his problem, his

barbaric yawps scaring girls 

and driving boys down 

on their desks laughing

until the day he disappeared.

I had no chance to say good-bye.

Can’t forget Petey, the toughest kid

in class, not quite right either.

He uppercut a girl in the third row 

and disappeared the same day.

So did Bobby, who my mother saw 

on his porch eating worms

one by one off a porcelain dish

as she was coming home from church 

under a parasol, stylish in that era.

She asked if Bobby and I were friends 

and I said, “Bobby Who?"

I had no chance to say good-bye. 

But Jimmy was the nonpareil

when it came to kids not right.

I saw him after graduation leap-frog 

parking meters like a kangaroo 

down 63rd Street for half a block

woofing as he cleared them

until the cops took him home.

I had no chance to say good-bye.

They locked Jimmy in the attic

of his parents’ house for years 

but at least he didn’t disappear.

Years later I saw him in a dark bar 

with his twin brother drinking beer. 

He sat quietly, not a single woof,

not a bar stool threatened by a leap.

There I had a chance to say good-bye.

Donal Mahoney

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