With Fuzzy Balls
“Remember when we fucked?”
asked the clown
as she spat in my face.
tongue-tied and stumbling backwards
I unzipped my pants to reveal
nothing
she just stared blankly
wiped the clown make-up from her face and laughed
“only in America” she quoted
while undressing layer by layer
until all that was left was
a shadow and shoes
high-heeled shoes, pink
with fuzzy balls
By Brian Feist
A Day
“You know the way you smell in the morning? That’s how I feel.”
The man was saying into his cell phone as he dug in his pocket for a quarter.
Producing two shiny prizes he put them in the machine and pulled the handle, then with out removing the phone from his ear (using his elbow to hold the spring-loaded door down) he pulled out a newspaper.
“No, no I don’t need any of that,” he continued to someone, somewhere else.
Opening the paper in a flourish he eyes darted back and forth across the page,
“Here it is,” he suddenly blurts out, and almost drops the phone.
by Brian Feist
In A Motel in Hayward, California
What is the point of pain
if it doesn’t teach one how to live
What is the point of emotion
if it doesn’t teach you about yourself
the only point of losing is to learn how to win
fucking, sucking, smoking, joking
are all games to learn about the value of love
the importance of those around you
We hate only to learn the value of distance
the pain of faith and belief
God foresaketh thee to a wilderness of empathy
Everything is battle
a game of winners and losers
wandering through the field unequipped, untrained, and unprepared
By Brian Feist
Politics
by A. Little-Greenman
Politics is not
ohh who’s going to win the election?
Politics is the action of deciding how best to use resources
The people who have “earned” the distinction to be the ones who make the big decions, call themselves:
Politicians
But that is only because they have no real job. They are not electricians, or plumbers.
And yet electricians and plumbers also have to decide how best to use resources. So they too are politicians.
Why do they call themselves,
Journalists or Firefighters or Professors?
Because they have real jobs.
Forget about politicians and focus on politics
Pot is such a wonderful drug. -The poem
by A. Little-Greenman
Pot is such a wonderful drug, that one can stop using and actually lose weight.
That never demands anything of you. Way too hard to write this while stoned. Don’t print that.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, ha ha ha ha,,
Very long green stems of bliss that force themselves to flower out yellows and reds
even blues and purples
How can you go wrong with a purple flower of spongy moistness?
And fire
don’t get me started on fire.
The red glow and the heat and the movement, and the …
oops there I go off,
but then you bring the two
together
they consume each other, the fire goes into the flower and the flower pulls the fire to it with each breath.
The fire dances while you exhale then leaps back to action at the moment of suck
suck suck blow
is there a carb on this
cough cough
ha ha, beauty, beauty, beauty!
Then to not have the fire dance, or the flower is only
Meh
not vomiting in dirty closets, or sweating in dirty clothes. Or aching, just
Meh
ha, beauty, ha! beauty, beauty
almost forgot the best thing about pot…
ahhhh
crap I forgot, again
Ode to the beautiful
thank you God, or Shiva
for uniting and creating
than you Kali
for destroying
thank you mom
for teaching
thank you friends
for comfort
thank you
for the dance, the game, the adventure, the bouncing tigers, the hidden dragons, the falling leaves, the growing flowers, the flying insects, the confused pets, the missing links, the ugly, the misshaped, the intervals of pain and pleasure, the fact that there are no facts, the first the last the middle in no particular order.
Thank you Beauty
for you are
and for that I admire you
Prophecy
“I don’t really know,” he said, his hands covered in blood, “h-how this happened.”
He could remember the screams and the cold rush of adrenaline climbing up his spine.
The face on the floor was contorted in such a way it seemed to be saying, “Ahh”
It had an almost angelic glow. The blood was sprawling out on the floor making wings for the departed soul.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” he kept repeating in an awkward whisper.
He thought back to the chow mein he had earlier.
The cookie with its poigently phrased fortune:
“You will change someone’s life today.”
Work in progress
I have sat in noisy rooms of telephone wire begging ghosts for pennies
I have hauled ass through cars and pedestrians honking charging with flaming red sauce meant for upper floor apartments
I have gotten drunk and drove top speed down US 36 vomiting out the window crying
I locked my self in bedrooms, bedrooms, bedrooms staying one step ahead of the on coming onslaught of company
went dancing but ended up making out at a bus stop, lost on new adventures
been broken by the glowing howling fuck called love
but was stupid enough to do it again
I have thought and wandered…
why
what if
only to wake up sweaty in a puddle
totally lost on acid in 99% humidity not sure if it was raining or not, worried that they would know:
what if I had no job and woke at ten to a cheerio’s bong?!
what if I tossed out all my books for class because I realized they had never seen the things they claimed to explain?!
what if I stayed up all night reading anarchist lit discovering that I was an anarchist all along
Once as a kick I worked for two years in a ballpark
hotdogs beer pretzels
the repeated remarks about how much this costs or how much that costs while throwing money at me
I winked as I shoved their money in my pocket
this place pulls in thousands a night they won’t miss a few hundred, I consoled myself while smoking my menthol cigarette
then while delivering in a red toy car, I peddled round disks of Italian ‘pride’ to the mansions where they kept their money tight and under surveillance
and laughed, as only the poor can laugh, at their stupidity
in rented vans I have seen corn fields, flashing police car lights and snow
jumping out to put on snow chains only to discover we don’t know how to put on snow chains
fumbling around with frozen hands while wiping snow from the Japanese instructions
but not caring, knowing this is the best trip I have ever taken
sleeping on the floor of an abandoned theater full of history and coughing and groaning
smiling radiantly
finally to wander to the stage full of electricity
but instead I watch the fog roll over the hill in rising crescendos
have seen perfect sunrises that seem to last an eternity while cheering on the dawn like pagans
in drunken rituals of debauchery
to arrive home beaten and tired but ready to howl at the moon if need be
called senators and congressman, high, demanding equal treatment
shouted from rooftops and into forests about my problems, national problems, rational problems, irrational problems
seeing no one listened I crouched in the corner and smoked
jacked off to illustrations of Molotov cocktails believing myself to be radical
just as the books told me I would
became who they said I would be when I swore I would be anything but
Poetry – Shmoetry
To write something with power
with meaning
That is the goal
to do it while your butt looks good all the better
but
short of
flinging words at pages
drunken
with the sounds of Kansas
or football fans screaming
walking out the seven steps of the fellow craft degree of freemasonry
they hang elusively out of reach
the words
that ring true
or incite, or invoke
or inflame
lie beyond,
off this page
the distance larger than space
and time
can only be overcome through work
and patience
and I have neither
Pain seems to be truth
picture me in my fucking flunky uniform
flipflopflipflop
frying
fries, burgers, buns, ketchup, mustard, fuck
the ketchup. A red puddle on the floor.
“My boss is going to be pissed!” I exclaim
half to convince myself to clean it,
half to see if my boss is paying attention.
Moving faster than if cracked with a whip the floor is
wiped, swept, mopped, polished
flipflopflipflop
frying
fries, burgers, buns, mustard, the fucking unpredictable ketchup.
I’m addicted to frying
Addicted to monotony.
But what is an addict if not a seeker of truth,
but the only route to truth is through pain.
Minute pain is minute truth.
Was I talking to myself againflip
flopflipflopflipflopflipflop
frying
fries
Untitled 2
My throat is hoarse
from yelling at robots
about the beauty of difference
and the benefits of change
They just smile and nod
bob and weave and
dance and drink
lost
looking for an app for that
waiting to clock out so they can get on with their lives
only to get up and do it again tomorrow
The smell of singed flesh
fills my nose as I watch
these “beings” surrender
to ticking and tocking
limbs become electronics
electronics become god
and wife and friends
“can I buy you a drink?”
I ask the blond
whose blouse is buttoned to her
neck
collarbone (just barely visible)
shows stress and strain
“Huh?” she replies never taking
her eyes from her phone
“one for the road” I shout to
the bartender who had long ago given
up on life
I am on my way to join him.
Voyeur
A shadow blowing smoke.
I am a single orange eye
across the parking lot.
Two shadows dance
framed by a night bright gazebo,
a velvet forest backdrop.
Music in their heads
pulses rhythm lower.
Flesh of hands, of face have become
naked bodies.
Flesh, unashamed.
Lips meet.
Persistent butterflies
battling for the same space.
Small gasps escape
mouths half open.
Even the trees seem to turn away, embarrassed.
I wait a moment longer.
A flash through my mind (you) and
I leave to go home and feed my cats.
Little Sister
little sister
hold that sneer
do you honestly believe
these hips
havent been there?
do you think
the scent of your smile
hides
the lack of laugh lines
around those beautiful eyes?
do you think
i havent felt
the fear behind the flirt?
or the desperation
in the promiscuous slide
of those arms
around his neck?
rest assured
little sister
a grown man
doesnt require
the honey
between your thighs
to grant his protection…..
and he can’t
be your validation
no you ain’t
the next barbie doll queen…
u just another
little girl
trying to get grown…
rest assured little girl
that when
beauty was my only weapon
i was
a beautiful woman….
don’t let that gaze slide
over these scars
in such a sinister fashion
hush up little one
and listen….
they rest on my skin…
because
i valued my loved ones
over vanity
they are marks of honor
not shame or sin….and i am not
gonna hide them
to ease that smile
or your comfort
back into place…..
rest easy child
i own the skin i live in
its values or content
isnt contagious
you wont catch anything
by sitting next to me…
except maybe the ability to see past
those narrow little misconceptions
you seem so intent
on keeping
Dream. Follow. Repeat.
I teach Adult Literacy on the Quileute Reservation. As part of my ongoing instruction and mentoring through the goal setting process, I set the goal to read 52 books in 2010. A list of the books I actually read this year follows below. I had my heart set on achieving the whole goal. I didn ‘t make 52, but I DID read 40+ books that I might not have read. A persons got to have a dream. Dream. Follow. Repeat.
From all of us at poMotion: may your dreams come true this year.
1. Gallo, Kenny & Randazzo V, Matthew. Breakshot: A Life in the 21st Century American Mafia.
2. Lansing, Alfred. Endurance: Shakleton’s Incredible Voyage.
3. Tobin, L. What Do You Do With a Child Like This? Inside the Lives
of Troubled Children.
4. Peavy, Linda & Smith, Ursula. Full Court Quest
5. Piercy, Marge. Woman on the Edge of Time
6. Crow Dog, Mary. Lakota Woman
7. Finkel, David. The Good Soldiers
8. Piercy, Marge. Early Grrrl
9. Harrar, Sari. The Sugar Solution
10. Larson, Luke. Senator’s Son
11. Craighead George, Jean. The Missing Gator of Gumbo Limbo.
12. Murdock, Bob. Untitled Manuscript.
13. Avi. Wolf Rider
14. Dorris, Michael. Guests
15. LeGuin, Ursula K. Sea Road: The Chronicles of Klatsand
16. Mortenson, Greg. Stones to Schools
17. Valliant, John. The Golden Spruce
18. Hrdlitschka, Shelly. Dancing Naked
19. Delaplane, Keith, S. First Lessons in Beekeeping
20. Akpan, Uwem. Say You’re One of Them
21. Alexie, Sherman. Ten Little Indians
22. Kingsolver, Barbara. Animal Vegetable Miracle
23. Butler, Octavia, E. Kindred
24. Seibold, Alice. The Lovely Bones
25. Paulson, Gary. Dog Song
26. Wroblewski, David. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
27. Kristof, Nicholas, D. & WuDunn, Sheryl. Half the Sky: Turing Oppression into Oppourtunity for
Women Worldwide
28. Berlinski, Misha. Fieldwork
29. Krakauer, Jon. Where Men Win Glory
30. Gilbert, Elizabeth. Eat Pray Love
31. Robbins, Tom. Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates
32. Ferlinghetti. Her
33. Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye
34. Pahalnuck, Chuck. Pygmy
35. Sayles, John. The Anarchists’ Convention
36. Mapes, Lynda, V. Breaking Ground: The Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe & the
Unearthing of Tse-Whit-Zen
37. Atwood, Margaret. Wilderness Tips
38. Brooks, Geraldine. People of the Book
39. Halpern, Justin. Shit My Dad Says
40. Stein, Garth. The Art of Racing in the Rain
41. Rawles, Nancy. My Jim
42. Truss, Lynn. Eats Shoots and Leaves
43. Chabon, Michael. The Escapist I, II, III
44. *See above
45. *See above
46. Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own
47. Stieg, Larson. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
48. Hinton, S.E. The Outsiders
49. Franzen, Jonathan The Corrections *unfinished*
Blank
Outside of anger is forgiveness
outside of forgiveness is fear
fear of forgetting
the guns pointed at people to protect them
remembrance is inside of anger
anger is inside of fear
fear is the one unifying emotion of both
sides
fearfulness is out side reason
we have no reason for the treatment of cattle or people, or which one is which
“It can’t be helped, we have to move on,” is
the mantra or the mooing
the cattle prod reminds us where we are
fear of the cattle prod keeps us where we are
Old Drunks
late nights on public transit 
are always an adventure
old drunks
try to pick me up
all the time
they gravitate to me
as if it is so apparent
how sympathetic
I could be
to their situations
and somehow appreciate
that I don’t give a fuck
about them
Dinner with dunces
right now the melting pot is boiling
the cream has become diluted
watered down on top
while the mixture at the bottom
full of rich colors and flavors
burns
the stirring and mixing has increased
only to the dismay of the powerful, but blander
flavors
causing tension to undiscerning palettes
the garlic, soy, and potato once diluted
with salt and sliced thin
have become the staple of the dish
while the spices, the fringe has been
forced to the back of the throat
poMotion poetry 