Archive for April, 2014

Boing 747 London - Bangkok


It takes all kinds
crammed into economy class
on this massive 747
hurtling over the Pacific.
Sleep escapes us,
the evening meal and snacks
are devoured,
the feature films
have played out.
Assigned the window seat,
I have already made my two
seatmates stand
for my trips to the head.
And now,
I turn on the light
to read some Bukowski:

“lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and
tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even exist.”

The pretty Filipina
sitting next to me,
her petite body comfortably fitting
into the middle seat,
always has a nice smile
when I pass my trash
to the aisle.
She takes note of me turning on
the light and
slips her glasses carefully
out of a leather case
and draws a book
from the seat pocket.
I take a glance,
the Bible;
she turns to Acts 3,4.
I wonder what she’s reading.

The young Japanese man
in the aisle seat
turns on his light
and opens the latest
edition of Popular Science.
He reads about “What’s New.”

We are all stereotypes —
the dirty old man/poet,
the devout Catholic Filipina,
and the science-minded Japanese —
on our way
to someplace else,
coming from
over there.


Decades ago
We gathered
And compared
Our favorite drugs,
Which pill sent us soaring,
(“One pill makes you larger,”
The Airplane sang),
And which pill made us retarded?
(“And one pill makes you small?”)
Which pills were discarded
Because they didn’t
Do anything at all?
Flash forward to now
Where we find the balding heads
Sitting on Jim’s back porch,
Listening to him play
Old standards on his squeeze box
While we compare the new pills
That thin our blood
And reduce our cholesterol
And keep our hearts –
And our lives –
On a regular beat.

By David Allen



In his dream he convinced
himself that it was all right
to leave his love alone
for two weeks while
he visited his family
on the tropical paradise,
where he lived before
his retirement and return
to the United States of Discord.

Alcohol clouded their marriage
for a decade, isolating them
from family and friends.

She told him her addiction
was under control,
she had quit after
a near fatal bender.
She swore she was winning
her battle and had stopped
self-medicating in her
war against pain.

So, he left, but was concerned
when his daughter met him
at the airport and his car
was gone from his drive.
The house was dark and
he found a note tacked to the door.

“I choose the booze,” it read.

When he awoke at 7 a.m.
he walked into the living room
were his love lay passed out
on the couch watching TV,
a nearly empty bottle of wine
sat on the chest in front of her.


Posted: April 2, 2014 in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,



One night
while rambling
‘round Roppongi,
taking the tour of Tokyo,
not knowing when
to shun the shots
of sake pressed
upon me by my friends,
down Mogumbo’s
stumbling steps I slipped
and cracked my head.

Undaunted by
the bloody dent
I descended
to where some kind
soul staunched the flow
with a damp towel,
a ball cap,
and an ice cold brew.

The next morn,
co-workers, aghast
at the scabby slash
that showed through
thinning scalp,
gingerly iodined
and taped the
cut and wondered
why the night’s
itinerary included no trip
to the emergency room.

Why? I asked.
I thought the wet towel
and ball cap
and cold, cold beer
were medicine enough.