HER LEGS
Her legs go
all the way
up.
That’s all
you need
to know.
0
DEATH OF A SHOPPING CART
Posted: March 26, 2014 in UncategorizedTags: David Allen, grocery carts, poetry
DEATH OF A GROCEY CART
Is this the end, stuck
In a muddy, smelly streamlet
At the bottom of a hill?
I can hear traffic on the road above
And sense the occasional pedestrian
Striding down the sidewalk.
I don’t think they can see me
Lying on my side, rusting,
A bit banged up, missing a wheel.
It wasn’t always like this.
Not too long ago I was popular,
Busy with my fellow carts
At the local supermarket,
Gliding down the aisles
On well oiled wheels,
Shiny and new, proudly
Accepting the groceries
Placed in my basket,
Giving children a safe ride.
Why, once I even had my picture taken
When I spent two hours slowly rolling
In front of a woman carefully checking
Her coupons until she bought $500
Worth of goods for $35.
But things took a turn for the worst
One night when one of the bag boys
Gathering carts in the parking lot
Missed me – I was hidden by a parked van
At the far end – and I spent a cold night
Shivering and lonely.
The next day, some kids found me.
Two of them sat in my basket while another
Pushed as fast as he could, making
Dangerous turns and nearly toppling me over.
Then they found one of my brother carts
And played demolition derby with us.
I hated smashing into him, but
I had no choice.
Later, they abandoned me
Next to a large trash bin behind
The market, where a homeless man,
Dumpster diving late one night,
Filled me with his belongings;
Bent cans, rotting produce and
Cardboard boxes and newspapers
That would serve as his bed under a highway bridge.
His name was Moe and I was with him for a long time,
Pushed down the backstreets during the day,
While he collected bottles and cans to cash in
For some booze at the local liquor store;
Sometimes parked me outside the Mission
While he copped a free meal.
But mostly, we spent the time scouting
New dumpsters to scour.
I started to deteriorate, rust,
My right front wheel trembled,
Sometimes shaking uncontrollably.
And then one day, while pushing me
Slowly along the sidewalk
That now seems to tower so far above me,
Moe stumbled and fell and
With one last push I tumbled down the hill.
I heard sirens and never heard from Moe again.
I hope he’s all right.
I enjoyed the nights with him and his friends,
Getting drunk on bottles of cheap wine,
Listening to their stories of past adventures.
I really miss those times,
Maybe even more than
My grocery glory days.
I loved being able to travel, see new sights,
Belong to somebody.
I wonder what’s next.
Is this really the end?
By David Allen
WOODSTOCK
Posted: March 22, 2014 in UncategorizedTags: David Allen, interview, Okinawa, Stars and Stripes, Woodstock
My interview for my Stars and Stripes story about the 40th anniversary of Woodstock. At the time (summer 2009) I ran the Okinawa News Bureau for the daily newspaper. Now I am retired and living in Central Indiana. I can’t stand the goddamn cold!
The readings extended past the Open Mic meetings in the Gate Two Street Bar. Here’s Mike reading outside The Jet.
Michael De Vito Jr.
Today is the 15th anniversary of Poetry Day. So, here’s a poem I wrote about a poet friend, Michael De Vito Jr., who tirelessly hosted live mic poetry nights in the Gate Two Street bars of Okinawa City.
ANOTHER POET’S GONE
By David Allen
Another poet’s gone today.
The light seems a bit dimmer.
The tropic colors have faded,
As if the island already mourns.
The words across this lined page
Cannot capture the true loss.
He’s gone and with him
Goes a bit of our group’s glow.
We’re the one’s left behind
To pick up the shards of words
That didn’t fit into his small suitcase
We’re the ones who will tell tales
Of poetic nights of bliss,
Pacing the floor like prize fighters,
Waiting for another turn in the ring.
Oh, but the spotlight’s snapped off
And the stage is dark.
The pumped-up poet,
“The Mike,” has slipped
Away to that Broadway isle
And we are left to raise a pint
And drink to his memory.
LOT LIZARD LILLY
Lot Lizard Lilly
Never had much luck
Selling herself cheap
Limping from truck to truck
Parked behind the diesel
Pumps off I-69.
Rapping on the windows
Promising good times.
Her good times
Are far behind her,
Although make-up hides her age
It took several lifetimes
To get her to this stage
The prom Queen and child bride
Are parts that she has played
Needles and abandoned children
Led her to this stage.
The downslide began with marriage
The result of belly swelling
Her abusive jockstrap husband
Scarred her beyond all telling.
Pills and alcohol helped her forget,
But only for a while
The blows she took from fists and meth
Tore away her winning smile.
Other lizards laugh at her plight
She plies the cheapest trade
A pittance for a quickie
Is the most she ever made.
Night and day she sells herself
Inside the crowded cabs
And not one John feels sorry
For using her so bad.
Image
—
Posted: March 17, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: David Allen, Lot Lizards, poem, poetry, prostitution, truck stops
TREES IN WINTER
Winter reveals
The trees’ inner nature,
Like x-rays showing
Their intricate systems
Spread out like veins,
Nerves and bones.
No leaves to mask their age.
Young trees, slender branches
Lifting straight into the sky,
As if in prayer or celebration.
Older trees, thicker branches
Some bowed, knotty, amputations,
Arteries eaten by unseen invaders;
In their upper reaches, squirrel and bird
Nests appear as cancerous growths.
And then there are the dead trees,
Obese, torn trunks, bark like peeling skin,
Branches akimbo, some detached
Resting in their neighbors arms.
Like monuments, crosses.
These trees tell a tale of the final days,
The ravaging we all face in the end.
By David Allen
IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE WEATHER HERE WAIT A MINUTE
Posted: March 15, 2014 in UncategorizedTags: cold, David Allen, Indiana, poetry, winter
This winter has been horribly cold! Damn the Polar Vortex. It reminds me of another time I ventured from my subtropical home in Okinawa to visit my kids. Here’s the resulting poem.
ON THE ROAD IN INDIANA IN NOVEMBER
Goddamn it’s cold!
Bone fucking chilling
cold!
Oh God, please don’t let me
have to live in this your forsaken
place again!
It’s too goddamn cold!
I just saw my motherfugging breath!
This is proof that we should
embrace global warming,
not fear it.
Warm me up Scotty!
Called my love, teeth chattering
across the continent and over the ocean
to our subtropical paradise.
It warmed my evening.
I’ll call again tomorrow
from some Pennsylvania motel
attempting to warm myself up.
JESUS it’s cold!
Breakfast at a Cracker Barrel
In My-God-It’s-Freezing Fort Wayne.
Who the hell ever thought
grits was an acceptable breakfast food?
But the coffee refills were free
and the two eggs over easy
and biscuits and gravy
and turkey sausages assuaged
my cold- numbed soul.
“A month of this?”
my innervoice asked.
“I know,” I answered.
“Hell has just frozen over.”
MY DAY AT THE CHEMO CLUB
Posted: February 13, 2014 in UncategorizedTags: cancer, chemo club, David Allen, Dr. Eddy, NED, poetry
Saw the Blood Doc again today. He said I continue to be a NED (No Evidence of Disease). Looks like I beat cancer’s ass! My bloodwork came back “Perfect.” He’s framing the poem I rote back in June to put up on his office wall to inspire other patients. It’s been a good day.
Here’s the poem again:
MY DAY AT THE CHEMO CLUB
(For Dr. Brian Eddy)
The Blood Doc
Was all smiles today,
Which made me happy, too.
He said my tests
Sure did impress,
Into a jolly rant he flew.
“Your CT scan and
Blood work results
Are the best I’ve seen
In a patient such as you.
Your spleen has shrunk,
Lymphoma’s defunct.
Man, this is all good news!”
He felt my neck and armpits
For a bump and found not one.
He winked and made notes
In his chart, and said,
“Our work is almost done.”
“Your CT scan is telling me
You might soon be a NED.
Which stands for
No Evidence of Disease
Much better you can’t get.”
ALIVE, MAN
Listen to that Godman
Laying it all down like
He knew me, when
The truth is that from
The first squirt of the Old Man’s
Jissom up the Old Lady’s Glory Hole
To the last squirt of blood
Beat by my battered heart
I always strayed far from
His Hallelujah Halls.
Hell, I started out as a squirt
And stayed a squirt all through
My bent-boned bowlegged days,
Jeering at the ectomorphs,
Cause the air was always
Purer down here.
Just listen to that jive
Being spewed by that
Reverse-collared fraud,
Telling the fools I was
Now a Scribe for God
(whoever she is).
Sheeit, everyone knows
The words I scribbled,
Those poems squirted from pens,
Clanked onto paper by steel rods,
And lit up on computer screens,
Were always mine alone.
They’re what lifted me
Above the crowd,
Chanting out loud,
“I’m alive, man, alive
And will be even after I die!”
By David Allen
Chesterfield, Indiana
(A poem written for the Last Stanza folks)
Here We Are Again
Posted: February 10, 2014 in UncategorizedTags: daily newspaper, David Allen, freelance writer, Guam, Japan, Okinawa, Stars and Stripes
Type Dancing 