Sidewalk Chalk Dreams
Patrick Birdener
Copyright 2007
Sidewalk Chalk Dreams
Patrick Birdener
A Dreamer He lies about in the grass, Watching cocaine lines form against the sky As time and airplanes pass. Scratches his beard Like a junkie. Inspiration hatches, And he snatches up His pen to write something funky. Takes Sugar in his tea. Slakes his thirst and wakes And sets about to writing me.
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A Street Poet A different breed, A breed Born to bleed Or made so, The poet Go it Down The street, down On his grace, down On his face, Looking for a place With a trace Of beauty, As is his duty To find it even in sooty Shit holes, For well he knows the souls Of coals—
Just the diamond’s darker side, Which he’s been abiding By and by. Now, Is he happy? No. For again, the poet Go it down The street, down On his face, around The bend Looking for a friend Who shares his goal and end— Finding none.
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Metaphorically Speaking Reams Of sidewalk chalk dreams And half-page ditties, He writes Upon the city ground, Amid the hustle-bustle And the sound of shuffling feet As people rush to spend the weekend, But no one greets this street poet, And his dreaming in a stream Flows out all over the “Stormy Monday” scene, Washed away in the morning rain, Unseen.
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A Fugitive of Sorts For the sake Of secrets sacred He hides And he lies, Breaking his conscience Over chance. Ever conscious Of the noxious Information leak, He never speaks Of these things, And often brings A mind closed, So no one knows.
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Many a manner Of ill temper Has he known, And some violence. Conscience Hasn’t shown Its face Or its grace In quite some time, And the holy foods Of justice and good Have left only grime. His appetite For being right Has gone slack, And he knows Well he knows There may be no turning back. For somehow he likes it here,
And somehow he just doesn’t care. Either way he doesn’t want change. He is what his life has made him. It will take more living to make him Make another change.
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Mad Hatter Mad Hatter’s In tatters, Climbing ladders He wasn’t meant to climb, His good sense all a-scatters, His quick wit lost to time. Lady Luck Has run things All a-muck. Come hither, Lady Charity sings, Come hither. Slither. “Goosey goosey gander,” Wither shall I wither away, And fly apart like dander On the wind? The day Has spread me thin.
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The bedroom-eyed Bedlamite— That roomy gaze Is just a rheumy haze, Or a narcotic glazing
Over one chaotic blazing Phase after another. Don’t bother, Dear, saving this fellow, Lest you go slaving in his hell-oh, Vanities Of insanities! Crazy As the daisy That never takes the hint That it’s winter, Or the snow That doesn’t know That it’s summer. Bummer, This bedroom-eyed Bedlamite.
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Book of Sorrows Most of us, I’m certain, To Hell and back And back to Hell and back Again, have been. Everyone could write a book of sorrows, And a volume, From more than a few, Could woeful flow. But, though none would tell me, “Do tell,” And though I keep my mouth shut Until I blow up,
This book I am trying to sell.
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Pieces A thesis In poetry: Poetry’s too pretty A word For this work. These are pieces. Word salad Lyrics, Both sane and sick, Good times and bad Being had, And no love ballads. Pieces of what? One still might ask. Pieces of beauty— Pieces of mind bleeding out-Pieces of shit— I’m leaving it Up to you. It’s your task To decide it’s meaning to you. A philosophy Of discovery For the self I have held Through and through.
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In confessional Couch-sessional,
Take pseudo-opiates From a doctorate Professional. Refressional? Couch-sessional Confessional Cup of woe is me— A cup of tea Would do me better, Hatter. The couch-sessional Recessional, Is being replaced, And in it’s place Just a cushioned chair For the derriere.
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Will the pills Kill The Mad Hatter? Does it matter? Is he just vanity For the sake of sanity? Will they take Away His tea tap Thinking cap— Run his acid Rapid Rap To sap?
--No pills for me, please.
*
Baby Steps I’ll baby step Around the room, Assume Except For an itch And a twitch A semblance of sanity. San-i-ty. I’ll baby step Out around Town, Baby step Over the cracks In the tracks Of the mind. Now, it may take some time Baby stepping From point A to point B, But you see It’s that or over stepping Into every snare, Too aware, Or not making it at all, At a crawl.
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A nose runs bloody Through muddy City streets,
Oozes Past boozers Hitting concrete Reality cold In the face, Unable to hold Their grace In a gas Flowing past A slick city sleuth. His face in booze And wet newspaper pages, He forages For images Of muddy truth.
*
The leaves Are leaves. What lives here lived here Yesterday, Will live here still tomorrow, if God wills. The wind that whispers in the ear, In joy and sadness, Pride and fear, Has whispered always. The withering vine has always withered. And crying eyes have turned To skies Sunny warm, cloudy calm, raging and ruinous, And all ways in between. And the breath that sighs along the path, Dies longer— The leaves Are leaving. *
Streaming to a Dawn
“I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.” Ecclesiastes 1:14
Vanity— A chasing after the wind Insanity— A chafing after the wind Profanity— A blowing into the wind Infinity— A flowing into the wind
Glob Song --The dreamer finds a little job. Growing tired, Wanting more and no more, Needing not what he desires, He sees his time expires, Holds it to the last moment, then some more, Wishing he knew what to wish for. Loving is good. Living is nice. He knows what he should, But he always thinks twice… Three times…five times…ten— It never ends, Like the meanings of fables, And painting these tables— Having done His damndest not to get globs, And gotten for it, globs, He sings you, now, a sad sob song. Sob.
*
Death wish Swishes with This school of fish, And depression’s a dish Many-colored, Many-flavored, Hot or cold, And young and old The family gathers round, And passes round
This morbid joke, And laughing, it goes up in smoke.
*
I am not Job, For Job lost everything And did not curse God, And I, having lost only sanity, Curse and cuss God Often. And I am Jacob, Who is called “Israel,” For I have wrestled with God. And I am Israel, Having sought God In all the wrong places, And finding this “Jesus” fellow, And blaming him For all my pain. And I was almost Judas Iscariot hanging From a tree. I take it He was a sad man. And I am Pontious Pilate Frightened And trying to wash it all Away. I have crucified the Christ, And buried the cost. But on the third day—
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If You Buy the Biblical Account… When this existence from its stint is laid to rest, All we build in this world will be laid waste, And all our windy words erased in favor of heavenly bliss, Whatever that is, for the righteous, And the real Hell’s Kitchen for the wicked— And some of you, at least, know who you are. I know. So, though the cold world still needs someone keeping it warm, And someone pointing towards what could be, (Lest we faster fall to chaos,) It is no worse to point at what is, Put a spin on it, give it some ritz—All’s an illusion, anyway, Or be frank. Like Frank. Like, “whatever floats your boat” floats you to A waterfall. And then you fall. And that is all.
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The end is coming. Let us sing and dance and dream. While the real reels to its death, We may as well breathe easy. Let the muse amuse, Lewd music, entertain, For as the “chasing after the wind,” The Tower, too, was in vain.
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All ways run like water out to naught, Or the great wide What. All dreaming, streaming to a dawn, Trickles, and is gone. And Death may be a fickle friend, But he’ll stick you in the end. And my mind grinds to a halt
Over the fault lines of life, And reams of nothingness From it, come. That is to say, nothing. I’m painting another wall. --Was a Wall War, somewhere, far away, far. Was safe behind. Was strife before. Betwixt the bricks was bored. My brains is bored. My hands is sore. But my heart runs for An end to ending— Ere the paint dries.
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The Dreamer’s Dreamt Demise I. He takes a little sigh. He takes a little dote. He pens a little poesy Parting note. Another sigh. Good-bye. II. A friendless, bitter ending, blended Sweetly, “He didn’t live neatly, but discreetly,” Here lies written. He lived in a teardrop world, in fear And utter grit for the utter world, and shuttered, His last days he frittered in lazy ways, Without a dime for dinner: He took time. He wrote rhyme. And afterwards, ripple on the sweet waters of laughter And cheer it didn’t: He lived in a teardrop world, in fear, And now lies hidden in the Clear.
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The Fugitive at Funeral
When leaves of autumn, Wintry, leave, Don’t expect the wind to grieve, The sky to cry in tears that fry Engraving on the grave. Why— Don’t expect that lead will live, And don’t expect the dead to give A damn.
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Doubt Oh, this news stand book of rhyme Won’t withstand the look of time. It’ll fumble with the meanings Of future means, Crumble under the thrum Of other tongues, Whisper on a windy day, Then be forever whisked away. But maybe Chance Will let it dance In a flickering flame Of fame— For a nickel, Then pickle it In someone’s attic— Stashed by a trash rat.
*
It doesn’t matter, Hatter. We was just patter On rainy May Days, A windy whisper On crisper Days, A haze In summer, Just another runner On the track Of scatter pack Life, afterLife laughter. HaHa-ha-ha-ha-ha! And we was “Ash in a can,” “Flash in a pan,” Grains of sand In an open hand Over the sea-shore, Or, In an hour glass Past It’s time— Oh never mind. Anyway, How goes the day?
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The Street Poet’s Potential End The last adventure Of the rhyming dreamer: Wash away the sidewalk chalk, and walk To the Sanitarium Can— --Admit me. I submit. In walk two white-shirted men, And a doctor. Take and lock me up, Bereft of paper, pencil, pen. --I’ll stay here, now, Decay the next sixty years.
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The Fugitive Gets Sloppy… The resident, dementia ridden, Rides his nights both night and day, Fishes his wishes from waves Of shimmering simple things, Trifles with goals, The holes in souls, And the nature of stature. O President, preside. He eats and sleeps and sleeps and eats And brims his cup and drinks and thinks, Esteeming his dreams on pots of Simmering simple things— Trifles with his mother’s money --Father’s honey—hides The nature of his true state of good health— Evidence, o edify. *
…His Story, On Being Discovered “He came, did something, and died.” --An adequate epitaph. And here lies his life’s work with words, A few chapbooks, perhaps, Maybe an elegant collection— This is his only life’s work, chronicling A couple post high school years. --He wasn’t cool with college. All he learned was how to fail well, How to be a ghoul in the hall, Flit unseen between scenes, And when spotted, wave his bed sheet For a white flag (figuratively speaking.) After that he was a ghost in a house, Always there, but, never there. A bump went thump. A rap went tap. A madman screamed and dreamt he had a dream. And through and through he did this little do, Which will do little, reach as far as a breath, Pass as the span of a human life.
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Wouldn’t bet your bread and butter, Hatter, nor my dying breath, That when Death’s dark, heavy shutters Earth us in reversing birth, We’ll any rest or respite heavenly have. We’ll instead be laid in utter Naught, or caught and bled to Undeath, Fed to mutts of, Muttering under, utter hurting Hell, butts of heavenly laughter.
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We’d bobbed to shores of something more Than the world would hold in store, Could cough up from its dusty coffers, More than gold could coldly proffer. –But whatever for? A tempest that at rest lay brewing In our stewing brains Has washed up on us unawares. We seem beset by troubles, friend, But put into a pot our godly bobbles, and— Ship ‘em off to one who cares.
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Standing on a cliff, take a whiff of High heaven, without the highHeavy tax. Take an ashless last Puff of the stuff of life. But oh— You’ll be back tomorrow. Woe Is you. Woe is you. You got Lead feet on a ledge. And someday you’ll get tired, get rewired, Where what passes for a joke Is just a crack about coke, Where what passes for a poem, flows from (Figuratively) out a bottle. And something’s gotta give, someday. Just don’t know just how or when. Man, Maybe today. Ok— Maybe tomorrow, or the next, or The next. Six months of nexts. Things have slowed down, now. Lazy ass got a crazy pass— (A pass for being crazy) hazy, hazy days Gone by. Now you divide your time ‘Tween TV, tea, and rhyme, And various subliminal acts— Man, must be a criminal act!
But it’s a living, or a Life. Well, something’s gotta give, someday. Just don’t know just how or when. Man, Maybe today. Maybe today. Well— Maybe tomorrow, or the next, or Not. You know that Lead feet on a ledge won’t meet A dead end set in concrete, Nor will bear a burden, Hold a load, or help a soul, Save their own.
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Reflections on a Discarded Religion Faith is more precious than breath. Guard it closest to the heart. Hope is touchy stuff. Can slope Downward at the sight of one frown. One can live without feeling love, But love touches all who live well. Grace is given in every place, But isn’t accepted everywhere. Mercy falls hardest on those who fall farthest, But run from the light, and you’re on your own. Peace is a place beyond places. War will always be the world’s way.
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