4th and Hill is Gone Forever
by
Robert Benefiel
Published by Robert Benefiel at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 by Robert Benefiel
All right reserved.
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To 4th and Hill
Table Of Contents
1. A Shitty True Story
2. All The Holes Instead
3. At Last The First One
4. At Your Most Meaningful
5. Bronze Babies
6. Change Of Plans
7. Chat Room
8. Descending Through Blue Flames
9. Down The Side Of The House
10. Dumped
11. Fairness
12. Getting In
13. Grotesque
14. Helicopters At Night
15. Ho Ho Huh?
16. How Strange Is That?
17. I Should Know
18. If Time Were A Soup, It Could Use A Little Less Crap In It
19.Ignore It
20. Jeans
21. Left Brain Meets Right Brain
22. Letter At One P.M. On Benefiel’s Bed
23. Lost The Controls
24. Me As My Own Back Up
25. My Luck’s Changed Into Nuts
26. One More Bad Idea For A Drug
27. Overheard At A Watering Hole
28. Poured It Right Into Nowhere
29. Proclamation
30. Ripped Off
31. Setting The Timer
32. Sex Changed But It Stayed The Same
33. Sharing The Blankets
34. Silver Keys
35. Sketch One
36. Snuck Past
37. Spotting The Sucker
38. Superior Races Suck
39. The Tenth Of Someday Maybe
40. The Day Fits Like A Gun In The Mouth
41. The Dolly
42. The First Real Hot One
43. The Last Man She Ever Thought She’d Be With
44. The Open Reading Massacre
45. The Saboteurs
46. The Smell
47. There Is Something Wrong With People who always need help
48. This Is Not The Land Of What You Want
49. Thriving Here In The Present Day
50. To Be A Change
51. Waste Of Talent
52. With One Arm Around A Cougar And The Other Pointing To Destiny
53. Yanked Off The Page
54. You Can Stay Imperfect, And That Is Why I Like You
A Shitty True Story
the shit kept coming
back up the pipes
no matter
how many times
i flushed.
it would just
whirl down,
disappear,
then re-swirl
back up.
i gave
the landlord
a call,
but of course
i got his machine,
and just to tell you
what a bastard
he was,
i could see him
from my window.
"PICK UP, YOU BASTARD!"
i shouted through my window.
by the time i put on some
pants and went over
to knock on his door
i saw the bastard pulling
out of the driveway.
so i came up
with an alternative
in the meantime.
i took an old peach can
and used it to scoop
out the crap.
i gagged
and heaved,
scooped and
gagged.
then i put tinfoil
over the top,
and planned
on leaving it on my
landlord’s doorstep
with a nice little note,
but i forgot
about it when i heard
the door knock.
it was a lady i had
slept with a couple of nights
before, one that had given me the
cold shoulder for a couple of days
to let me know she wasn't desperate.
she came in
very calmly,
knowing she had
a nice pair of everything,
and we started to
talk a bit
about that night.
i went to the fridge
to grab a beer
and that is when
she said,
"hey, you forgot
to put this can of
peaches away..."
before i could do anything
she was walking towards me
with the peach can in her hand,
smiling,
until she hit
a wet spot in
the floor
and stumbled
forward.
the crap then broke through
the tin foil lid
and spilled over her hand
and down her arm,
and she looked at her arm,
and then she looked at me,
as her smile turned
to a look of shock,
and all i could say was,
"they don't grow 'em
like they used to."
All The Holes Instead
weak
with
love.
can't
make
it
to
the
end.
i have to
tell you
now-
i never
wanted
to
make
so much
sense that
it was
pointless
to go on-
of course it
depends
on if
you’re cruel or
in love,
don't it,
and
now
i am
not
sure
which
one i was.
i just
wanted
to find
the way
into your
heart.
look at
all the holes
i dug
instead.
At Last The First One
i hope you know
how it is
on those nights
when you move
from beer to whiskey,
and the stomach is
a thing awaiting donations,
and the brain is a thing
awaiting purpose,
and the heart thumps no matter what
like bad drummers in the hall,
when people are not what they think
but what they have,
and the light is as sour as limes
squinting through years of
mistakes and homework assignments
and overtime and low wages and
tall glasses and deeply disturbed women
and very shallow men,
as the cardboard razors
are handed out
and the problems pretend
to commit suicide,
the sun hung like
an old woman said it was guilty,
and you put the beer bottle down
and you pick up the whiskey,
and no one sees you
for seventeen days
and sixteen nights,
like you are on vacation,
and when you come back no one likes you.
your woman is gone,
your father is a limp dog,
and you are as sad as tears in hands,
and you don't know what you did,
and it never comes back,
any of it,
while some kid
30 years younger than you,
at least in his knees,
says, "you ever heard of patsy cline?
she is the fact!
she is the flip!
she is a real comma!"
while you are at last the first one
to make sense today as
you say, "kid, i'd kill you
but that would be
too much of a favor."
because you’re old, and you
have another whiskey
without any more questions,
without any more declarations,
without any more friends,
without any more anything,
as if it were
always your first,
or at least
your
second
to last.
At Your Most Meaningful
there's the evidence
of flowers growing
inside, their roots
poking out my cheek
like a beard.
years upon years
piled like suitcases
filled with sugar
and blood.
notes from
blondes chewing
at my ears,
like antelopes
that were stuffed
into envelopes,
their eyes
like radios
thrown in
bathtubs full
of water.
the flash
of the
burned-out
sun bouncing
off a butter
knife as i cut
a sandwich in
half.
another
camera,
another tourist.
they've got to go,
so i let them.
where is it going
to end besides
at the end,
stark, cold,
a pure wail,
the last of the
leg going out
the door
just when
you might
need it.
Bronze Babies
"i won't fuck a white man,"
she said. "i don't want to
have white children.
i want to find someone
with culture in them,
and dark skin, or at least
darker than mine.
i want to have
bronze colored children,
with interesting eyes,
and full heads of
black hair. maybe they
could even have little
accents."
"like something
to match your carpet?"
i asked. "or like breeding
horses?"
she took my question seriously
and said, "something like horses."
"sounds terrifying," i said.
"what does?"
"the idea of you fucking
anyone at all."
"why? just 'cause you won't get any?"
"that's not it."
"well then what's wrong with
wanting to sleep with a man
who isn't white?"
"nothing," i said."i've never slept with one."
"well, you make it sound
like i'm being a racist
when i'm being
just the opposite."
"no," i said," it's not that.
it's just that you sound
as idiotic as a racist."
"you’re just jealous
because i won't
sleep with you."
"but i'm not white,"
i said.
"i'm more of a
pukey pink-tan."
"oh fuck, for fuck's sake," she said.
"i would," i said," but you know us honkeys.
always out burning crosses,
or raping someone,
or getting rich while
ripping off someone's culture."
i took a swig off my lucky lager light.
"okay bright boy,
tell me one good thing
a white man ever did
that didn't involve money."
"how about
talking to you
without going mad
and stabbing your ass?" i said.
"ohh that's fucked up g," she said, then farted.
"ahhh, the other end speaks too," i said.
Change Of Plans
the experiment turns
on the experimenter.
the garbage
throws the
garbage men
away.
the wine
sucks on
the wino.
the poem
writes
the poet.
destruction
creates dirty
angels.
curiosity has
a boundary
of pain.
i sent
a friend
to a
letter.
the children
melt in the
hands of
an ice cream
cone.
love
is
overdue.
the people
end as
the movie
walks out.
the tigers
are under
the sheet:
let's
climb in.
sin makes
a man.
Chat Room
i couldn't sleep,
so i got up and tinkered
with the computer
a bit. i had never seen
one of those
chat rooms
they're always talking about
in comedy shows and
articles and news stories,
so i decided to look in on
a conversation.
the topic of the chat room
i had gone into was
supposed to be about
a man who had shot
at the white house
and the president,
and in return
the f.b.i. had shot him
in the leg.
he was now under arrest
and faced at least life in prison.
as i said, the people in the room
were supposed to be discussing this,
but most of them were
just hitting on each other.
the only one typing anything about it
called herself ladyjesus.
she typed out that he was lucky,
that they could have shot him in the head.
i typed back that he would have been
luckier if they had.
at least he would have died free.
someone named
captainblue typed-hey sweetypye,
send me a photo.
then ladyjesus typed out-god is
on the side of the president.
i typed back-if you think god takes sides
you're in the wrong religion.
sweetypye wrote-anyone ever
been to an orgy????
ladyjesus typed back-don't say things
about the great I AM.
i typed back-i am also a great I AM.
ladyjesus went on to
the only topic she had left:
blasphemy.
i typed back-i am not the one
who is acting
as though god is my friend
or that we have conversations.
she typed back- god had to take sides
against evil.
i typed back- did you forget
god made the devil?
perhaps he didn't want us to get bored.
perhaps god loves the devil?
she typed back-never.
i typed-you and your god
are both two dimensional fat fucks
with too much free time.
she was offended but offered me christ.
someone named hackerman typed-HI.
i wrote to the rest of the people
in the chat room-you people are crazy.
one person named heavyroller typed back-why???
i typed back-you’re listening to a woman
who thinks god is republican
while trying to get laid by each other.
nobody typed anything for a minute
and then someone named technolover wrote-
LAGS RULES THE TOILET STOOL.
lags wrote back-UP YOURS.
then someone named fingers wrote-
everyone ignore BEERMAN.
beerman was me.
america, i just wanted
to let you know
i will not be
at your funeral.
nothing
against you.
i just don't like
your friends.
Descending Through Blue Flames
television is
a funny place.
it so easily turns from
interesting into useless
laugh tracks.
tonight i watched
them tell the story of a man
who'd had his legs severed
by another sky diver
who'd bumped into him
at over a hundred miles per hour
while doing a jump.
they asked him stupid
question after stupid question,
but my favorite was:
"if you could change
anything, what would it be?"
my god, what did they
think it would be?
bring lincoln back to life?
fight the indians again?
how much more
obvious could it be?
then he answers
the question like
i thought he would:
"well, of course it would
be that none of this
ever happened."
i am sure if he'd had legs
he would have just
walked out or kicked
their ass, but his legs
were the whole reason
for the story,
so the story went on
to say that the man
wanted to learn to fly
and play chess and
drive race cars.
meanwhile the children
who died from cancer
play with his legs in heaven
until he gets there,
and in ten seconds
we will never hear
about him again.
roll laugh track.
cue the audience.
we’re out in
3,
2,
1.
Down The Side Of The House
as sheltered as raindrops
huddled in coffee cups,
i know not what i cry for-
for i never knew
what the flower was thinking,
and i wanted to.
goodbye intimacy,
i think my hands are having
fits of creation which
you don't understand-
art has made me its snitch
and i mean to turn you all in.
i want my world to understand
when it lies it’s doomed us,
that there is just a sadness
made by cages of words,
when it is gone
and you are not.
that there is just this
feeling of never
being born for a reason,
and all these broken mothers
laying in pieces like toys
their husbands
couldn’t put together
on christmas eve.
Dumped
unload the heart
like a jukebox full
of quarters
spitting out
those wild tunes.
there's more to life
than death,
and i believe
i am running out of life,
so i'll take another-
shake the last part
of that woman
from my balls,
and just let 'em hang
like two cattle rustlers
caught in the act.
who will notice in hell
another cigarette,
or a guy with his guts
hanging out of his pockets,
because there are rents
we can't afford for a reason,
and there are people
our nature won't let us be,
and when
i'm a blur
in a shiny
metal door
that might be
enough for you
to stuff the
complaint box of
the deputy mayor full,
but this is
enough for me,
and it is enough
of me.
i don't mind living
without all the details
if it means
there's still enough
of me to walk around
between the voices of women,
for right now i owe no one,
and that is more
than i have had
in some months,
as the wind beats up
an old lady’s haircut,
and the costgo department store
lowers their price on underwear.
it seems like
we’re gonna need
both come judgment day-
fresh drawers
to shit in
and old people.
otherwise
first prize
for suffering
is going to be
that dumb ass look
you get when
you realize
you’re about
to fall.
and if you
think there
is a second
prize,
well that's
when
there
especially
isn't.
Fairness
here’s how i see it -
there are kids
born with cancer
at the same time
that an old man
is cheating
on his wife
while digging
into a lamb chop
with a chocolate brunette
next to him
giggling on wine.
fairness falls
where it does.
but i can't help but want
to switch the old man’s
place with the
young child's place.
of course
i've considered
that might
fuck everything
up as well.
that maybe
there is no way
to change things.
that by maybe
making one side
different
it just spreads it to
the side
you didn't want
to get touched.
still,
even after thinking that,
i wouldn’t be opposed
to trying it once.
to at least
be able
to take that chance,
that luck, and
hand it over to the one
who might appreciate it.
who might make
the universe
a place people
aren’t dying
to get out of.
while bad ideas
go to the head office,
nurses rob their patients
in their sleep,
and love goes
bump in the night
i must tell you that
i do understand:
fairness falls where it does.
shoving some up.
shoving some flat.