Fitting Parts
By Kenneth Pobo
Published by Philistine Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Kenneth Pobo
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
I would like to thank the editors of the following magazines for publishing work from this collection:
“First” King Log
“Clap” Origami Condom
“Child Molester” UVU
“Come Unto Me” Juice
“Leather Jesus” Church-Wellesley Review
“I Don’t Like Thinking” Melting Trees Review
“Going Upstairs” Spire Press
“Unprinted Obituary” Orbis
“Break It Break It Break It” Maverick Press
“Lock Me Away” Fluent Ascension
“Suit-Burning” Coffee House
“They Laugh” Foliate Oak
“He Says His Best Days” Fluent Ascension
“Hustler” Slipstream
“Warren The Poet” The Poetry Warrior
“Bad Parachute” Barbaric Yawp
“Response to “Changes IV”” Muse’s Literary Guild
“Fitting Parts” Lucid Moon
“Fizzling Out” Bottom of the World
“Curiouser and Curiouser” Wicked Alice
“Communication Breakdown” Inscribed
“That Cock Again” Brouhaha
“Matched Set” VS.
“Many Told Me Don’t” The Battered Suitcase
“Summer of Danke” Blood Pudding Press
“Portrait Of” Origami Condom
“Rumor” Bay Windows
Cover art by JC Eckles
Contents
1. First
2. Clap
3. Child Molester
4. Come Unto Me
5. Leather Jesus
6. I Don’t Like Thinking
7. Going Upstairs
8. Unprinted Obituary
9. Break It Break It Break It
10. Lock Me Away
11. Suit-Burning
12. They Laugh
13. He Says His Best Days
14. Hustler
15. Warren The Poet
16. Bad Parachute
17. Response to “Changes IV”
18. Fitting Parts
19. Fizzling Out
20. Curiouser and Curiouser
21. Communication Breakdown
22. That Cock Again
23. Matched Set
24. Many Told Me
25. Summer of Danke
26. Portrait Of
27. Rumor
First
First define me
as a lifestyle choice--
the rest comes easily
and quickly.
Those who are
open
get shut
up, shut down
for the good
of the family,
put under
surveillance
or put under
ground. Handing out
Bibles
at the stonings,
they read passages,
sing. We're
examples,
things: easy
to kill
a thing,
easier still
to forget
you did it.
Clap
A poet reads about his wife
and he having sex. Applause.
A singing former chiropractor strums.
“Oh, I’ve always thought highly of Jesus/
He really changed the world.” And
“Oh, my sweet grandmother/
we’re so proud of you.” Applause.
Was his potato-peeling gran also
a racist? Gay-hating?
Cookies. A white-haired mummy reads
about when he’s in a store and sees
gay sailors, he has to run, run, run
out of there, oh my,
I bite the brownie to keep
from screaming. Loud applause.
Child Molester
Many parents
strap down
their kid’s brain,
make the kid do
whatever they say,
so the kid grows up
to be like them,
flat,
hateful--
anxious
to make children
they too will molest.
Come Unto Me
At five, I accepted sad-eyed,
Stockholmy Christ pictured
in my Sunday school room
as my savior.
Jesus—a Jew?
Who knew?
When he killed a fig tree
in a fit of pique, no teacher said,
“Hey, lighten up dude.”
They believed his miracles—
Jesus, walking on the Baltic Sea,
causing a sensation
all the way to Sweden.
Loving him,
like getting a good business deal.
Most of the congregation
bought new cars, new gadgets--
their kids, we hung out in malls.
Leather Jesus
In a Milwaukee gay bar,
a man asks me to dance,
pulls me close,
kisses me for the first
time, not knowing he's
first. Jesus, in black
leather, stark
between strobes.
The corner church
expects him to give
a lecture, but he
stays to see this
kiss. So many saviors
present tonight!
Heaven, closets
with doors blown
open, light pouring out,
warm and wrapping us
the way skin wraps bones.
I Don’t Like Thinking
I don't like thinking
I'm better than a bee,
a muskrat, an antelope,
or even a stony cliff. At least
they don't worry about cars,
banks and bad haircuts. I’d
like to bound about like a bee,
find new bud addresses. Oh,
to swim like a muskrat,
sleek between lily pads.
As for antelopes, how
wonderful to truly be
home on the range. Stony
cliffs grab the best
skyscapes. So why get
proud because I'm part of
a group that stabs lawns
with pink flamingos, that makes
countries,
that makes war?
Going Upstairs
Such polite boys--when we
want sex,
one says, “Would you
like to go upstairs?” We sound
like when I was a busboy
and I’d offer to pour fresh water
or change the ashtray. Hey,
we could just do it on the couch--
nothing up there would mind.
It’s hard
to be too polite fucking
your ass. Or is it? When
we cum, our shrieks
and groans, the bed wet,
messed up, the world
downstairs gone.
Unprinted Obituary
As Steve grew he learned how to hide
so well that by the time he was
sixteen, nobody could find him.
He knew he was what he denied
but found ways to fake it because
truth created torture. In gym,
he laughed at jokes they told about
kids like him. Hatred didn't doubt,
relishing a moving target.
Steve turned himself into a lie
to satisfy them, hoped to die,
hoping his death could stop the threat
of violence. He hid so well,
but felt that everyone could tell.
Break It Break It Break It
Melanie's neat, singing
"Silence Is King Around Here."
It sure is, unless you're speaking up
for churches
and family values (nobody
knows what they are, but
the term costs me my rights).
Sharpshooter Congressmen
have me in their sights. I'd
like to be silent,
to shut up, so I could
raise hollyhocks and shoot
Repub heroin. Then
would I be moral enough? Would
I have values? Nope. Faggots
by definition have no value.
Admit us to cemeteries,
not barbeques, unless
of course, we're the main course.
Silence
is king, but many queens
are speaking out.
Lock Me Away
Maybe I’d rather be
locked away than breathe
a politician’s toxic fumes
or drink a drug company’s
arsenic rivers, or eat
media rat poison—oh,
to be locked away
in a room with two cats,
African violets,
a Howard Tate CD,
and a key to unlock
the door to let Stan in
so we can make
love while leaders
make mixed drinks
of piss and iodine.
Suit-Burning
Leaders look sad and warped
in power ties and cuff links.
Each word a lie. I wonder
about their spouses
and lovers. Suit off,
does the lie stay in place?
Does it lodge in the crotch?
Our minister thundered
in a black suit, had his
crossword-puzzle God
figured out and written with ink.
We nodded, said “Amen!” So,
let’s burn suits. If
the suited dead can’t take it,
strip them!
Make them walk naked--
even for a minute,
a cold truthful wind
snapping their behinds.
They Laugh
In the locker room
Jack bellows--for him,
a game, especially football,
is a song to a guitar. He
memorizes plays,
quotes coaches, used to
be in the NFL, received
passes and blow jobs,
now weighs over
400 pounds. Seeing
him on the scale,
one man yells
“Put some clothes on!”
They laugh. Death
clings to many folds
of flesh. Jack jokes
in his own end zone,
benches empty.
He Says his Best Days Were in New Orleans
Not sexually
compatible, Harry
and Jim last
a month. Jim’s
into rimming. Harry’s
into long con
versations about
the meaning
of relation
ships.
Jim says his best days
were in New Orleans.
Harry doesn’t ask why,
goes in
to take a shower
and when Harry
comes out,
Jim’s gone.
Hustler
For five bucks I
show them
a commercial
between my legs
I'm seventeen that
Brings MONEY
to buy my girlfriends
things or coke maybe
hey! this beats
bagging groceries the way
these guys look
at me's a REAL
trip I kinda
like it sometimes
get a tip even
if they just jack
off when I pull
down my jeans
then drop me back
on clinch street
Warren the Poet
complains about people
not getting him: the poem
I wrote about the sleeping cat
got rejected, the one I did
about a boy getting his eyes
jabbed out, his legs found washed
up on a Lake Michigan shore,
got snapped up, now
what do you make of that?
Dunno. Maybe
you write poorly about cats
and well about violence
or violence is now what
a red rose used to be.
Warren says he may quit writing,
says he wants to be
a leaf.
Poor guy, he’s caught.
New poems work on him
and won’t let him go.
Bad Parachute
when I was falling
falling & ground
was fast
rising to meet me
I learned I had been
up
in the air all
my life & for
the first
time I could
plummet
so I let go
& enjoyed this
downward delight
Response to “Changes IV” by Cat Stevens But Sung by
The New Seekers on Their 1972 Circles Album
And we all know it’s better
that yesterday’s past? Ha!
Yesterday hides
a pistol in his fatigues,
looks for only the choicest chests
to hit. You say let’s all
start living
for the one’s that’s going to last.
What’s going to last?
Just tonight while walking
from my car to my door,
some kids yelled,
FUCKIN’ FAGGOT!
Hate,
a mosquito spray fog,
we’re all coughing
asthmatics,
the ambulance always late.
The army
(yes, they defend me, right?)
fired seven translators for being
gay.
Oh.
And we all know it’s better
that yesterday has passed--
now let’s all start living
ooops--killers on skateboards,
killers in pulpits,
dead
bodies,
too many to bury,
flesh slipping off bones
onto streets.
Fitting Parts
The minister says that
God didn’t intend
homosexuals because
our parts don’t fit. His
God, Henry Ford,
people are cars
off the line. You can get
matching parts easily. But
some don’t drive,
and some think
cars exhaust. Me?
I’m happy with your parts,
boyfriend, like them
just as they are. You’re
a good fit! And if
Henry doesn’t like it,
let him go back
to his assembly line,
let him manufacture steel
mice to dart down
America’s highway maze.
Fizzling Out
The television pukes. No one
cleans it up. Vomit
brims up to the windows,
hides the clematis. We go
to bed. The house
stinks. In the morning,
fresh coffee.
It’s still there,
the roomful of upchuck.
Bye. Have a good day.
Curiouser and Curiouser
August, humid and smelling of funnel cakes
and sausages, we stroll in the Clearfield
County Fair. We’ve just seen Andy Kim,
Lou Christie, Maxine Nightingale,
and Martha and the Vandellas perform,
4 musical orgasms. Your
94-year-old grandmother’s hand-sewn
pillow won a blue ribbon. We visit
the poultry. So many chickens!
I won’t say “They’re all alike” ever again.
Some look haughty, red-crested,
others thin, models after
a long photo shoot. Horses sleep.
The sheep sound techy, like why don’t
these goomers just let us sleep. Among
pigs we see a young man wearing a t-shirt:
I HAVE THE DICK SO I MAKE THE RULES.
His laughter and empty eyes. We get snow cones,
don’t speak of him till we’re back
in our motel room, two men
who love each other. We wonder
if he has a girlfriend—maybe
she’d think he’s funny. Until
he enforces.
Communication Breakdown
A man with too-big glasses and a tie close to his neck asks:
Name.
Aaron Stern.
Parents.
Sappho and Walt Whitman.
Excuse me?
They’re two gay poets.
No, you don’t understand, your real parents.
Sappho and Walt Whitman.
He snarls. That neck vein the tie almost hides bulges.
You won’t get any money if you don’t tell us.
But I told you. Without Sappho and Whitman,
I’d be dead. My life began when they gave me life.
Next! he says.
Please, I’ll starve. I’m broke. I came here for help.
Next! he says, dismissing me,
shaking his head, eyes like brown coffins suddenly open.
That Cock Again
the one I’m supposed to
put my lips around,
the one that’s supposed to
drill my ass. No matter
where I go, it’s there,
waiting, like the kid who
stole my milk money
in third grade. When I sleep,
I dream it’s coming
at me, making demands,
swinging from a heaven-hung
chandelier. Money-making,
money-spending, money-saving
cock, you never soften, are
like a burning house.
You want me to play
firefighter, to put you out,
but you put out only
to put out some more. I fall
on my knees. No
is no option.
Matched Set
Nobody wants me to get married.
Obama says
he likes me but God adores
his marriage.
Bush says he doesn’t like me,
well he loves me but not my sin,
and God adores his marriage.
Straight men
deciding what’s best for me.
I don’t want to marry anyway.
Married people often look nervous.
A signed paper in front of
a judge, another straight man
or woman,
how will that make Stan’s kisses sweeter,
his arms hold me tighter?
Why make straights happy?
Maybe if Ru Paul ran for office.
Or Ellen DeGeneres.
Straight. President. A matched set.
Many Told Me Don’t
whistle in a graveyard.
Bad luck? Hardly.
I whistle and out from
the ground come the dead.
To the nasty ones I say be gone
and they go. Edna
gives me her plum cake recipe.
Ralph tells me of playing
whiffle ball. Pretty soon
we’re all whistling,
the graveyard
the happiest
place in town.
Summer of Danke
Schoen, me, you, and Wayne Newton
live in Vegas, you said: Ohhh,
isn’t he hot? I said no, let’s go
get ice cream. You slept with Wayne
while I mulled fuzzberry or
chocflute. I’ve slept with three Waynes
come to think of it—or were they all
Dennis? Everyone’s a Dennis
eventually. Danke schoen, darling
danke schoen, you think I didn’t
hear you crooning to the bathroom
mirror? Even the maid told you please
pipe down. You were in love,
you said, with me, adding a great
Bette Davis gesture by the door,
but you must try smoking. I tried
to be more contemporary, Johnny Depp,
sensitive and deep-eyed, but you
said I never listen. I’m a stinky
actor, that’s all, and besides you had
Wayne all over you. Those warped
45s from his stint on Capitol, what
a bed they made! Danke schoen,
separate planes and no more lurching
rain. From now on it’s burning
formica and razor cupcakes.
Portrait of
In the library I hear a junior
high history teacher badger his
sister-in-law: You have to read
Neil Boortz’s new book, have to,
I’m not going to give up on this. His
clothes drab as a fern wilting
by the window. I picture some girl
in his class on an April afternoon,
longing for a Pepsi and potato chips
but listening to him say that the Iraq War
will prevent them from coming
to our shores. She raises her hand,
asks how he knows. Then that smolder
that he gives his sister-in-law
when she says she’d rather read
a mystery, her orange stretchpants
slipping behind the globe.
Rumor
My bear of a man floats
on an innertube--waves
slip over me
as my bear drifts
half asleep. Rumor has it
that a world rages
on shore. Water,
if it knows this
to be true,
keeps quiet.
#############
About the author
Kenneth Pobo won the 2009 Main Street Rag poetry chapbook contest for his manuscript called Trina and the Sky. Main Street Rag published it in December 2009. In 2008, WordTech Press published his book called Glass Garden. He teaches Creative Writing and English at Widener University.
For more information about Kenneth Pobo and Philistine Press, please visit www.philistinepress.com
Also by Kenneth Pobo
Trina and the Sky (Main Street Rag, 2009)
Glass Garden (Word Press 2008)