EASY BATTLES
FOR LAZY ARMIES
Robert Benefiel
Published by Robert Benefiel at Smashwords
Copyright 1998, 2011 by Robert Benefiel
All right reserved.
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2nd Edition
In memory of Wilbur J.
FOREWORD
I met Bill shortly after a break up with a girlfriend. She had started dating him after we broke up and, to my surprise, she was bringing him to the coffee shop that I frequented. Strangely, even with all of my habits, I have never been a coffee drinker or too much of the jealous type. I went there because it was across the street from two bars I frequented and they had 99 cent bagels. Going there gave me time to re-energize between drinking marathons and boredom with the crowds, sometimes sketching out drawings or little ideas for poems. One day this tall lanky guy separated himself from my ex and introduced himself. He told me he was going out with her but that she had been telling him all about this guy named ‘Rob’. I figured no harm, no foul, and we started talking. I barely remember our first conversation, and really the best way to sum it up is I remember the old tables, the low light, and talking for hours about writing, music, and politics. We exchanged numbers that night as if we were now going out. I am glad I didn’t let the usual thought creep into my head where I just tossed the number and let life go on. As a result of his courage, and my temporary sanity, we began a lifelong friendship. He was there during my 4th and Hill Street days and can attest to some of the craziness that I allowed to happen, and in fact where a good portion of this first book came from. We went through a lot of formation in those years together, often in the same apartment as he suffered through the onslaught of people coming by at all hours, my incessant typing, and my drinking to match. I was a casino gambling on myself and he was the same, spilling wine, secrets, and honesty to boot. He also met his wife Iris by picking up the phone at my place, a dear woman who seemed to be able to put up with both me and Bill. In some ways Bills kids and marriage are around because I decided to break it off with a girl. But I also know my first book was published because Bill wanted to start a publishing group, which I named 4 AM Press for him. His wife Iris also decided to help edit the first book, especially at a time when I thought no one cared or even noticed. I have fond memories of seeing my stuff come back in yellow envelopes filled with pages marked in red, lots of red. After I went through their corrections and suggestions I would send back the okay’s, put them in my own yellow envelope covered with drawings, and hope my stuff didn’t get lost in the mail because I never really kept copies of any of the corrections. One thing Bill can tell you about was the time he watched me tear apart a business card, given to me by a Disney VP who so happened to be at one of my readings by accident, when others would have been picking up the scraps before they even hit the floor. My answer to why I did it- I didn’t want to work for a rat. He saw me yell at strangers, jump from my balcony, crazy women shouting orders, police stopping by, neighbors stopping by to complain or get drunk. I dedicated my first book to Wilbur, my grandfather, and that will never change. Wilbur was a one of a kind man who left a huge impression on me. But I realize Bill deserved more than most for putting up with me and believing I was not just another nut hanging out under sand and orange peels. So I raise my beer to you sir, and your kind, the rarest of humans: The ones that care.
06/30/2011
2nd Edition reprint
Table Of Contents
1. Aristotle And His Dad
2. Labor’s Result
3. Little Fella
4. Romance Gone Bad
5. Uninstant Coffee
6. Literary Crisis
7. In The Back Of The Store
8. Not Known For My Masterpieces
9. Will Buy Used Men
10. The Presence
11. MMM, Very Pleasant
12. Farming A Sidewalk Flower
13. Can’t Handle The Stillness
14. Snow Maker
15. Sure Enough
16. Glorium
17. I’d Like My Life Over Easy, Skip The Death
18. Stock Up On Beer, The Devil’s Coming Over
19. The Details Will Be In The Final Edition
20. Take A Look At That
21. A Corpse Kind Of Sense
22. Source Of Life
23. We Will Make It The Best We Can
24. I Did What Any Old Savior Would Have
25. The Water Goes Marching
26. The Tip Off
27. Up A Creek
28. Passing Through
29. Written Up
30. Sent Direct
31. No Specific Shape, Color, Or Size
32. Bottled In Essex
33. Up Raises A Power
34. Mindwasher
35. No Longer Responding
36. Thrones Not Meant To Be Sat In
37. Longer To Get There
38. Pasteurized
39. Arranged In A Weird Way
40. Disproving
41. Visiting The Poor Who Have Children
42. Where Do You Want It
43. Invisible Writing
44. This Year’s Winner Is
45. Used Up Or Useless It Don’t Matter
46. 8 Recordings Each 1 Hour Long
47. Thoughtless Think Tank
48. Just Askin’
49. Pumping Along Regardless Of The Hors d’oeuvres
50. Note On Humanity’s Refrigerator
51. Economics If It Were Useless
52. The Unconquered Bed
53. The Day After World War 3
54. The Last Chance Drink
55. The Fool At The Bitter End
56. Under The Glow Of Sunlight That Also Needed To Be Changed
57. Start Things Off
58. A Sign
59. Alarm Clock Blues
60. Ah, Much Better
61. A Touch Of The Bug
62. In Both Their Corners
63. Dress Up
64. The Good Ones Get No Help
65. Word Games
66. How It Happens Usually
Aristotle And His Dad
as a joke
my father
put me in a box
full of
puppies
that had
in big black marker
letters
FREE TAKE ONE
then stepped back
and laughed
as I stood
there,
three years old,
all those puppies
bouncing into me,
clawing at me with their
little puppy claws
licking
and squealing
nervously.
years have gone by.
the puppies
have all turned
into dead dogs
with bad names like
pepper
or morgana
dying in some street
or backyard
or kennel
and me?
well I am
no longer free.
and today I took
my bed ridden father
in a wheel chair
mumbling of cold,
and the rules
of a.a.,
and forgiveness,
and 12 steps that
lead in circles
until we got to
the freeway
off ramp
of the free way
and I slapped a
FOR SALE
sign
on his chest
and walked
off
as the cars drove
by
and did not
stop
and probably
never would.
Labor’s Result
weak and dirty.
that’s what a job
does to a man,
that is if he can
remain a man
long enough by
working.
and after the
shift is over
going to a small
building,
shining in the night
like something shot full of holes,
the tenants clamoring in like ants
into a corpse
left out in a field.
nothing smiles.
the feet recognize the ground
and are full of pain.
hands blistered and feeling as dry as wood.
palms stinging on the cold door handle.
opening up a room that never seems
like it is going to be there
when you open the door.
pulling your shadow
along the ground like an empty sack
you will lay in like cotton
once you lay down,
as if you had been picking bushels
of yourself all day,
as the world out your window
might as well be a painting you cover up
with a nudie photo,
a lie you cover up with another lie.
one does not live
because there is a
point to life.
one lives because
he hopes to change that.
Little Fella
there was a cricket
in the bathroom
and when you went
to take a piss
you had the feeling
you were out in the woods.
many people tried
to get rid of the
little fella,
but as soon as
they got close
the noise would stop,
and the little guy
would keep calm
and play nothing.
someone suggested
that it wasn’t a cricket,
that it was the fan,
but that didn’t go over too well-
“fans don’t fear for their life,”
said a regular.
“and whatever’s in there
is alive.”
the thing lived through
two fumigations.
it kept up its music,
courting its one and only
through the smoke and
the fumes and the winters,
while the men flirted
with walls that looked
like women,
and talked of the dodgers
and the lakers while
eating whatever was around.
one day though
the sound stopped.
either the cricket
had gotten laid,
moved on,
or just gave up
music in
both its forms.
whatever it was,
once it left,
the days
and nights
got shorter.
we had even
less to talk about.
our mascot,
our god,
our music,
our minds,
were gone,
and we had
no idea
where they
went.
and yet we went on,
losing a little more
at a time.
a man can always
lose more than he has.
he can lose
what’s yours
as well.
so watch out.
Romance Gone Bad
run over by love,
or at least
what I thought
was love.
my limbs were
twisted under its wheels.
my ear was so close to the engine
for a minute I thought I might
be the engine.
but no matter what a person thinks
the truth changes
and everything has changed
since I stood in front of love
like a half-assed post
with some mind to kill.
now look at me-
bleeding on the side
of the road
in damascus ,
like a side of beef
fallen out of a truck
in a place not famous
for anything but stories,
and mine is just another story
of looking up into a judgeless sky,
a sky going forward into everything but itself,
eyes like a pair of dice stopped dead
as love,
or what I thought was love,
is safely down the road
changing clothes
and car
and destination,
heading possibly your way
adding my name
to a list of people
to deny
they ever
met.
Uninstant Coffee
i can’t explain
this heart to you,
not like this
with dirt falling
off my shoulders
like i were corpse
come back to tell you
to get out of my bed.
i can’t describe it.
it would take all of your
masterpieces
orchestras
paintings
novels
all working together
to just begin
thinking about it.
i am not saying
i am the universe,
but i can’t be reduced
into a chest
with demographics
like molecules
banging together
to form a voice.
a scream has many endings
and i can no sooner
tell you why i think
my heart is important
than tell you why
i think not having one is
important,
but i will explain it this way:
everything dedicated
in the book of the beginning
is to the book of the end
and in there
my heart is pressed
between pages so thick
that you’d think
there never was a winning argument.
and this heart that i can’t explain
knows this head
sometimes doesn’t work,
and these hands are like
klutzes in a black and white
slapstick comedy,
and these legs are merely
upside down
handstands that impress no one
who can walk on their own,
and my balls and my body
and my rest
arrested,
as confused as infants in the center
of the room crawling,
and that what i grieve
i grieve because i know
something like you
won’t happen again.
and though there have been hints
at a great conclusion,
that everywhere someday might be happy,
in me the conclusion
is singular.
in me the conclusion
has already been made.
and though we are not supposed to go around
killing people
we do go around killing people,
and we could get married
and yet we can’t get married,
and though we could
and we can’t
at everything,
all i can do is rub up against you.
my heart will miss you,
i will miss you,
and my heart
won’t miss you again.
in and out,
in and out,
all the time.
we’re all fucking,
all knowing,
all being,
with no way
to control
anything.
Literary Crisis
over the past few days
i have become
very happy
and self-assured,
bought a new hat,
and eaten well.
and yet i can’t
write for shit.
it’s almost as if nothing good
can come from this good stuff,
nothing literary that is.
not that i am worried about literature
as one can tell by my poems and
stories and
the worst being the letters
all misspelled
and drawn on.
i sit here and try
and make it bad
by thinking
of my love life,
by drinking beer
and smoking cigarettes,
by remembering my past.
but instead i smile.
i tidy up the place.
i feel as though
it doesn’t matter,
and that is what’s the matter.
it’s when i have these good days
that nothing seems to hit
the paper.
it comes out wrong.
rubs me the wrong way.
is this what ruined the others?
becoming happy?
and what about the ones
who didn’t make it?
did they just one day
become so damn glad
that they were glad
they weren’t writers?
jesus,
i couldn’t have
exorcised all these demons.
it’s not possible.
there’s got to be
one around here
somewhere-
no woman to bring me hell?
you mean i have to get my own hell?
there’s no bills, no ills
not even a damn dirty dish?
what the hell is my problem?
is it age?
is it security?
do i really trust the universe this much?
am i comfortable like some turd
watching the light
grow bigger and
and bigger until i drop out of the asshole
of everything and splash-
everything so wet,
so bright,
so alive, alive, alive?
it’s horrible…
and yet i feel strangely okay,
looking at the typewriter
like an old man under a blanket of letters.
i don’t know what to do.
i am so used to beating that damn machine
i don’t know what to do.
stub my toe?
get burned while taking a hot shower?
visit my own grave?
eat a bad piece of fish on purpose?
how about missing the bus?
or even talking to someone
on the bus with bad breath
about my love life?
or maybe worst of all
talk to someone on the bus about
writing?
it’s a damn hard business
to figure out.
so
i guess i’ll
just have to be happy
for now
against all the advice
of the gods and
great writers to precede me.
the typer will have to wait.
something bad has got to happen,
if not to me then to someone else.
someone will phone me.
i’ll say, “ oh god the whole
family got attacked
by squirrels and they all got
rabies! that’s horrible!”
i look at this poem
and laugh.
the traffic outside burns its angry fuel.
my stomach rumbles.
we’re close
we’re so very close.
we’re getting closer all the time.
we’re on the verge
of a new era.
we’re on the edge
of a new discovery.
god,
somebody,
please shove
my laughing
ass over the side.
In The Back Of The Store
we stand around
talking
about how shitty
our job is,
as the hours
slide
away
like blood
over a bridge,
while feeling
good
about being paid
to talk about
how shitty our
job is.
and i say,
“where the hell
is our company
masseuse?”
and everyone
laughs.
we just expect
not to get things,
or have things,
after working
here.
you find these things
out even when you don’t want to
just like you’ll find out
who will touch you
when you have a sore back,
and tonight
ol’ Christie
just wasn’t into it,
and i guess
i wasn’t either.
our love life’s
just rumors
around a table
as a spider
ran along the floor
and we all
almost
kicked
each other
trying
to kill it
first.
Not Known For My Masterpieces
i am typing this
just to make sure
i didn’t ruin another typewriter
by spilling my drink
on it
since
this would
be
the third one
in six months,
and it is fine
so far,
so i guess
my poetry
can continue,
which
must make
someone
somewhere
a little
angry,
as the
magnificent
jaguar
crouches
on a table
and waits for me
to finish that
one great piece
that will keep me
hung up through the centuries
so that it can finally
attack and eat,
and the only thing
i have to
be thankful for
is that
the jaguar
might have to wait
a long,
long,
long,
time for
that.
Will Buy Used Men
i hawked
a bunch of cd’s
at the record store
so i could eat and drink.
goodbye mozart.
goodbye jesus lizard.
goodbye jack benny.
hello tacos
and a beer for
two bucks.
i had some time
so i walked into a
tattoo parlor.
i watched a man with
tears in his eyes
get his wife’s name
put into his arm.
it made sense,
the tears part that is.
i knew that it hurt.
i don’t know however
if he was trying
to prove to himself,
or to his wife,
that he loved her.
i walked out just as
2 little girls were coming in
both no older than 16.
i don’t come
from that world
anymore,
and i know
i am not allowed
back into theirs.
i go down to a little taco stand.
best damn tacos in town.
i order up four
tacos and two beers
and find a seat
outside.
i considered this
much smarter than
a tattoo.
what would mozart
have to say about that?
who cares.
he was barely
worth a whole
taco.
The Presence
so beautiful
you’re alone.
nobody wants to
talk to
you.
you’re some kind
of beauty
standing there
blocking
all the light.
and no one
knows what to do
with you,
for you,
forever,
except
maybe
never
tell
you.
MMM, Very Pleasant
briefly
i feel
better
than ever.
i look
around
and
around.
i’m dizzy
with
goodness.
the blue light
splashes the
page.
i’m immortal
and all else
is sentenced
to die.
i eat
a cracker.
i’ve saved
a soul,
my only soul.
the night goes
through my trash,
finds one of
my pasts,
and wears it
while walking
away,
looking
like ten million
successful
bank
robberies
in every
direction.
Farming A Sidewalk Flower
a stalk
has broken through
the concrete
in front of where
i live.
it is rob
and his magic weed,
a fairytale of
real proportions.
no deals.
just this struggle between
the pavement
and the elements.
the sunlight is there.
all one needs to have it
is bare themselves to it.
both of us somehow
surviving on water and oxygen
and little else.
both of us knowing
they have planted us
without caring,
only to later pluck us
from the streets in disgust.
who they will get first
i am unsure of.
i guess since i can move
i might be last
yet i can’t be sure,
for movement
doesn’t mean you’re going
in the right direction,
and what i think i am
moving away from
i may be moving right into.
all i am certain of is that
we’ve both reached for the sunlight.
i am a little worried though
that it has chosen to grow
so close to the driveway.
i go out with
a glass of water
to the street.
i stand there like the aftermath
of a couple of really bad choices.
i look a little moldy.
beard’s gotten too long.
i have purple bags under my eyes,
and my eyes are red,
and my shirt is filled
with paint and oil stains.
three school kids walk by
grimacing,
laughing.
they wear new clothes and haircuts,
unused sexual parts
rattling around in them.
i don’t expect anything that
hasn’t been through hell
to understand
but this plant, this weed,
in the street,
is the closest
thing i have
to having
a mother,
a god,
a friend,
a garden,
a good job.
i say, “bottoms up,”
pour the water
over its head,
and watch its leaves
become shiny.
then i turn around
with the empty glass
and go back inside,
filling the empty glass
with whiskey and ice.
a drink for myself.
a drink for a human plant.
then i go into my room.
it is an eight by ten standard
living condition.
there is nothing but the sound
of a dog barking and the couple upstairs
walking around as if they have iron shoes on.
i sip.
my limbs stretch.
my fingers become vines.
my ass roots to a chair.
i pick up a pen.
i pick up paper.
i write a few lines.
i draw a few faces.
i bang against doors and walls.
i turn on the radio.
i take over the room.
the bed feels threatened.
the dresser, and the windows,
and the coat hangers,
and the photos, and
even my own shoes,
they all feel threatened.
the sun coming to me
with its head through
the bars
and kissing me warmly,
as i grow,
and grow,
until
at some point
even i know
i can’t get
much larger
without
looking
absurd.
but
i feel happy
that this is happening,
for both of us,
me and that weed.
that we’re
getting there.
that we’re
somehow
growing stronger
despite all of this.
that we’re
finally
moving beyond
what this
world thinks.
I Can’t Handle This Stillness
i drop a cigarette
into a beer bottle,
and it smokes up,
and looks like
a freshly shot
colt,
and the
royalty of england
is gone.
it is the rare
things
that we forget
to experience.
and i have fought
so hard and so long
i don’t quite
know what
else to do
with this
silence
but
drop
it.
Snow Maker
walter lived
in a very poor
neighborhood.
he used to be