Author: Joe Linker

  • A clear cold morning

    The coffee cups crack in the cold
    The cat questions the catastrophe
    The café down the hill as empty
    As any church of barefooted nuns
    When He says, “Please be settled.”
    The coffeehouse is more than a cup
    Accouterments of sugar, cream, style
    Off the beam customers each with
    Phone, space, and prayer, and me,
    I have half a cup and 10% battery
    Warning morning this mourning this
    Coffee cat cafe of Supreme indifference.

  • Rubato

    One rues the day on pillory display
    one’s last tweet skids street stocks
    to ad-lib a life one means to loose
    the self from one’s love’s strictures
    with daily tinctures of absent mind
    edness not mindfulness mind you
    on free range one affords to ignore
    the pranger to be clear (for once)
    contempt for public humiliation
    only worsens one’s foot whipped
    condition and enlivens passersby
    to come closer and reach out not
    to help but to tickle taking easier
    forms of torture of clean beatings
    this the dunce cap prepared you
    for the report card without wit
    and those sounds in the distance
    coming over the mountains over
    sand dunes and from far down
    under the railroad tracks a dark
    portentous prattle of pompous
    importance back home to roost
    one plays out of time for only
    so long usually in fact for just
    instances in time such that we
    often don’t even notice a slip-up
    especially in our time when time
    has already been so economized
    compromised clock punch drunk
    now thirsty now dry now thirsty
    in the twilight I see glow
    blue eyes turn to gold.

  • Cats

    Some cats are wiry others fat away
    this one wary that one behind naive
    a cat for all seasons for every girl
    and all good boys out on the town.

    The Falstaffian cat scats doo-doo-pow
    night’s toil scratched in a kit lit box
    drops his slow slurs keeps us a lilt
    trolls nixie but in the end refuses.

    The cat who comments with nothing
    to say falls late into Trouble Tavern
    the cat who daily cancels negates
    good counsel and drinks all down.

    All this cats lie about and lie in wait
    for the day is hot long and the night
    yet weary the stop cease and go of it
    infinite but as quick as this conscript.

  • The Cat’s Meough

    The cat comes quietly a Sunday morning
    blue eyes lightly freckled cheeks glossy
    smooth silver fur tasselling corn down
    lips oysters on the half shell half open
    legs the dance of life waiting to erupt
    on the private stage of her boudoir.

    She walks in weird beauty this cat
    on two legs with patience galore
    knows full well her lustrous sheen
    when seen in the crackling of old
    magazines etiolates the cold celery
    stalks flowering in the veggie garden.

    For a cymbal cup of truth and trust
    and what good has it ever done
    her to have even one man shun
    while another calls her gorgeous
    rather have the cat in your lap
    purring your fingers thru her pelt.

  • This Bird has Flown

    Sung to the tune of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower”

    Must be some way out of here,
    said the birdie to the fan.
    There’s too much collusion,
    I can’t get no peace.
    Tycoons pluck my feathers,
    bots bugger my burrows,
    and the policymakers know
    not what anything is worth.

    Now let’s not get uptight,
    the fan whispered in delight.
    The whole point of the site
    has always been an in-joke.
    What’s trending now changes
    peeply, and real Bluechecks
    don’t look or follow back.
    No one knows what time it is.

    All along the virtuality
    enabled users awoke.
    Social dullsville friends
    and fiends came and went.
    Outside in the distance
    a new reality did growl,
    two Martians were approaching,
    and the Earth began to howl.

  • Down by the Bay

    Summer so dry
    waiting for rain
    under a tree
    radio plays.

    Sign by the road
    cafe ice cold beer
    and the night
    falls so slow
    down by the bay.

    White caps like snow
    valley so low
    river unfolds
    down by the sea.

    Walking alone
    at night red tide beach
    and the sun
    takes a bath
    down by the bay.

    Waiting for you
    out in the waves
    sand dunes so blue
    down by the bay.

  • And a Song of Despair

    And despair is to separate to break up
    to stop falling in love and hit bottom
    down from to hope and to be the despair
    of another now absent and in a state
    of disrepair collapse and abandonment
    like the house on a dead moon unplugged
    in the mist of space dust floating falling.

    To disengage throw away toss out fall
    back without limbs to swim or fins to flap
    the earnest muscles sore as a dam morn
    train slowly pulling out of a foggy station
    leaving your sad waves to platform alone
    waiting for the next train hands waving
    from disappearing windows brakes off.

    Dissed and pool pissed despondent one
    the heart crestfallen full of sorrow sick
    as a parrot unable to breathe or repeat
    how hap hap happy we were when we
    happily eschewed commas and went non
    stop without regard for clarity to others
    or any kind of on time railroad timetable.

    From pillow to pillow I missed you
    but love is on the dot not wanting
    a life of one’s own but a share
    of the Earth a clear spot to bed
    down without fear of knowing
    what can never be fully known
    or understood the random odds

    and ends the noise some call music
    others say poppycock and applesauce
    I wash my eyes out with vinegar
    and oil my hair for the dark night
    of the soul is here drumming door
    rhythms untuned sonic booms
    as I fall through the night gloom

    destined to wreck on the jetty pokes
    into the ocean waves oh Lord please
    let me be misunderstood disregarded
    by anyone but with her I cannot be
    seen this drowning in words won’t
    work then or now what silence wanted
    was for me to go up into love the altar

    boy who understood but a few words
    of Latin and even then daydreamed
    through the mass of the sea and waves
    fell asleep on the altar but awoke quick
    and jangled the bells upsetting sisters
    yes an old story now how then he met
    the girl of not dreams but awakening.

    What is sundered cannot be surrendered
    alone now at the end of the voyage one
    sees coming through the morning ocean
    fog your bright sun of yellow hair your sky
    of blue eyes your cotton candy cheeks
    of dunes freckled with tiny sad flowers
    your strong legs soft hands your sand

    highs and little lows your kisses full
    of compassion your fall frowns your
    annoying finger in my yawns your grab
    pulling the rear view mirror off its mount
    laughing tussled hair your silence in my
    despair your stubborn insistence we
    make a life together out of despair.

  • Twenty Love Poems: 20

    Mornings stolen cold dirty socks on damp
    feet slushed street Bathsheba and the kids
    sleep past the cryptic graffiti on the corner
    phone booth an annunciation to be glad
    to rejoice as we once recess Angelus rings
    asked joy in backyard bestowed with sun.

    Between no yes we stopped and I touched
    the fruit of your wamb womb cherry bomb
    compassionately swallowed your freckled
    cheeks whole like the great horned owl
    absorbs the snouty mouse grace flavored
    rain blurred eyes wiper smeared drive.

    Byssus threaded hand in hand hip to hip
    we survived ice storms attached to rocks
    blessed grace full I kissed your salt but
    now thin and weak bland unpalatable
    the beach is closed to surfers who pray
    for waves gone by sucked into sand.

    Our songs drift into space beyond sound
    what cannot be seen or measured is love
    yeah we rocked and rolled and jazzed it
    up but in the end we are just a folk duo
    doomed to sing our same old love song
    oldie of oldies on infinite scratched repeat.

    Soma of couple submerged together sing
    a sleeping song awake these hundreds
    of years adoring each breast to breast
    and now my heart before need of repair
    asks to roll up what sweetness remains
    into one last rollicking bollocking ball.

  • Twenty Love Poems: 19

    We had the sun on the run for a time
    but today he’s nearly caught up with us
    just hard-on hearing now all my whats
    what randy birds of prey coxy claptrap
    peck pecking at your resealed window
    I didn’t hear shut nor your breathing
    whispers rain after a long hot summer
    husky hairs rubbing between fingers
    an avian hymn to a lost limb a bird
    building a nest in the old oak crotch.

    Not what to put in but what to leave
    out diaper pins before disposables
    green canvas chairs on a tan lawn
    Mozart and dogs singing on moonlit
    nights across the lake venial sins
    misdemeanors of youth parking
    tickets not wounds but urge itches
    a scratch wanting a few stitches
    a weekend pass from the place
    of thunder so far away and quiet.

  • Twenty Love Poems: 18

    The hot toddy, hip bits and bobs, the rot bow
    for your wrench on a whet night the power out.
    Isso cold bed down against the outside of you
    without your very verbs and nautical nouns.
    I am bicker to discuss my loss: what you lose
    on the swings you gain on the roundabouts.
    Lute the highty-tighty bowl shaped body out
    its floor length flannel down nighty be plucked
    and ducked sucked and mucked for the rose
    puddles open comes morning and sun’s river
    of bees and wasps and grounding of coffee
    and cake eggs and rashers for we’ll be hungry
    a gain after snatch a madcap night of be hinds
    spur of the moment tis issues what it hisses.

  • Twenty Love Poems: 17

    How do I love thee? Let’s not count the ways and days.
    To the bottom of the blue ocean where the octopus lies
    in purple wait to perpetuate the mythical form below.
    The soul’s something to do with it – what I don’t know.
    Actually, now I think about it, things don’t divide evenly,
    and days after days pass like the beach tides loose over
    the rocky pools, sandbars now seen now drowned deep.
    That’s how love is: under water, how the starfish spreads
    wings, and how the sea anemones attach and attract
    moist quiet almost silent prey. Not to be flippant, but
    to lie in wait seems unengaged in this era of existential
    pandering, but I don’t know of what use passion when
    the tide goes out and all my bugs exposed. Men strive
    for one thing, and that’s not right while you go for free
    or broke time after time, for romance beats the mundane.
    Consider the saints who crazy with love sacrifice all even
    their love for something abstract we can never count on.
    Carry on, my love, blitz me with your supine indifference.