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BOB FLANAGAN

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BOB FLANAGAN\\

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THE MAN /I

SANTA MONICA PUBLIC LIBRARY

JUl j 7 1980

BOMBSHELTER PRESS

Some of these poems have appeared in Bachy, Mommtlml, NaMStd,The Alley Cat Readings, and ModN/mirt Review.

Cover tide drawn by Kyle Crabb.

Copyright 1978 by Bob Flanagan

Printed In The United States of AmericaALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BOMBSHELTER PRESS

1092 Lorna DriveHermo~B~h,Ca. 90254

The publication of this book was funded in part by a grant from theLiterature Program of the National Endowment foe the Arts, a federalagency in Washington, D.C. The type for this book was set at NewCompGraphics Center, Beyond Baroque Foundation in Venice, California.NewComp is also funded in part by the Literature Program of the NationalEndowment for the Arts. This edition was printed at Gemini Graphics, andbound by the Young American Bindery.

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for Jim and Jack

CONTENTS

The Nails Drive HomeLove Is Still Possible In This Junky World

WindowsBeverlyFound PoemSpanish Stairway in Beverly Hills

cut cut cutThe Real StoryThe AnimalI Wanna Be Loved By You

Just ThenAlkies From HeavenBukowski PoemHumble Kid HumbleThe Heart Is A PumpThe Heart Is A PumpThe Heart Is A PumpBurnLove Letters Cut UpBirthdayThe Kid Is The ManThe OneDragging The CanalThere Is An Island

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THE NAILS DRIVE HOME

The nails drive home into wood.The heads meet flush against uneven planksand broken boards. My handaround the hammer starts these nails to sing­a higher note the farther in they go.Not one of them is bent. They drive in clean,so hot they smoke with every hammer crackand bum my fingers when I stroke the wood.The nails drive home to keep my house together,nails to keep the door attached,to hold the window frames;a screen nailed down to keep out insects.Nails drive deep through all the beams. A nailfor every broken thing.My arm still pounds, even in my sleep,still driving them home.

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LOVE IS STILL POSSIBLE IN THIS JUNKY WORW

That's right kid I'm not tryin to sell ya a bill o'goodsI'm here to tell ya you too can be a winnerin the ball breaking day to dayKid pack them blues awayThems that sing 'em is the ones that live 'emAnd those that shove 'em will rise above 'emo kid 0 boy 0 man 0 mano son of a bitch world with no damn chanceBut you kid you can beat it you can be the oneTo wake up with the sun breakin through the windowBeating down on a pair of smooth white legsdraped across your waistA chance of a lifetime kidFor just one dollar, a fifth of a fin, a buckAnd you can be a winnerYes love is still possible,Love is still possible in this junky worldWhat's that kid?You say you been there pressed between the pastel sheetsOnly to have the mattress ripped out from under ya?Say you've had that elevator ride to the topjust to have it stop between floors?Well put yourself in my handsPut youe hean in my handsPut youe buck in the box kidTake a chance, pick a card, pick a number, place a betThat's right kid I smell a winnerI see love about to rise from pigsty smoke and cinders .Darnit kid, too bad

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Try again, here ya go, take these darts and find the cupidOne more buck Mr Don Juan, Mr Cassanova, Mr.Dammit kid, so close, must have been tail windWait a minute, come back kid, these balls here,Knock them botdes down and win yourself a futureThat's it kid ... careful ... careful ... DAMN!Almost kidHey don't quit now ya disappoint meKid I'll make it rightTwo chances for the price of oneAnd tell ya what I'm gonna doI'm throwin in a brand new color tv

with automatic fine tuning ...Come back here kid don't be a quitter don't give in to itLove is still possible,Love is still possible, love is still possible.

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WINDOWS

In all the windows I see women.Strands of hair,a fingertip,a shadow across the blinds,I see women;I see plants; I see pots on stoves.Bright light bulbs burn,a candle snaps,dark beds rock behind the shutters.

Men drive up in big cars, small cars.Men walk. Men whistle.Doors open. I smell baked potatoes.I hear water running.I hear boots and slippers,bare feet slapping on wood floors.

All around me men and womenpress their bodies close.I see my face, yellow as a moon,float across the glass and disappear.

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BEVERLY

Beverly Beverly Beverly Beverly Blvd Beverly Hillsbetter I should forget but how BevBevy I'd like to write something besides your namelike to drive with my eyes closedbreak shop windows where you've been BeverlyBobbie says you're gone forget ityou've been to the Beverly Wilshire with some big-shotand it's no useI should find someone betterbut even that's no goodlast week a parry in Beverly Hills Beverly Glen Blvdand the girl's name was Beverly Beverly Beverly Beverly

I'm afraid to go to sleep cause I woke up onceand my mother's name was Beverlymy sister's name was BeverlyI had five aunts named Beverlyeven my hamster was Beverly

Beverly Beverly Beverly Beverly Typewriter RepairBeverly Venetian Blind CoBeverly Sanitarium Beverly Lock and KeyBev I'm moving to Long Beachwhere there are no hillsand the streets are named after trees

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FOUND POEMfrom 400 Fascinating Magic Tricks YON Can Do

for Beverly

BALL TRICKSThe Appearing Ball; The Vanishing Ball;The Diminishing Ball; The Self-rolling Ball;The Ball Tube; The Balls and The Hats;The Floating Paper Balls; The Three Marble Trick

CORK TRICKSThe Bouncing Cork; Upright Corks; Two Corks;Cork and Bottle; Adhesive Corks; Removing the Cork;The Improved Multiplying Corks

EGG TRICKSThe Balanced Egg; Spinning an Egg;Eggs, Spools, and Glasses; Egg to Confetti

FINGER TRICKSThe Mummified Finger; The Extended Finger;The Removable Thumb; The Detachable Finger;Stretching the Thumb; Eleven Fingers; Flexible Hands;An Illusion of Touch

RING TRICKSThe Phantom Ring; The Improved Phantom Ring;Ring Tied On A String; The Ring On The Finger;The Released Rings; The Ring In The Egg;The Vanishing Ring

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MISCEllANEOUS TRICKSThe Jumping Ruler; The Changing Spools;The Vanishing Candle; A Difficult Job;The Mystic Propellor; Pin Through the Head;Pins Through the Finger; The Turn Over Key;The Perfect Dissolving Knot; The Dry Hand;The Escape

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SPANISH STAIRWAY IN BEVERLY HILLS

open my mouthsay "hi" eat cake"how ya doin'?" "how ya been?" hopenobody saw me wipe my mouth on my sleeve"pard' me, 'xcuse me" i say"love that shirt" finish my cakeput the paper plate in a trash bagwalk in circleslepard' me"

through clumps of people"where's my jacket?"walk aroundto the wrought-iron railingone brown shoe on the edge of the stepsthe red-tiled floorthe spanish looking stairwayin the middle of beverly hillsmy car parked on some side streetfrost on the windowshard to seethe rear-view mirror needs adjustingmy face in the rear-view mirrorwhite icing in the corners of my mouth

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cut cut cut

cut cut cut. the mean kidchops his neighbor downand hurts her feelings.

bang bang bang. the miffed kidblows his mom and dad awaythey being so disagreeable.

punch punch punch. the vexed kidlets his friends knowwhen it's time to go.

whack whack with a baseball batthe mad kid shows us all.

and cut and push and stick and stab­the nice kidrip and break and stomp­the sweet kidcrack and smash and kick and shovethe dear kid holds for love.

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THE REAL STORY

here comes the kid and mrs kidall the little kidsvisiting grandma and grandpaarms full of giftsand big smiles on their kid faces.

hold it, kid, tell us what really happened.

the kid wakes up next to his kid bride;they have big kisses and warm hands.together they make pancakes with raisins,read the sunday paper,and curl up on the big couchto watch cartoons.

you're dreaming, kid. now cut the bullshitand tell us the real story.

the two kids meet. they kiss:explosions, fireworks, ka-boom.he says forever, and she says .

what does she say, kid?

... forever.

and then?

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and then they find an apartment together.he hangs movie stills and prints by van goghwhile she does macrame-

macrame.' kid, you're hopeless.you've got it all wrong. we want the real story.like this:the kid's on the edge, see?he's on the brink.he can't eat. he can't write.he's dropped out of school.he's a has-been at 25.we want the real story.he's standing on a bridge, see?staring at the water--the real story;you get it, kid?

the two kids are watching tv and eating brownies;they've finished off the whole packagealong with several glasses of milk.tired and full, they go to bed earlyand sleep with their backs to one another.

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THE ANIMAL

The animalIs the city where I live.In the black furThe ground breathes.

Wood frames, tile, pipeCling to the belly.There are arguments.A shade flaps open.

Traffic jamsWhile men repair the streets.Kids knock over trash cans'The smell blows through the windows.

There's a letter:My uncle, asleep on the couch,Never had a chance.The burning cigarette tip is all I Stt.

I want to know what's wrong.I hear the springs pulled back,Feel the claws in my mattress.In the morning

The sun's not right;There's a chair out of place.

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I WANNA BE LOVED BY YOU

from this mattress on the floori can see the tops of telephone polesapartment buildingsand treesno birdsthe 5 pm traffic is louder than my televisionjust saw a friend of minein a commercial singing "I Wanna Be Loved By You"

he looked like a bananaeveryone on my set either looks like a bananaor a talking pancakei can't see the telephone poles anymoreeverything is blue in hereheadlights run across the ceilingwhat is it now, six? it feels like six

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JUST THEN

just then, just as he lights a cigarette,up to his knees in snow, just as he remembers againthe postcards from California,a street in Beverly Hills, Hollywood at night,a picture of her at the beachwaving, squinting;just as he starts to wonder what the hell he's waiting forhow long before she "finds herself'?how many postcards?how many ceramics classes, dance classes,guitar lessons?just as he steps out from under the elevated,the grey rush hour of Lake and Wabash;just as he starts to think about dinner,all the fish he can eat at Lucille's for $1. 98;just as he notices the man in fur selling pretzelsby the 5 & 10;as he turns his head;as the adrenalin starts to pumpand he gets the feeling he should run,he looks up, a woman drops her groceries,and everything falls into the snow.

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ALKIES FROM HEAVEN

they're falling everywheresmashing through windshieldsthuds on the sidewalksome of them dangling from phone linesand some in the trashthey've been landing like this for days

one had landed near a gas stationwe dragged him into the shade and called an ambulancebut there are too many nowand the ambulances never come

they keep fallingand no one knows what it issome say it's godsome say it's the heatbut most of us don't say anythingwe duck mostlyand watch for falling bottlesthat's the hard part-

the bottlesfive or six at a timeone after the other like machine gun fire--we have to duck into doorways, hide under canopies~ home with our hands over our headsand lock ourselves intry to eat, try to read, watch televisionnewscasters and scientists report the latestassure us all that an end is in sight"we are getting closer and closer . . . ..but all night long the set crackles with bad reception

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BUKOWSKI POEM

I started writing this poemwhere Pamela and Iare sitting in a bar in Santa Monicaand she shows me some of her new poems.

I tell her they're not very good

and she starts yelling and throwingglasses and all of a sudden I realizeit sounds a lot likea Bukowski poem.Shit, I say, it sounds a lot likea Bukowski poem.What am I doing writing likeBukowski? ., .

I rip it up and toss it on the floorbeside the ants and the empty bottlesand Pamela's candy wrappers.

What wrong with you? she asks.

Oh, nothing, I say, it's just thatI'm starting to write like Bukowski.

Well, what's wrong with that, she says.He's a nice guy. I talked to him onthe phone one time. I asked him if he'dlike to do a reading. He said no butto keep buying his books.

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There's nothing wrong with Bukowski,I say. I just don't want to writelike him. I have a hard enough timewriting my own stuff, let aloneBukowski's too. And besides, he'sdoing an ok job of it on his own.

I go to the refrigerator for a beerbut there's just a lot of milk andPepsi-Cola. How come we don't have anybeer? I ask.

Don't be an ass, she says. You knowwe never buy beer. Since whendo you want a beer? I think you'regoing out of your mind, she says.

You might be right, I say.

And I gO into the bathroom and feellike vomiting but can't.I fill the tub with hot water.CHRISTl I yell.I don't take baths; Bukowski takesbaths; I take showeh!I shut the water off and sit down onthe crapper. I'm constipated andI have hemorrhoids and Pamela ispounding on the bathroom door.

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Hurry-up in there, she says;I HAVE TO TAKE A PISSr

Ok, I say, it figures - somebody has to

piss in this poem; it wouldn't be rightwithout pissing.

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HUMBLE KID HUMBLE

humble kid humblewakes upwith his headsmaller than it was last night

his piece of toastwon't fit his mouthhe jabs his cheekwith a fork

humble kid humble's·hands are too bigthey lie in his laplike pink young pigs

big dreams tumblebehind the small facethe pasted moustachefull of chocolate cake

piano bars, night spots,parties buzzbut humble kid humble'snot the man that he was

guitar strings rustthe piano's gone backsomebody tookhis cowboy hat

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his long white legsrefuse to dancethey grow like snakesinside his pants

humble kid humbleasleep in his chaira spiderstans a nest in his hair

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THE HEART IS A PUMP

i can't scream loud enough to stop things from fallingi love you she saysbut there are strange dogs in the kitchenwe fill the place with birds and roses

black tail brush against us

if i shake you i thinkif i could just shake it out of youif i could slap youi wouldbut everything breaks

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THE HEART IS A PUMP

the sky is orange like a matchyou leave mepressed against the glasswatching my own handswave to strangerslong legsin the white writing styleyou leave all special and roseynothing behindleft in the closet but blue cornersand lampsi don't know if i'll start buying things again

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THE HEART IS A PUMP

the skin turns redit withers like a peachuntil there's no chance of seeing youyoung men fly about the roomeach time you touch mei jumpwhen you close the doori scrub at the stains in the mattressi scratch myself until the blood comesthe hean is a pumphit me againhit me harder until something showsi can disappeari can shrink smaller than your boot heel

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BURN

People don't want to be healed. Theywant a nice juicy wound that will showwell when they put neon lights around it.

- Kenneth Patchen

water down my facemy chestburn memake me warmthis bathroomcoldthe chrome towel racksbare windowwhite feetthe skin blistersburncigarettehot sidewalkhole in my shoesofamom forgetsburningeven the firemencomebreak windowsneighbors pointand kids drop bicyclesrun

the black smoke is in my house

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my soft mattressmy sheets my pillowbrightmy fingers brightmy feet so bad

looki'm hurtmy hands tied behind mekids light firesat my feetwatch me danceindian howlslavespiders and lizards in the tool shedwant to see something?look-where the hand wasleft a red marksee the skin broke openflood finch eggs, rosessplash the white night-gownshe throws offlook how she holds memorningswhile friends in jailburn with losingdownstairswomen talk to dogsmy wrists in her hands like birdsher mouth on my cheekshe askswas it good?

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LOVE LEITERS, CUT UP

ice floats penis clinic/ i was raisins and apples,me blender full of was and mistake/ my squea1-iexpected/ i howling, asleep on little dimes/ untilUP THE WHOLE PROCEDURE.'/ like that with you deepkept pillows curled/ and it was allover ... i don'tburn-i ponder, upon you the schedule, ribs my fing~rs,

the realization: oh i IT for eight, about two weeks,crying on 21 days, takingness or irritate, have aperiod, then beg (or very near with) (what a hassle)etc., .angel we cannot pill belly at lunch time/ whenall open, all were, we were/ we lay in bed ... theafternoon/ on top of blankets/ pursuing quiet ends/i'd love to have an evening, plants, draw you, notcough so much/ i might even (once would be enough) .we were, you are an excellent person

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BIRTHDAY

i count the candles:25, 24, 23back in the citycooking spaghettithe girl from the bookstoreis coming for dinnershe'll be on timeshe'll be wearing a white shawlshe'll stay for two yearsand things will changethe bedspread will be a new colorthe walls will fill with picturesmail is deliveredthe phone ringsthe kitchen is warm with the smell of baked yamsrefrigerator fullspinach, brussels sprouts, corn on the cobcupboards packed with teas and spicesthat's my girl now coming up the stairswith a box of brown rice, raw milk, and cheesecandles glow in the small kitchenshadows on the ceiling grow longer and more franticwe have animalsfinches, hamsters, geesemonths pass byher birthday, my birthdaychristmas and hanukkah

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paper dings to books and recordsthe sink fills with dishestwo single beds pushed togethertoothbrushes jammed at the bristlesa white cake with candlesi dip my finger in the waxit cools too soonnot long enough to burnor make the skin red

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THE KID IS THE MAN

The kid is the manThis is his womanThese are his kidsThe kids are not born yetThe woman is goneThe kid is the manWho grows a beardThe woman says noHe shavesThe woman leavesHe grows a beardThe man in the houseThe man in the mirrorLeavesThe woman leavesThe kid shavesThe kid is the man who shavesThe kid is the man with kidsPretending to shaveThe kid has a womanThat's the womanHer plate, her chairThe kid brings flowersThe kid is the man with a womanA house and kidsThe man in the mirrorWhose woman is gone

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THE ONE

i'm the one the ambulance bringstied to the bedbelly full of bleachi'm the red scream broken kidsped through the streetsthe late night coughthe fever the wheezethe sick kidwrapped in ice-water sheetsi'm the onespecial kid bundledmy mother bringscake

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DRAGGING THE CANAL

The boats are quiet in the black water. Youface up floating in this night with steel against your cheek.

I can't remember what you said;I can't remember what you did.I don't know you, but you're so close I feel your breath.You so disfigured; you talking funny,mouth out of shape and smooth body twitching.

Don't you flow; don't you bore into me,take what I say and bend me up.

You wet lips; you broken baby.Tie you down you open wet like water rushes outlike paint.

You fished out, hair drippingand we all watching from the bridgelike I was standing over your bedhad to squeeze you tighthad to cover your mouth with my hand.

You on the streets in big letters.Have to rip you upbreak you open so you can say something.

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Feathers on the kitchen floor.You white, beside the sink, naked,telling me to do something, do something.Have to pry the bars open and work its head loose,push my thumbs in, let it fall,reach in with a paper towel and not let you see.

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THERE IS AN ISLAND

Fly me to the moonand let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is likeon Jupiter and Mars

-Bart Howard

There is an island I want to remember.

The moon bleeds through the bamboo blinds.I think about a rattan chair,a fly-fan, a parrot;but I want to remember.

There's a country I want to go to.

I concentrate;I bear down; my body pulls;every muscle tightens; and slowlyI begin to lift.The toes of my boots leave tracks in the dirtwhile men with machine gunsspray the clouds with bullets.

My ceiling has gold sparkles that look like stars.I draw my own constellations,put my own planets in orbit around cracks in the plaster.

There is life on other planets.

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The mother-ship comesto disintegrate our housesand blow up our cars.The weak ones are blown up too,the children, the old people.The rest of us are led into small ships.We have smiles on our faces. We are content.We stare blankly at glowing kitchens,melted tractors.We remember nothing.We are all excited about the future.

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Bob Flanagan lives in the Los Angeles area. He is 26. Heteaches in the Poets-In-The-Schools program, and has beenpublished in several small press magazines.

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BornbsheLten Pness1°92 Loma Drive

919Hermosa Beach, CA 90254