a blue colar crick in the neck
DESCRIPTION
A Collection of Poetry, Manual LaborersTRANSCRIPT
A Blue Collar Crick in the Neck
Chapbook
By: Armand Keckhafer
Acknowledgments
Contents
Alarm Clock…………………………………………………………………………………………………Page 1
What a Beautiful Thing to Sleep Without Recourse…………………………............Page 2
I’m Late……………………………………………………………………………………………………….Page 3
Too Many Good Years…………………………………………………………………………………Page 5
Wooden Spoons are Cooking Utensils…………………………………………………………Page 6
The Rewards of Hard Work…………………………………………………………………………Page 9
Quitting……………………………………………………………………………………………………..Page 12
Business Major…………………………………………………………………………………………..Page 14
One More Drink…………………………………………………………………………………………Page 16
On Loss………………………………………………………………………………………………………Page 18
Dead Turtles………………………………………………………………………………………………Page 20
Like Duck’s Feet………………………………………………………………………………………...Page 22
On Spiders…………………………………………………………………………………………………Page 24
Sweet Green Tea……………………………………………………………………………………….Page 26
Full Inbox…………………………………………………………………………………………………..Page 28
Smells Like…………………………………………………………………………………………………Page 30
One Eye Open, One Closed………………………………………………………………………..Page 32
Page 1
Alarm Clock
I can feel it now
its almost time
my lights are lined 8:29 the air horn is primed
I’m ready to go
Oh how he’ll jump the sheets will scurry
where are yesterdays clothing? Run large lumberous one
you’d better hurry! Maybe he’ll even crunch his toe
into the bedside
as he did last Wednesday, cursing.
He it comes, Its time!
Sirens full blare let loose the ringing annoyances
garbled radio frequencies have your share! He’ll certainly wake this time!
No way to lose Oh, God-Damn!
How many times does he plan on hitting snooze?
Page 2
What a Beautiful Thing; To Sleep Without Recourse
What a beautiful thing it is to sleep without recourse
head sunken into the downy pillow
like a treasure chest of dreams bounding around
in there
toes draped in multi-colored socks
poking out from the comforter
What a beautiful thing to sleep without recourse
I could not afford
when my alarm blared silent
fell upon deaf rem dreams
I’d missed
my third day this week
Page 3
I’m Late
9:12am
A small rustle of cloth, As my phone glides back
To its spot in my Right front pocket.
Alongside an assortment of ink pens, With push pop tops
One lighter,
Red Like the irritated skin
Around a scab Scratched too often
And loose leaf tobacco shavings Imbedded in cotton fiber.
9:13am The morning air
Burns like the breath of Hephaestus, Specks of cherry coals on scruffy cheeks;
It’s predicted to rain Today.
9:17am Oh god,
My eyelids were drooped. The blinds had retracted
The cord. My head was slumped,
Mouth gawking open. I hope the bus didn’t come.
9:17am Oh,
I swore a minute had passed already
Guess not. Page 4 The smooth backing of my cell
Is wonderful and cool against The gruff callous of my palm.
Like a burnt finger submerged in rushing white rapid.
9:23am The lethargic rectangular prism
Groaned to a complete stop And upon splitting the double doors
Sighed Like a single mother trying to keep it cool
After the third time her son Missed the toilet.
The glazed over eyes of the overweight black Bus operator scan me for threat
Before slumping their whole skull toward
The road again. 9:28
The trees along either side of the road Melt together.
The asphalt beneath sprints to keep up. A mirage of tar.
We’re only going 30. 9:31
I’m Late.
Page 5
Too Many Good Years
My bedside table rests
like an elderly black man
smooth cocoa skin
blemished
white scars, and searing
coffee cup rings
legs that wobble more than stand
screws left in a couple
a hunched back
weighed upon, too many good years
wasted
in service
keep ringing those bells
Quasimodo
Page 6
Wooden Spoons are Cooking Utensils
I know now that I wasn’t
the perfect child. I was hardly ideal,
a bi-product of my “godless” mother:
your daughter, an unwanted spurt
a spasm of DNA from my rapist of a father.
I’m indignant,
Pig headed. What I’d decided was right, was right
and it was so because I’d decided that it was.
I know now that you didn’t ask for me.
You had no intention of loving a new child.
Trying to tenderly grow his roots with plenty of sun,
the occasional sprinkling of watering can rain,
to watch proudly as the leaves sprouted
and the petals bloomed so you didn’t.
I know now that,
others,
Page 7
aren’t like you. That the other children
weren’t punished for tears. Food was not a privilege,
not for them. The pitch black of the concrete cellar,
the dust that rose from the slamming of the wooden entrance,
and the cool “shruck” of the bar lock being pushed into place
were all completely unknown to them.
I know now that,
the other children did not bury their toys
in the woods. They never dug through broken bark
through earthworms through grass you would have to grip by the husk
to rip it out mound by mound.
All for fear
that again batman can’t fight his dastardly nemesis
the kitchen knife. The other children knew
wooden spoons were cooking utensils.
But that doesn’t mean
that the blue crackled knuckles were just good discipline.
Page 8
That the welts and bruises that spread from yellows to purples
like food coloring in petite tea cups
on Easter were instilling obedience.
Just because I called you Sir and Maim
doesn’t mean you have my respect.
I won’t be you; I won’t teach tenderness in band aids
and turtle necks.
Page 9
The Rewards of Hard Work
1. The Pay
The four gaping mouths crowd around the dinner table.
The skin off calloused hands brings blood blisters, and
light paychecks. The landline drills dial tones into the skull
with Johnny voiced debt collectors who are over eager to
press send. The plates are glistening with saliva, the
mouths are not silenced, gurgling commands from empty
stomach pits. Feed me.
2. The Down Time
The young man with streaks of grey and a bend to his
stance of men twice his age stumbles through the particle
board frame of a trailer park door. The child is awake
staring with coon hound eyes on the verge of bitter tears,
each trail down his cheek a potion of intertwined despair
and jaw grit tantrum. A question fumbles into the air. “Why
are you never here?” There was no answer he would
understand.
3. The Recognition
Rise while the sun takes its second snooze, shuck the worn
olive overalls like the dusty rugs of ma’s kitchen. Name tag,
cell phone, lunch box, Paul Mall menthols? Check. The
first of the day smoke to greet the morning has the
harshest drag, like licking the underside of a spearmint
Page 10
candy baked to the pavement, he’s prone to wheeze. Drive
the barren roads to work, calm before the hurricane.
Eyelids droop on the forklift, ambling its paces down the
aisles, overtime work is filed under required hours. The
sun rises and falls in much the same way. Plaques adorn
the lunchroom walls, employee of the month five times
running. Promotional contract with John’s name on it,
exchanging pats on the back with the boss chatting up old
times.
4. The Support
The pallets tower above the regular limit, the forklift groans
under the weight. The trash piles have developed their own
centers of gravity, pitched into the dumpster one bag at a
time. Slate black film stretched to white by metal shavings,
filled to the brim. Always lift with the legs, and throw with
the arms. The bag bounded off the corner, collapse, an
audible crack. One week passed, lying on the bed, eating
bread crusts and oxycodone.
5. The Good Work Habits
The strings on the bottle were noticeable, and laced to the
hands. Measure, count, articulate, reason, one by one by
one by one by one by a few extra they fall down the throat
and hit the stomach with a splash. The stethoscope is
listening for that tell-tell sign the rattling shakes of
withdraw, trying to balance the scales. Monday is water
Page 11
torture, Tuesday a scheduled Chinese fingernail
examination, the lid is off the bottle again.
6. The Relationships
The mirror is ghastly, pale sunken in cheekbones, eyes
that drag for miles of desolate roadway, the wall on the left
side of the living room is as good a place as any to rest
them. Her face is taught, staring, talking in his direction,
trying to reach through the mist of padlocked clouds. The
child’s feet pitter patter against the cracked wood flooring.
The stairs creak beneath his leaps, up, down, up down,
jump, fall, up, down. The bottoms of the toddler sized
shoes are worn. The child tugs at a stick figure man’s arm,
pleading. The black clouds are rolling in.
7. A Good Night’s Sleep
Empty cap less plastic bottles litter the carpet bedroom
flooring. The lab coat is shaking his head, his palms rest
upon his hip and brow. The sterile smell of white sheets.
The split leather bands dig into the wrists the cold metal
buckles are little comfort, the ankles are empathic. Rooms
of other ghosts, whispering “Hello I am drug addict and I
have a problem.” Dreams of painlessness are shaken by
back surges.
Page 12
Quitting
The skin beneath
My arm
Shaking
Like the tone arm of a broken record
I need a cigarette, pwerrrt,
I need a cigarette.
“You should quit
Come on give it a try.”
As if I was waiting
For someone to suggest the thought
Before it crossed my mind.
The curvature of the sink is splattered
Streaking blotches of carmine
My throat is numb from coughing
So simple
“Why don’t you just stop?”
I keep expired cigarette butts
In my brown wallet
Page 13
Like ornaments of past regret
When I am racked by
Convulsion aches
I bring it above my lip
And breathe easy.
The homeless man with closed eyes
Savoring a hit from a half charred
Bit he found lying in the back
By the dumpster.
I want him dead.
If you’d ever given me half
The downward ahh the intake
The twists and turns of careening dust
That falls from the embers when ashed
The two fingered spin from the pack
To red lips.
I’d be hard on quitting you
Too
But as it stands
I’m leaving.
Page 14
Business Major
You palmed the sleek head of the Fender Stratocaster
its contorted carmine base, the three single coil pickups,
and cutaway horns;
fretted the cracked black pick in and around the strings.
With a hum and a strike of your foot against the old
linoleum
that sounded like the upturned, unanticipated, closing
of an old tome, of longwinded text, nuanced into
incomprehensible discourse on one happening or another
in which all the petitioners’ gravestones were a drought of
flower petals…
An instant catapult of dust
flinging what little mites had luxuriated there
for years
back into breathable air.
You’d strum the chords your finger nails
a mist of alabaster
your eyelids, scrunched
a pad-lock concentration.
My jaw hung
segregated
gentle nods every half second
Page 15
a contagious smile
like wild vine
crackling towards the sun.
You played so well I tipped you
10 bucks.
This year when I asked you what you wanted to do with
your life,
“business major”
You said.
“I have to make money, art is dead; what’s your major?”
“Creative writing.”
On the walk home I tore up a tulip
like it had my social security number printed
on the petals.
Just try to take my pen,
Adam.
Page 16
One More Drink
The air in Ol’ Mcaffry’s went down like
powdered sugar
and must.
That bounded from collective dingy boards in the sidewalls
every inhale was a shot of dust, neat.
The bar itself was a round center piece island;
a convince store rack, black hangers lined
with deadbeats, drunkards, failed artists, and every flavor
of cop.
I was of the third denomination.
The ripped black leather wire framed seats, all had a nasty
rise in the middle
that made the men sitting there saddle up, like boarding a
fence one legged
and given my colonoscopy was two days ago
it was especially unwelcoming.
The bartender was a one eyed broad, red headed with more
fire in her
than the famous fireball cinnamon whiskey that collected
dust on the middle shelf.
She was laced with old tattoos.
Her arms were children’s story books in swirling form
Page 17
knights in armor, to princess with skull decals, and
dragons on motorbikes.
She had a full head of spite and spittle
bit back more punches than I was ever willing to catch.
Either way, I wanted her,
and damnable courage,
the bar filtered some of its unwanted rubbish back onto the
street
and I was feeling like another drink.
Page 18
Of Loss
What little I know
is gleaned
from the smallest of tragedy.
The end of the rollercoaster ride
the decrescendo of spiraling loops and twirls
the unbuckling the seat belt, one handed
with a frown.
The rusted core
of a beloved apple
that shriveled and melded the pastel
water color greens and reds in aging.
From Tuesday through
Thursday, when you remembered it existed
and tossed it into the bin.
The goodbye,
that had three days notice.
Like there were late fees,
extra charges, on my
delicate heart strings.
With a mouth of sandpaper walls
and cotton coated tongue
Page 19
I couldn’t weave the word
That needed said.
What little I know
of loss,
is the last time you left
I didn’t
say goodbye.
Page 20
Dead Turtles
Morose;
because there are four
dead turtles
on this walk to wal-mart,
but also
realizing that
dead turtles
are super gross.
One,
is melted in its shell
like a child’s ice cream in
cardboard cone
left unattended, and taken by the sun.
Another,
was shattered
like a concussion grenade
tossed in a bunker
just scattered pieces
on the inner state.
Black tire singes on the roadway
a stench of pond scum
Page 21
and rotten sea weed
challenge the exhaust fumes for
air space.
A rabbit skitters by
the underbrush off the
side of the highway.
Who won that race?
Page 22
Like Ducks Feet
Cool blue water rushes out the rusted spicket
trickling over freckled
sundried skin
prickling tiny fine black hairs
like a chilled stream of rain water
gurgling through the concrete ditches
and overflowing the flood drains.
There was no bother
for the yellow elbow length gloves
that adorn the countertop shining
in the dim flickering kitchen light
reminiscent of ducks feet.
Fluorescent-blue
Dawn
soap, a squeezable bottle
shaped like an onion tuber
yanked by a tuft of bristle
from the river bank.
The contents always happily gave
Page 23
angry hives
like a million or more
red topped mosquito bites
in scattered disarray.
Yet the yellow elbow length
floppy, oversized
dish gloves
sat atop the counter top shining
in the dim flickering kitchen light
reminiscent of ducks feet
it wasn’t till I was drying
the last platter
that I noticed them sitting there.
Page 24
On Spiders
It sits in wait
on the hallway baseboards
and shower top crevices.
Where the soggy white bathroom walls meet to discuss
water damage.
Tiny hardly visible tendrils
trailed across doorways and back woods
maple leaves
of Hawk’s Ridge’s paths, alike.
Nothing should have eight eyes.
Really, anything more than two
is hyperbole.
Like its creator gripped them from a jar
and flung them willy-nilly
all over the creatures face.
I can even deal with the obnoxious amounts
upon flying insects and even the
awkward juxtaposition of the flounder.
But you eat a cobweb
across your bathroom door
for the third time that week
Page 25
and see if you release the next one
into the wild.
Page 26
Sweet Green Tea
Sweet, lukewarm, watered down,
from the ice-long melted
green tea.
Caramel in color like it’d been left
far too long to rot in
direct sunlight
floating remnants of
stems and leaves
swirled by finger tips for boredom cures.
A plain white plastic university cup
brandishes its golden outlined
advertisement lettering
as loud and far reaching as possible.
The polluted brown gulp
splashes my stomach like honeyed
Vinegar.
After every swallow my teeth stand at attention
like their commanding officer
strolled by their post.
They lift their rifles
and shiver too and fro,
Page 27
with a hint of lemon;
it’s the best thing I’ve had to drink
all week.
Page 28
Full Inbox
Hey,
I love your
face!
Lets dance
boy! Wooo!!!
I’m too old
and want to feel young
again!
I want to stare
at all the stars with
you. Awwww
it was alrightly cute!
Too manyyyyy jello shots
*I lose my fingers
in your hair*
Silly Boy.
That sounds nice…can I join?
that’s not as nice but
I’d live. I’m so stoked!
Take care of me…
all kinds of exciting adventures
Page 29
What a wonderful dream that is
I Love kids.
I’m ready to sleep now
babe
“Thanks for reading my poetry”
Thanks for writing it.
Page 30
Smells Like…
Those flowers, Dahlias
I think
reek like a gaggle
of geese came flapping through.
Careening south in their tight-knit V,
but maybe that’s because you
keep fanning them at my upper lip.
“Smell anything yet?”
They do look beautiful.
The chocolate mint chip cookies
radiate heat,
like an old cast iron wooden stove at full burn
in the mainstay of a crowded log cabin
in the woods,
when you open the oven.
But they only smell like a bonfire
because my mustache is singed.
Page 31
You always shower your neck
at the nape
with two extra dabs of perfume.
Misted from the pink Antwerp-cut bottle,
but it only smells like roses
because it pricks my nose
when I get too close.
Page 32
One Eye Open, One Closed
Arms curled beneath the quilt
her gentile breaths indent her pillow
and bound sweetly to my drifting mind
like a barnacle stuck up under a ship sailing to dreamland
what a lovely day, was today
A pink wax paper lantern
concluded the fireworks show
one by one we unruffled the folds
tender finger nails pull on the creases
watchful eye of the crowd of would be rocketeers
inspected each side for inconspicuous rips
“Make a wish”
She said.
Like a child I tossing a singular rusty penny
into a wishing well at the local Chinese buffet
aiming for the jade dragon’s skull
I kept one eye open
to watch it sail upon the air waves
the lofting rises
the fragile dips
I closed the other
“Look at that thing go!”
yells aloud grandfather nameless
binoculars set like spectacles
“I hadn’t thought it’d make it that far!”
The old man’s voice jumped and sank
like a boy playing hopscotch
“It must be damn-near 500 feet in the air!”
“What’d you wish for”
she asked
tentative
“I can’t tell you”- my normal response
was absent
her gruff callus on soft flesh I curled her fingernails
into my palm
parked my lips
pursed upon her temple
“That for as much time as we have
be it an hour
be it a day
be it a week
be it a year or a lifetime
that for every second of it my smile
would stretch as wondrous
as when watching that undaunted balloon.”
Sighing I sprawled my arms
and let myself be taken by the tide of sleep
“Yes, what a wonderful day, was today.”
Page 33