sele
cted
wor
ks
by
tom
miller
                                                                 © 1997
                                                                    FRED
                                                                    Ink
                                                                    Producti
                                                                    ons

                                                                    * what
                                                                     beautiful
                                                                     have you
                                                                     left pub-
                                                                     lished in
                                                                     Poetry
                                                                     Motel
                                                                     1997
a chap-
book for
the reality
of living
and the
fantasy of
life.


JUST WOKE UP
time for one poem.

what's it going to be?

something good, something fresh.

something early in the morning.

let's see...

     the daffodils and periwinkles
     greet the dawn's morning light...

no.

hmmm...

     laughing, she smiles with you
     her tongue working like a bellows
     fanning the fire of your love...

i don't think so.

let me think.

     at the first light's dawn
     he softly flower-smells the morning air
     and snicker-sniffs the coffee...

oh, man.

hurting.

wait, i have it.

     there was a young lady from macon
     who woke up one morning with bacon
     she cooked up an egg...

maybe i

had better

go back

to sleep.


GOOD MORNING
sun is up
time is right
alarm is sounding

mouth tastes like a
grilled baboon hole
with milk sauce

eyes swollen
sunken and sediment
in the corners

burps and farts
trumpet the new day
sandpaper face stroked

tight cramped legs
move on their own
drag body

off to bathroom
to shit a football
and masturbate

shower washes the
stink away leaving
a glistening pink

gristle shaved
nose picked
mine for nuggets

decay and food
scrubbed away
with peppermint chemicals

yesterday's underwear
underarms coated with gel
spray-on cologne

suit and tie
off to work
kiss the thing on the bed

goodbye


THREE IN THE MORNING MAN
it is three in the morning
i have not been sleeping much

i have been writing instead
about anything that pops into my head

     sad little big-eyed girl holding a
     small dog    i can not tell which is
     the girl and which is the dog
     she has a yellow dress on and a
     straw hat    she is barefoot
     and has a bandage on her big
     toe    possibly to remind her
     of something

see what i mean?

     i do not have a telephone
     the mirror is broken
     poems are piled around me
     like a deck of magic cards
     ultramarine by raymond carver
     sits opened to the poem, balsa
     wood, on page 10. there is a
     dirty spoon here.    oh...
     i'm tired, my back hurts.

see what i mean?

     legs cramping, eyes shutting.
     just ate cold turkey meatloaf
     with cold ketchup, dumb cat
     won't come out from under
     the bed. i'm going to take a
     bath. good night.

i sleep much better than i write.


DREAM #3 - THE ONE I WROTE DOWN
a tornado
driving down main street
     chasing me
     into the tall building
     from which i can see
     it coming, sucking up
     street life, spitting
     out dust, it seems to
     know me.
the fear
so real, maybe
there is some truth in here

chasing me

the tall building
     from which i see it coming
     coming for me
     closer
     and
     a wall of gray matter takes me up
     flying

flat death cold fingers
and bone -- i wake into
the brightness of sun
through blinds    blinding


COCOON
i am
a cocoon
fly from me
fresh from change
your new wings
open to the wind
leave me
empty


IN THOSE TIMES
when words become burdens
eyes strain over same song
headlines    a child's call

goes unanswered    joints creak
like a warm wooden seat
rocking chair

the old dog
lies comfortably
at the feet

she has long since
left the blue earth

a certain peace,
            like water
                        falls

blows across the
body    and the body,

as impressionist painting--
            one empty field where a
            cow once stood--

rests


TRANSMISSION - HIM
when my eyes are closed
many bodies surround me

looking curiously

they weep and laugh
the room fills with radiance

TRANSMISSION 2 - HER
for this party
she is undressed

she needs
a perfect fit

she has
a saggy potato sack

poor unfashionable girl
the party will be over
before she gets sick

TRANSMISSION 3 - WHY?
i did not write this
i have an excuse

these poems are related
but i cannot see how

can you solve the mystery
if not    on to transmission 4

TRANSMISSION 4 - THE ANSWER
these poems are connected
as we are connected to each other

like our brains are connected with
the world    the universe

we create everything in the mind
and then misperceive it

there is nothing

without you


MEMORY LIGHT
sometimes
looking at stars
is enough

looking
at stars
and seeing them

suns burning
millions of years ago

seeing them now
knowing they
may be
gone

and sometimes,
looking at stars,
which are
gone

we look at people
who have
gone

and see them
only by
light

just now
reaching us


MEAT EATER
my blind date
turned out to be a

ferocious vegetarian.
i ordered the new york strip.

"you know that has
putrefactive bacteria in it.

that's what gives it the flavor.
putrefactive comes from the

animal's waste stream. your meat
is flavored with feces."

"thanks, glenda,"
i said.

"you really should eat less meat.
you probably have ten pounds

in your colon right now. you could
get colon cancer if you're not careful."

"you're the best, glenda."
i said.

when we got home,
i slipped her a big fat tube steak.


THE PHOTOGRAPH SCREAMED
talking through air
through space
on radio waves

passed star silhouettes
and planet shadows
on electric lines

look at me
i'm breaking up
dust scattered

here in time
rippling the pond
wind upon wind

warning signal
forty-years after
the ship went down

that's me
a picture in the clouds
phone ring

answer
nobody here
static

voice from a dream
waking to dark
empty rooms

and i am still with you
tickling your neck
making the hair stand on end

please don't forget me

i was here, you know

i was here


HOW WE OPERATE
when a computer
breaks down,
a first response

is to
delicately examine
and make adjustments

frustrated
we finally
bang on it

either starting it up
or damaging
beyond repair

when a person
gets sick,
a first response

is to
delicately examine
and make adjustments

if the heart monitor
shows inactivity

we bang on the chest
until they recover
or die


THIS TOWN HATES ME
most all great prophets
are shunned by their wotns
most all great poets
are despised by their towns
most all great artists
are kept poor by their towns
and so to this town i say

fuck you

fuck you all
and your money and your jobs
fuck your haircuts and your possessions
fuck your suits and ties
        your pretend smiles
fuck your wives and your cookouts
fuck your vacation at disney world
fuck your father and fuck your mother
fuck your nights out on the town
        at red lobster or bennigan's
fuck your dreams
and your college degrees
fuck your cheap cologne
and your fancy perfume
fuck you
fuck me
fuck the whole god damned thing
i say again
this town hates me

and i am glad


CHURCH OF THE LIVING ASSHOLE
some people are not happy being depressed
they have to bring you down with them
some people are bores

they must bore you and call you boring
to feel justified in their cause
some people are just assholes

if you are not an asshole
they will not be satisfied until you are
church of the living asshole

always recruiting, always accepting donations


MANHATTAN BLUES VI
what the hell am i supposed to do
there's not a damn block here
without someone on it like me

i came from a small town where
one guy with tourette's syndrome
was a giant spectacle

here, they all got it
everybody shouting to the invisible
and the normal few look twisted

all my lines are mantras in this town
forty-nine cents for gas    wife in the hospital
car need a spit shine    dime bag for blow

don't need a story in manhattan streets
just a cup and the will to hold it out
the foot traffic takes care of the rest

back in my town, you got to score
because you only get three a minute
everything counts, especially your patter

but when you got three-hundred a minute
somebody will drop a dime for no reason at all
like a habit--turning on the lights

after the storm causes a blackout

of course, the town is on par with the take
your hamburger's going to cost ten dollars
god forbid you add lettuce and cheese

for the same price you can buy a house
in mexico complete with
a whore and a bottle of mescal

but i ain't in mexico    am i?
nope. and little mescalito ain't
dancing in the streets

at the end of the day
i check my cup and find
i made out like a bandit

this is the life i thought
this is the way
like my hero buddha

a classic beggar who
never had to say anything
and jesus, a man with a full grail


CINDY THE BALL BUSTER
in elementary school
a girl named cindy

learned how to kick
the boys in the balls

of all the places
a girl could kick

that particular target seemed to her
to produce the most profound effect

boys doubled over
clutching themselves

eyes wide mouths agape
gasping for air

and the more she kicked the boys
the more she liked it

a vicious circle
no talk--just kicking

walked right up when you least expected
and kicked you in the balls

later in life she learned to
produce the same effect

without kicking


A ONE LINE POEM

WHAT BEAUTIFUL HAVE YOU LEFT
wet sick taste of rotting fruit
gray brown grass once green
sky field of haze    burnt umber

hot dusty riverbed
memory of living things held in stone
shadow silhouettes where people stood

now in her eyes
trust given to tears

what beautiful have you left

when

alone

we wander


LET YOURSELF BE LONELY
from
time
to
time

when
the
music
stops

and
the
birds
have
flown
away

it is good to know yourself

so you have someone

to talk to


ALIVE AND DIRTY
yesterday at the dumpster
behind the minute market

i was throwing out some trash
when i saw something move

maybe it was a man or
maybe it was the garbage
            come to life

watch where you're throwing
that shit

            whatever it was said,

i'm trying to live in here


                           THIS POEM IS ME
                    been working on this poem
                          for thirty-one years

                    from the moment i was born
                                 until now

                         what a waste of time


THE TASTE
of all the memories,
she most fondly
reflected on the
quiet summer days
when mother picked
berries from bushes
and placed them in her
wicker basket to use
for jams and jellies

she would follow
close enough to
snatch one or two
and put them in her
mouth, tasting the
sweetness of a
naturally pure thing

the only pure thing
she ever had in her mouth
of all the memories

by the barn
uncle dan leering


4 A.M.
so tired now
i may not
be able
to
finish
this

po


FIFTY SHOTS OF BOURBON AND A WHISKEY BACK
in his eleventh hour
he had won the game
wheel of misfortune in a glass

and she all but disappeared
down the murky depths
of hard wet stupor

for in his dull state
of candor and nausea
mixed like a bourbon and coke

with a twist of lime
stirred to perfection
cold as ice

he vomits his life
and her with it
one step shy of the shitter


DRY
my pen ran dry
as i was writing
my best love poem

like my pen
my love has run dry
like my poem

sometimes love ends
shortly after it begins

guess i need
a new pen


                       THE END
                        in time
                         death
                     finds us all

                       drink up




many thanks go to the gainesville poets and writers group, jim valvis, ron palovcik, r. fidalgo, books inc., and bill perry.
                                             these poems written from january to july of 1997.