Nelson the Seagull

Sitting at Nelson the Seagull
reviewing my tablet
setting and re-setting
and all beginning to seem like wasting time
snipping protocol at this/that website
slow-loading functionality
brain – much faster
surfers, surfing in
connections getting even slower –
got-to-get-me-one-of-those signal boosters,
rumour has it, some people engage

Coffee being handed from customer
to staff cook – why
smell of human fog, getting thick
Cards or canvas flags – strung across
the divide  several times
one inch tile  holding down the
warped illusion floor
and a creeping leaf-strewn carpet
matting the entrance
The sidewalk floor-washers are
outside:  my colleague gives me
a glint-and-a-wave
in his yellow rain costume

The man’s brown shoes
at the table next-to-me
go well with seemingly bleach-blonde
short hair – standing straight up
Across from me – the woman
with the long hair
shuffles-and-clacks the ends of the sheaf
to the long wooden table

this is a good coffeeshop

Vocabulary Link: * clacks
© 2014  Rudolf Kurt Penner

Caring for the Coffeeshop

caring for the coffeeshop
where the owner is always present
or is presenting one of the employees he chose
working the internet
from his own free Wi-Fi
that is – it’s free for us,
the Cute customers
but he’ll always gather himself
up to serve a coffee
or arrange the pastries,
never getting lost on the net
like us Average Joe’s
The rough-worn bar whose sides just look old
and may indeed be old –
but brought in to enhance
the modern feel interior
decorator did a fine job, maybe himself
so fine even I am caring for the coffeeshop
in turquoise clay the mud is poured
dining in traditional Chinatown, now
leased to Whites and Browns
who’ll pay any price to open up;
unafraid of losing a couple hundred grand
how can people be unafraid of losing
a couple of hundred grand
and be so nice about it
at the same time
I gave myself an extra dime
to make a call from an extinct phone booth;
40¢ just wasn’t enough
to call the beach
where the Persian lackadaisical man informed the ocean
of his being
here
some girl tore to shreds
the remnants of his life
a wild ride
with real estate
he’s leaving he’s leaving
after weaving his tale

how can people be so cool
to work around the purer rule
of certainty and law
leaving their non-existent baggage
at the door
of science and nature

© 2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner

One Mountain Lion, One Police Car and One Deer

One Mountain
and One Police car
and one deer

And three trees,
and 2 deserts

One mountain Lion
one woman with long hair
spinning her web

one dried up sea
stretching from see to see point

a rattlesnake wriggling thru

shorten my sentences
with a hangman’s rope
cut with a razorsharp

here we are

bring me a rabbit and a blade of grass

tomorrow’s the nightday

Northern California, close to Reno

one mountain lion
one police car
and one deer

the tracks were laid down long ago
by a featherlight pen

now the pigeons sit on trains
even in boxcars
satisfied by a seed

by a fountain pen

and they were all here

drinking from the well
of the golden snake nearby
asking the camera for a projection

© 2014 Rudolf Kurt Penner

lo-fi protocols

It’s so boring when you’re drunk
to hear ordinary announcements
You take a hard rock candy Black Russian along on your bike
riding in the Sun-day
thru the throngs of Sun-Run
roadies all spooked in white
with printing, black in nature

The cloud rolls in, but it is not sick,
there’s an eerie clamour towards
the sky; red pens won’t
record the district atmosphere
sentimentality is on record as being obscene, but would
you and I agree

When boredom drives you to the
movies – any movie will do
while the organs play in a small town –
you’d be hard-pressed to hear two together in this day and age; maybe
congruously in several towns
via satellite or VOIP
but no SOUND QUALITY CAN endure
the lo-fi protocols
of quick  snappy   access to sound

dream of a fat pig flying thru the sky
with motorized jet stream coming out of its arse

The bike is orange
the racing flag decals
black and chequered white
The drink is brown
with massive cubes of God’s ice
The peacock struts its stuff

some claim a narcissistic pattern
but not so – the St. Nick of your soul must rest in Narcissus

taking + picking gold rings from
the fir & gold tree
They have beed wrested well from strangers
who had them made, carved + poured in molds
the wax ran out

the pig was rescued from the sky
which was yellow and silver today

caring for the debut princess
in the school play
the theater of the mind;
a boy reading in his Boy Scouts outfit
clear as a bell that rang from hell

The Theatrical Director will sing
the oranges will fall from a crate and barely bounce
for fear of brown
warehouse darkness

like the Orange
the mind can be full of zesty honours
just fit for flashy birds to take
on their journey
missive cues of god’s mind
a translucent cold
fear of racing wheels

* vocabulary: missive
© 2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner

MORNING ANGEL

The one who stays the dawn

to slay a few less dragons

here begins the morn

as a silver Stingray rolls by

and Jerry-the-madman is getting high…

… The MORNING ANGEL is busy placing

cigarette butts for the downward-looking dogs

A piano starts up in a big old house…

… The MORNING ANGEL speaks a

word or 2 to the CHOSEN FEW…

(for full poem please contact me – one X-rated line)

© 2014  Rudolf Kurt Penner

the Celine Dion pen

Celine Dion was walking down the street
where I found her pen
lying on the ground
with her signature on it
I picked it up
and drew a pretty picture

when she went back to French
I sold turpentine in the dime store
in a small city in Canada
and took pity on all the starving artists
lining up before my door every morning
I would see them from behind the curtains

I wear sunglasses when I work,
so as you can imagine
things are pretty mellow
on rusty mornings
trying to look preoccupied
for the few customers
on a Wednesday morning

© 2012 Rudolf Penner

Let Me Go (Revisited)

Let me go on the Rocks

– on the rocks by the riverside

too old, too old

too steep a hill to comb

no clout, no references

Stuck in the Valley

– the valley below

roaming around scattered icons

of trash by trash-west

no snout, for truffle picking

the thin birch

– standing tall amid the giants

cold and chipped

flat area brush mixing with marmots

get out, evil spirit

Let me go on the rocks

– on the rocks beside the shore

fold me up, throw me away

a blue paper napkin

flips about in the wind

…and sinks in the water

and is carried away downstream

© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner

this is a second version of a previous poem from long ago, at first, attempted to write from memory: failed. This is the revisitation.

Trust Only Employers, It’s Only A Crow

Trust only employers

those who hire you

they can tell all the truths they wish

if they ask you to lie for the cause

please be patient with them

There is only one rule that matters:

and that is: make money

if it doesn’t gravitate greenbacks

it ain’t honest work

trust me on this

I asked you for a glass of wine:

and you were only serving beer

I asked for a cup of water:

and it was only for the customers

it was only caffeine for the workers; they want you buzzing

There is only on radical around here:

and he is out of a job, just now

you can only hold your own so long

some hold it forever

They don’t bitch and complain and tell you what’s wrong

If grass don’t grow here, ‘s something wrong:

for it is the season

somebody put something there

and now it won’t grow

gasoline, or radiation, or concrete

That bird is sick:

it can’t fly away

it’s here to stay

that bird over there” it’s sick too

but I know, it’s only a crow, and that is how it goes

© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner

hork

We spit out, over and over again,

what we’ve been told

I’m better at hiding it, because I

read more varied sources, and

you might be hard pressed to name them

Our own thots are rare, and really only a

reflection of those in orbit

Like parrots we go gabbing all day long

pronouncing the fate of millions,

America, Afghanistan, Iraq

horses, hidden in the barn

at the back of the farm

the future of sad billions, not really

ours to dwell upon. Altho a

kind word in the right direction, might help

a kite, in the brite sky, flying so gaily

the mail still arrives daily

mostly junk mail, invitations for a credit line,

tempting your already unhealthy brain.

Somebody spent a lot of money on those little ads

here or there a duck, listening to Styx music

a quick nickel from the sidewalk

and a bit of bark for tea

ne’ry a dog that doesn’t pee all over

a black dressed man horks in

front of him, far too close to you.

©2011 Rudolf Kurt Penner

the man with the black guitar

no the black man with the guitar and rollerskates

the busking skinny man in Gastown

with the voice – what a voice

– what a memory –

– someone who created ‘the scene’ –

and will never be famous

in the dark fall evenings

you could hear him

1/2 a block away

and my face would light up long before

ever getting to him

perched on the ass-freezing concrete

sometimes, oodles of months later

with no guitar: just that voice

the voice that can cut the dark blackness anyday

©2010 Rudolf Kurt Penner