Less then half

Less then half

Oh the humanity

The poetry’s dead

Its been ripped

Out of me

Clear some room

What…you can’t see

Everything too close

The world to small

There is less

Then

Half

Of

Me

Oh the humanity

Its been ripped Out of me

The poetry is dead

And no one else

Can see

Chris McQueeney     8/31/12    9:51 P.M.

the image above                 was created

Sadness is a Cold Puppy    by Marvic Adecer    

Guest hosting The Raving Moon Bat

Ben Ditty has been kind enough to allow me to post over at one of his blogs the raving moon bat...please go check it out :-)


Chris McQueeney

     Here is the link    Poor White trash

Yeah, it's like that...

M & M

Marbles and matchsticks

Dreams are made of this

Clacker and dasher

Smasher and cracker

Hit the striker

But the flap says

Always close the cover

First

Hold that stick or strips

Until they burn

Down to the tips

Of your fingers

Cat’s eye and crasher

If I work it right

I’ll get yours

Before you get mine

Chris McQueeney     8/24/12    12:34 P.M.

Image from bing image credited to Tracy Roberts

I haven't talked about my health for a while, so I thought I would give an update. I haven't worked in

over six weeks and I still am not able to. I have this feeling that the work comp insurers are going to try 

to deny the claim...that is why I retained an attorney today. I was trying to avoid hiring one, but I felt like

I was forced. 

I still am coughing all the time, and at times it feels like I am drowning. But I am alive, and haven't had 

to go to the emergency room in weeks :-) 

Note to self...if ever exposed to chemicals that cook your lungs through chemical reaction make sure it 

is being video taped, and have an expert witness testify that animal farts would not have been able to 

cause the same kind of damage. 

  

Perdition

By me

There’s no need

For me still to be

The family tragedy

That path with it’s

Well-worn treads

Has been traveled

Far enough

No longer a life

Of crime

This life of mine

Walking forward through

Years of neglect

I step onto

The road untraveled

By me

Chris McQueeney    8/20/12    11:50 P.M.

The still images are from the movie The road to perdition.

one of my all time favorite movies 

The Re-birther movement

The clown is mine

“Reports are coming in from all over the country, strange occurrences at fast-food restaurants”   were the hurried words from the news broadcast. Strange that I remember it that well…even after all these years. August twenty sixth twenty twelve, if only someone of authority had put the pieces together, was the day the re-birther movement was born. What a fucking nightmare!

All I wanted to do was have some chicken, and a pop…so to the local chicken hut I went. That chicken was the best I have ever had, and the pop…it was to die for. Well I wish I could die. If only I could die, if only. I am not sure if it was the pop, or the chicken, but one caused my dilemma. I can’t die, just can’t; won’t work no matter what I do.

That was three hundred and thirty three years ago.

Within months of the birth of the movement it became clear that the commotions could be linked to two fast-food joints, one burger, and one chicken.  I have been tracing the start for hundreds of years now, and I found them…the fathers of the burger family. After a week of torture one admitted it was he that started the whole thing. And for that I will damn him for eternity. Presently he is lying in a vat of oil soaking for his burning upon my return. The burning won’t kill him, but it will sure hurt and it is the least he deserves.

“I swear I didn’t mean for the statue to come to life; I just wanted to stop people from drinking the pop, I swear!” The boy actually thought I cared what he had to say about his intent.

“Shut up! I only want one thing from you…where… is… the… clown? The only words coming from your mouth should start with, the clown is…otherwise shut the hell up while I cut you some more”

I call him a boy but he is the same age as I, but he looks to be about nine years old.

Holding the knife I decided to see what he would do if I punctuated the next question by stabbing his blue fucking eye out. “Where the fuck is he you fuck stick!” Thrust, withdraw, the knife made a squelching noise as I pulled it out, and he screamed, and screamed, and screamed. The wails were soothing in a way; they drowned out the eternal screeching. Eternity would be good if not for the screeching.

After a few more minutes of the screams I threw a bucket of water over his face, and got really close to him on his other side.” Where is the clown” I whispered into his ear as I tapped the tip of the knife on his cheek progressively closer to his eye…

“In Tokyo…at the burger temple in Tokyo” he said with a sob. And then he pissed himself.

That was three days ago. It took me a day to get to Tokyo, and I have been sitting outside the temple for the last two.

The clown is mine…he is mine!

Chris McQueeney    8/27/12    12:10 P.M.

This story was penned in response to a story written by Ben Ditty...he Is an extremely fun and interesting writer please go check him out....

The soda fountain of youth  

On this hill I climb

Souls Blood

Whole again

The way I was before

They took the pin Out of the wheel

And the spokes fell off

Broken and torn tattered and beaten

On the ground you'll find me bleeding

My soul’s blood out

Needing the world to be

A gentle place If but for a day

Knowing that one more Pain will take away

My need to keep breathing for real

On this hill I climb

It is the one on which you’ll find me

Making a final stand this once I choose

I will upright fight from

The top...

This is the hill worth

Dying on

Chris McQueeney    8/24/12    3:33 P.M.

Tomorrow I will be writing a story in response to my friend Ben Ditty's post 

Soda fountain of youth 

I worked on it earlier but my heart wasn't into it tonight and it deserves my all

Dream land

Lips so soft

I dreamt of her today

She kissed me

Tasted of memories

So sweet

Her lips so soft

Memories sweet enough

To destroy a man

Laying waste

To the fragile declaration

Of self-worth

I dreamt of her today

She held my soul with

Memories so sweet

I gave my dignity away

To hell with self-worth

What good is it anyway…

Chris McQueeney    8/24/12    11:29 P.M.

In the land of peaks and valleys

Of a mole hill

Lifting this mountain

Of a mole hill Off my back

Like kicking

Or licking the drink ing thing

Again

Over and over again

Thoughts of me In your head

Loving me and

Wishing I was dead

The thought train

On tracks that dig

And dig

And dig deeper in your soul

Making it harder and harder

For we to let

Go

Of this mountain

Of a mole Hill

Chris McQueeney    8/18/12     10:18 P.M.

And all that shit

As if they need our help

Butterflies and bullshit

Laughing cows that make milk

And cheese and shit

Happy rainbows that smell of joy

Dancing hamsters all gangsterd up

Rollin on fours mix-n it up

And all that shit

Fox news says that Boy gotta lose

Or the country gonna fall

To them commie socialist

Bastards…it’s their fault!

While the other guys

MSNBC would have you believe

They are on your side

With their news they hide

Genocides and Apartheid

Monsters left alone

While their countries die

Look at the hand in the air

The new shiny fresh off

The Chinese assembly line

While we rob you blind

How fucking dumb are we

To believe the shit their giving

Feeding us butterflies and bullshit

And we fucking take it

And fight to protect them

As if they need our help

Chris McQueeney    8/20/12    9:16 P.M.

A study the laughing cowvalier by Caroline Shotton

Truer Grit

Tess over at The mag posted this image of the painting, Under the Windsor bridge, 1912, by Adolphe Valette. While the image didn't spark an immediate poem, it did remind me a bit of a little spot in the city I live in. Just outside the courthouse on Main street is a set of stairs that go down to the river. The stairs go below the highway that runs behind the courthouse; a highway that has at least four names that I know of. Driving on the highway you would never know that the road is actually a bridge at that point, and the stairs go under the road.

I can only imagine why they built the stairs, maybe to transport people to and from court, on the river. At times I imagined three men in a boat, one rowing, one chained to his seat, and one with a scatter gun, coming to the stairs. The chained man to be brought to justice, and maybe the gallows. This was a rough town, a mill town, and for a time the state capital…and the end of the Oregon Trail.

I would imagine those things, would give life to the rower, Cliff, who got a silver piece to row the leaky boat those miles to the courthouse. Thomas the guard, whose wife should have given birth to their third child by now, Thomas not being there because he had to track down the runner. And the runner, a good looking young man, who killed a man over liquor and gambling…may also have had a bit to do with a brunette named Jane. His name was John Landers, and probably by this time tomorrow he would be doing the dance at the end of the rope, after which the judge and the bailiff would smoke some opium in the den just down the street.

      I would imagine these things as I walked slowly down the stairs. I would flesh out their lives, as mine was slowly ending. I would imagine these things as I made my way down the stairs to my home for the evening, my meager bed under the bridge downtown…that almost no one knows is there.

Chris McQueeney    8/19/12    10:51 P.M.

Truer grit

A wolf spider sat

Upon my hand

So still

Not moving

Beautiful in its

Purpose

I screamed like

A little girl

And twitched

As if jolted by

Old sparky

The spider had

Truer grit

Then I

Chris McQueeney 8/19/12 12:38 P.M.

Lucks trap raven

Things have a way of happening that at the time seem not that big a deal, but actually are huge. Almost a year and a half ago after hearing a longtime friend refer to his blog for the fifth or tenth time that year I asked him how to find it. He told me, and I went. I was amazed at what I was reading. It wasn't the smarmy crap that the rednecks and hicks that I grew up with made mockery of. In fact it was amazing. I read another of his posts and penned a poem in response. The first poem I ever wrote…I had made a poem in the past but due to complications I wasn't able to actually write it until last year. And in the just less than a year and a half I have penned about one hundred and fifty poems. Some are good…very…some not so good. But I find I am in love with writing, and that includes poetry. The rebel in me keeps me in free form, but I have penned a few form poems and I am able to do them credibly. Christopher has been a twenty plus year friend, and I would say he is the closest friend I have on the face of the planet; his words more than any others put me on this path. His encouragement brought me a host of friends with the gift of words. He put a post up a while back and I wrote a poem in the comments. The other day he posted, and in that post linked back to thepost from the past, so I went back to look at it again… it inspired a new poem in me. Today I would like to share those poems with you, and also another poem Christopher turned me on to a while back

…………….

I thought

Thought I saw a raven today

It looked at me with intent

Harbinger of what…

My day of course!

Like I said

Thought I saw a raven today

With intent it looked on me

From a faded blue roof

A crow, not a raven

A crow heralded my day

Caw, caw

Chris McQueeney 9/30/11

Steel toothed

That bird I thought

I saw today

Was a raven that

Had got away from

The steel gates

Of death’s trap

 

That bird I thought

I saw today

Luck’s trap raven

That got away

Warning me of Death's

Steel toothed grin

Chris McQueeney    8/17/12

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Randall Jarrell  1945

Jarrell, who served in the Army Air Force, provided the following explanatory note:

"A ball turret was a plexiglass sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upsidedown in his little sphere. The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose."

Crestfallen

So you ask

Am I angry?

Fuck yes I am

How could I not be

Do you think I live

With my heart

Divorced from me

Fuck yes I’m angry

Wouldn’t you

Feel torn in two

A million jagged pieces

Tearing their way

Out of you

So you ask

Am I angry

And I say to you

No, I’m not angry

I hurt, but then again

So would you

Chris McQueeney    8/17/12    5:32 P.M.

Crestfallen: Photo by Photographer Roger Gutierrez - photo.net

A gentle one

Single hue

Twining we wind

In circles ever closer

Roots and limbs entwined

Under this gentle sun

Riotous colors surround us

Yet a single hue

We would not see

But for the love

That spins around

And within

You and me

Chris McQueeney    8/16/12    2:13 P.M.

This Was inspired by an image from a friend's Facebook page...Thank you for letting me borrow this from your page Grace