About AJ Strong as a poet, I can’t really say enough.  He bends words and moods into patterns that frequently make my head spin.  Always challenging, always insightful.  As with the poem offered below, he’s frequently at his best when he’s using heavy repetition like a metronomic, hypnotic bass line to drive home his internal rhythms.

——————————————–

A Time Grows in My Desire

stop time
stop time
double now

the serpent winds around the hours
like the swirls in the candy of your love
fruit

simple doesn’t describe the passage
of ingenuity that drips from your eyes
heat

higher and higher the winds of passion climb
within the vortex of your imagination
honey

stop time
stop time
double now

sex and you is like religion and i must
bow and pray to your canvas of invention
sugar

magic is a word for dreamers and poets
like the sound of your adventures on me
steam

stop time
stop time
double now

distance is no obstruction to your touch
silk on glass running down the spine of motion
high

the fruit grows on the tree in the summer heat as the honey flows into bowls of sugar creating the steam that makes me high on you

stop
time

– AJ Strong

© 2008, AJ Strong

Here’s a hint:  If you find yourself horrified and offended at any point, you’re on the right track.

I am pleased, delighted and deeply honored that Erwin allowed me to share this work here.

——————–

One Jew, Two Jews, Red Jews, Flued Jews

One jew,
two jews,
red jew,
flued jews.
Black jews,
stew jews,
old jews,
new jews.
This one has
a yellow star.
This one’s in a cattle car.
Say! What a lot
of jews there are.

Yes. Some are red, but all eat stew.
Some are shot. Most, chimneys spew.
Some are mad.
And all are sad.
And some are very, very bad.
Why are they
mad and sad and bad?
They should know.
Go ask your dad.

All are thin.
And none are fat.
The fat ones here
are yellow rats.
From there to here,
from here to there,
Zyklon B
is everywhere.

Here are some
who’re shot by Hun.
The Hun for fun
shoot a hot, hot gun.
Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!
What a lot
Of yiddish fish go fry.

Most have two feet
and most are poor.
Some are six feet
but never more.
Where do they come from? They can say.
But I bet they have come
a long, long way.

We see them come.
We see them go.
Some die fast.
And some die slow.
Flames burn high.
Morale is low.
And all of them
look like your brother.
Don’t ask us why.
Go ask your mother.

Say!
Look at his fingers!
One, two, three…
How many fingers
do I see?
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
fünf, sechs, sieben,
acht, neun, zehn.
He has ten even!
Ten even!
What a lucky jew.
I wish I had
ten even, too!

Hump!
Hump!
Hump!
Did you ever ride a rump?
We’d like to pump
but where’s a rump?
Slut
we know a man
called Mr. Pimp.
Mr. Pimp has a seven hump frump.
So…
If you like to go Bump! Bump!
just jump on the rump of the frump and pump.

Who am I?
I’m better dead.
I do not like
my barrack bed.
It is of wood.
We pack it tight.
The lice crawl out
of bed all night.
And when I pull them off,
Oh, dear!
They head straight back to bed,
I fear!

We like our kike.
He does work for free.
Our kike
is strong of back,
you see.
We like our kike
and this is why:
kike does all the work
when the piles get high.

Hey, better dead.
How do you, jew?
Tell me, tell me,
smell the flue?
How are things
in your barrack bed?
Something new?
Speak, better dead.
I do not like
this bed at all.
A lot of things
have come to crawl.
A flea, a tick, a rat, a louse.
Oh! What a bed! Oh! Geh’ heraus!

Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
I strain to tears.
Will you please
come over near?
Will you please look in my rear?
There must be something there, I fear.
Say, look!
A turd was in your rear.
But it is out. So have no fear.
Again your rear is clear, mein herr.

My hat is old.
My teeth are gold.
I have tattoos
in numbers bold.
My shoes are rough.
My feet are cold.
My shoes are rough.
My feet are cold.
I have tattoos
in numbers bold.
My hat is old.
My teeth are gold.
And now
my story
is all told.

We took a look.
We saw a schnook.
On his head
a nose that’s hook.
Fingers hook
to spoon the gook.
It’s the gook
sent out by cook.
We saw him shit
the fry from cook.
He took a look
at the dook in the brook.
And then schnook made pee
from the camp schnook gook.
So…
How rude to the schnook
is a crook gook cook?

The guard was out
and we saw some sheep.
We saw some sheep
get all gassed in a heap.
By the light of the moon,
by the light of a star,
they’d walked all night
from near and far.
I would never walk.
I would take a car.

I diagnose
this one’s not well.
All he does
is smell, smell, smell.
I will not have typhus about.
When pills come in,
I’ll put him out.
Typhenkrank,
bitten by a mouse.
I have to have them
all de-loused.

At bath house
we open cans.
We have to open
many cans.
And that is why
we have a van.
A van for cans
is very good.
Have you now Hans, a van?
You should.

There is much pox.
But the dead aren’t boxed!
So, every day,
I schlock their hocks.
In yellowed socks
I schlock their hocks.
I schlock in yellowed
pox tox socks.

It is fun to hang
if you hang with a bang.
My ling can swing
like anything.
I hang high
and my ling swings low,
and we are not too bad,
you know.

This one,
I bid,
is called
a yid.
His name is Sid.
He likes to pid.
He likes to pid, and pid, and pid.
The thing he likes to pid
is kid.
The kid he likes to pid is yid.
He pays him quid and pids yid kid.
So…
If you have a lot of quid,
then you should get
a kid, I bid.

Flop! Flop! Flop!
I am a wop.
All I like to do is hop
From station stop
to station stop.
I flop from left to right
and then…
Flop, wop!
I flop back left again.
I’ll likely flop
all day and night
from right to left,
if left to fight.
Why do I like to
wop hop flop?
Why ask dego?
Go ask your pop.

Brush! Brush!
Brush! Brush!
Comb! Comb!
Comb! Comb!
Jew hair
is fun
to brush and comb.
All jews who like
to brush and comb
shall have a vet
come shave their dome.

Who’s this yvette?
Say!
She got wet!
You never yet
met a pet,
I bet,
as wet as she lets
this wet pet get.

Did you ever
shoot a kike
from bed?
Did you ever walk
jack-booted
on their head?
Did you ever bilk
with mean, low blow?
Well we can do it.
We know so.
If you never did,
you should.
These things are Hun
and Hun is good.

Hallo!
Hallo!
Jemand there?
Hallo!
I called you up
to say hello.
I said hello.
Can you hear me, schmoe?
Oh, no.
I can not hear your call.
I can not hear your call at all.
This is not good
and I know why.
Partisans cut the wire.
Good-by!

From near to far
from here to there,
Zyklon B
is everywhere.
These yellowed pests
we call sub-nebs.
They shave their hair
from off their heads.
Their hair won’t last
or so, they say…
it went to pillows
stuffed that day.

Who am I?
A yid named Ish.
With my hands I dig a ditch.
I give a pitch
to dig this ditch.
When I pitch to dig a ditch
I heave my hands with a big kitsch twitch.
Then I say, “I itch for pitch!”
And I get pitched right in my ditch.
So…
if you itch to pitch a ditch
you may bitch and twitch
with my Ish ditch pitch.

At bath house
they’re laid on backs.
We lay all same
for chimney stacks.
Would you like to lay the same?
Come down!
We have the only
stacks in town.

Look what we found
in the park
in the dark.
We will take her home.
We won’t call the nark.
She will hide at our house.
She’ll lay low and low.
Will gestapo like this?
Goodness, no!

And now
good night.
It is time to sleep.
So we will sleep
crammed seven deep.
Today is gone. Today is done.
Tomorrow is another one.
Everyday,
from here to there,
Zyklon B is everywhere.

– Erwin Franke 3

© 2007, Erwin Franke 3

D.

——————————

A Thousand Words (Oil on Canvas)

I took a walk in the woods today,
thinking about you,
gathering dry wood as I went.
Crooked sticks, mottled with age,
dark with rot, pitted from the weather.
Metaphors for friendship, I suppose.

Down to the dry creek bed,
seeking out stones,
from the root tangled earth,
water worn and heavy, bones of the earth,
naked along the surface of the uneven ground,
shifted from their course by the vagaries
of evil weather.
Metaphors for trust, I suppose.

I carried them out in stages,
a reverse course ritual,
placed them with care, a rough circle.
Inside I built a temple of kindling:
Deer moss under twigs under sticks.
Metaphors for the layer of years, I suppose.

I struck a match, hovered over the smoke,
tended to hungry tongues of elemental fire.
I thought about you.
I thought about honor.
I thought about responsibility.
I thought about being there when you hurt.
I thought about betrayal.
I thought a lot about betrayal.
Metaphors for desire, I suppose.

I took out my pocketknife
and I shredded the canvas of the picture
you had painted for me, that had hung on my wall
for almost twenty years. I broke down the frame
with my bare hands. And piece by piece,
I consigned our past to the flames.
It caught quickly, almost greedily, a surge
of heat and smoke. The canvas burned
and burned, colors peeling, wood snapping,
phantoms of a deceitful past crying out
like the dryads of an axe-felled willow,
Until nothing remained but ashes and grief.
Metaphors for the end.

There’s nothing wrong with hubris.
Just be aware that the gawking crowd
will hold you to the standard
of the particulars and designs
you’ve declared
in your building permit.

And one day, when your tower falls,
struck down by the hand of a jealous god,
it won’t be your language everyone is speaking.

Day 3: My wife was screaming at me this morning. All she ever does is make me miserable. So I put some arsenic in her coffee. Not enough to hurt her, and besides, she’ll never know. I just need to take control of something in my life. I won’t do it again. It made me feel better.

Day 7: My wife and I don’t connect like we used to. She seems distant and paranoid. I know I said I wouldn’t do it again, but I put some arsenic in her coffee. When she felt sick the other day, she needed me. It made me feel better.

Day 10: My wife is feeling sick and needy. It’s stressing me out. It’s always about her. I just need a break from her constant whining. So I put some arsenic in her coffee. After she got sick, she went to lie down for awhile. It made me feel better.

Day 14: I don’t know what I ever saw in my wife. She’s lazy, sleeps all the time, never does her part around here, acts paranoid. She’s pale, sickly, doesn’t take care of herself. She’s always ragging on me about something being wrong with her, or with us. Thinks it’s maybe Carbon Monoxide. I told her I’d get one of those sensors. It’s all too much pressure. So I put some arsenic in her coffee. It made me feel better.

Day 21: I deserve better than what I ended up married to. There’s just no love here. All she ever does is harass and accuse me, and I can do better. So I put some arsenic in her coffee. It made me feel better.

Day 28: My wife doesn’t meet my emotional needs. It’s all about her and *her* illness, her needs. Can’t she see I’m dying here? I just need to feel loved. She can’t even do that right. So I put some arsenic in her coffee. It made me feel better.

Day 35: My wife got all up in my face today. God, she is such a bitch. She deserves all of this. If she’d treated me the way a wife was supposed to treat a husband from the beginning, this would never have happened. So I put two spoons of arsenic in her coffee. Serves her right for the way she treats me. It made me feel better.

Day 40: Today, my wife found the bottle of arsenic. She is pissed off. She says she’s going to call the cops. I can’t believe she found where I hid it. I feel like shit.

Day 41: I used to be happy and my wife was a lot easier to deal with when I had the arsenic. I wish I had more, but she won’t let me go to the drug store.

Day 42: Took my wife to the doctor because she’s vomiting blood. She can barely stand, let alone walk. He said it’s going to take 2-5 years for her to recover from arsenic poisoning, and even then, part of her brain was apparently destroyed. (From a little arsenic? Yeah, right! Fucking quack.) She’ll never be the same again, he says, but will probably get most of her functions back if I take care of her. Can’t they just pump her stomach or something? Now I’ll have to listen to her whine and watch her vomit for the next two years.

Day 45: I just wanted to feel better. Why can’t she just get better so we can go back to the way things used to be? I know what I did was wrong, but I was stressed out and fucked up. What else could I have done? I’m not a bad person, and she *was* a bitch. Still, I didn’t think this would happen, not just from a little arsenic. It just made things easier to cope with. She makes it sound like I tried to kill her. Like I was doing it on purpose. I was just trying to cope. I’m a good person.

Condensation
Precipitation
Evaporation
Later, rinse, repeat.

The wind blows;
The storm clouds gather.
The Rains come
Followed by the inevitable
Scorching glare of the infant sun.
The sky is constantly falling.

It’s the cycle of tumultuous
And turbid renewal
That washes us clean.
The world renewed in the
Lethian forgetfulness of the eternal sea.

But weather-scoured, time-eroded, wind-worn
In their heedless raging constancy,
Do the mountains ever get tired
Of holding up the sky?

(I’m no poet. I just happen to know people who are.)

Arnie Strong is a site moderator over at Trupoets.com and a poet of no mean ability.

Here are 3 of my favorites:

Circle of Nothing
Secret in the Steel
Andrew

1. The keys to the shed are on the nail inside the garage door.

2. The dog is allergic to Cap’n Crunch. You’re allergic to naproxen.

3. Everyone you know wants something that you’ve got: your time, your money, your wife, children. Otherwise they wouldn’t be your friends.

4. There’s only one “m” in pimento.

5. Mom’s birthday is August 9, and it always has been.

6. In necessariis unitas, in non-necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas.

7. Put #5 in your Outlook calendar as a recurring event. Set it for the 8th.

8. You’re AB-, *not* AB+. Repeating that mistake would be bad.

9. Even your best friend will take what is yours given the opportunity and regardless of the consequences.

10. Your work password is your mother’s middle name, your city of birth, last 4 digits of your phone number.

11. Mom’s middle name is Elaine.

12. Everyone has an agenda. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Trust no one.

I had the privilege of virtually meeting Pen nearly 8 years ago via our shared interest in sports text simulations (most notably, Front Office Football and Out of the Park Baseball — which I’ll probably discuss eventually…just not today), and later competed against him in the Front Office Baseball League. He’s a much better poet than a fake baseball manager.

This collection makes me want to quit my job and starve to death trying to write poetry somewhere in the Midwest. It’s like falling into a pool of sad beauty and trying to drown. So gentle, so melancholy, so wary and yet not world-worn yet. It’s the voice of a guy looking for hope, and though he knows it doesn’t exist, he has the courage to keep searching anyway.

I swear that I’m not going to be pimping shit in this space very often, but if you miss Lucktown, you’re a tool.