...
The Art
of Dan Abernathy
Contributors
Dan Abernathy
Jocelyn Moore.
Dr. Blaise Allen
Tim Kahl
The Spoken Word
July 2017
Blaise Allen
FUBAR
Drinking Idiom, FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition
At the bar, men approach me all night. Alan says,
You are so cute, I’d do you in a minute!
Can I offer you a stiff one—ha-ha.
Joe rubs next to me at the bar orders his 11th. shot.
says, it‘s my 42nd birthday, give me a birthday hug.
I say, no! My husband’s on stage. You can’t hug
because you’re married? I tell him if he sees you
hug me, he will jump off the stage, hit you
over the head, smash his guitar, then I’d have
to buy him another guitar. His friend, Alan, comes over
with a pool stick, makes suggestive movements
with the stick between his legs, wants to buy me a beer,
says he could give me multiple beergasms. I say,
I’m from New York, would circumcise him all over again
if he touches me. He calls me a stick Moyle and buzzkill!
At midnight, two old-timers dance around me.
The British one’s swacked, three sheets to the wind.
Speaks with an amped-up Limey accent. He smells great,
I ask what he is wearing. He puts his arm around me
and says, I don’t know if it’s the Marywanna, or my cologne.
His friend Jim’s well-oiled, monk-cool, asks, What are you
drinking? Alan weaves back to the bar, pushes between us,
belts down another shot, puts his arm around Jim, says,
I really like you man, I mean, I really, really, like you.
Alan’s drunk as a lord, hammered, tanked, FUBAR.
Between sets, my husband flexes twitching muscles,
asks, Are you alright? I really want to clobber those guys!
O’Conner’s Pub
Lucky and I meet weekly at the end of the bar
with fist-bumps, after he’s spent a 12 hour shift
as a chef at a local bar. He’s been at happy hour
since he got out of work and it’s almost 9:00 now,
a beer in one hand, shot of Rumpleminz in the other,
tells me he’s going to leave soon, his next is his last.
I let him know there are cop cars are surrounding the bar,
they’ve got the dogs out, they’re looking for someone.
He says, Fuhgedaboudit, someone specific, not me!
He picks up his keys, lights a cigarette off the one smoking,
knocks back his shot and says, See ya next week kiddo.
I warn him not to leave or he could get nailed
for a DUI. He says, the cops aren’t looking
for an old-guy like me! I offer to drive him home.
says he’s fine, repeats, They aren’t looking
for an old-dude like me. If I get stopped,
they’ll let me call the bar to ask a friend
to drive me home, they’d let me go.
I’ve lived here forty-years, what do they want
With an old dude like me? They’d let me go.
Really, I don’t care if they’re still here or not,
I’m not the one they’re looking for.
Encounter with an Angel
At 300 plus pounds, she’s barely able to get on the barstool.
Quick-smiled, prettily made up, labor-breathed, orders a beer.
Introduce myself, ask her name, she says, Angel,
a regular on Karaoke night. I tell her I’m only here
on open-mic Monday’s with my husband, the house-band-bass-player.
I’m across the bar from my regular seat to celebrate a birthday,
invited to have a cupcake, I pluck a homemade red velvet
with cream cheese frosting out of a Tupperware container.
She asks, aren’t you going to ask the fat girl if she wants one?
I say help yourself, and she does, twice.
I meet friends at the other end of the bar, leave her with her beer.
Hours pass, she taps my back, says, I’m outa here,
my ride is coming. Nice to meet-ya-girl!
After a while, I go outside and find her sitting on the curb,
ask what happened to her ride? She says, my girlfriend picked up
a guy at Cumberland Farms and is taking him home instead.
Cumberland Pharms, as in pharmacy, where crack-heads hang.
She looks up from the curb laughing and says, what a WHORE!
I ask, are you going to call Uber? She replies, no money
for that, maybe I’ll go back inside for a beer or two.
I’ve had no luck tonight, the pickens here are slim.
I tell her the bar across the parking lot has a five-dollar
cover for women on Monday nights, and it’s all you can drink.
Maybe she’ll find someone she knows to drive her home.
She rolls onto her street-dirty-knees
and with Herculean effort, pulls herself up, she’s going there.
I say, be safe, there’s a lot of crazies out there.
She looks at me wild-eyed, laughs and says, I’m loco, Blaise,
I’m really loco, you have no idea what I’m capable of.
You don’t know it but I was in prison, I killed someone.
I’m nuts as can be. I can take care of myself.
She asks, do you know, you were the only person who spoke to me
all night? Not one other person even said hi, only you! Not one
guy looked my way. Slim pickens here, I tell ya, as she walks away.
I say just be careful. She replies, do you think anyone would take
this on? Pointing to her body, arms big ham hocks, sausage legs
stuffed into leggings, and she wobbles across the parking lot
to the other bar.
The Consecration of Chaos
Stories of the humdrum,
with hints of mayhem
point to the miracle in the mundane;
beatitude in the boredom
of everyday life.
One mark of mastery
is to lift the scale of a fish,
wash the scales off my eyes,
examine under lying flesh wounds
with an unjaded view.
The universe in a gesture,
millennium in a mothers call,
an uncommon common place.
We all belong to the Stammtisch,
in grace at the table of life.
Welcome Home
Pens on a ragged piece of paper,
postured to expose emotions in the heart.
I look through a lens to capture the moment,
to make an image of what was,
only to allow a raven steal it,
fly into the abyss, leaving nothing
to welcome your thoughts home.
It is an empty cup of broken Crayons
with dirty paper and no refrigerator to stick it to.
I’m welcomed home,
but I walk into a place I’ve never belonged.
I feel, I write, I paint in the darkness
so you won’t see the soul of the artist
and fear to speak the words,
“Welcome Home.”
Take your shoes off
when you walk into a home
Create and don’t listen to the critic.
Take charge
and listen to what strengths are alive
keeping you being you.
This is what we are,
this is what we do.
Welcome back.
I write my story
and I want you to read it,
as I sit quietly, waiting
and watching you write yours.
I will read it and cry with pride
and never, as my eyes pass over each word,
will I question, judge or condemn
what your story screams at me.
Your story is yours
and I will love you
no mater what your story may reveal.
The day will come
when I no longer take my shoes off
and walk into a home that is not there.
I will be gone.
Will you want me then?
Will you want to know the details
of the greater story
when I cannot answer the questions
of what is?
~ Dan Abernathy
~ Blaise Allen, Ph.D. is Director of Community Outreach, The Palm Beach Poetry Festival. Her poems have been published in literary journals and anthologies including: South Florida Poetry Journal, Clackamas Literary Review, Pulse Medical Review, East End Elements, Naugatauk River Review, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Blue Fifth Review, and Long Island Quarterly.
~ Jocelyn Moore is a salmonid aficionado who cherishes the open spaces, clean waters and mountain-like deposits of snowfall at her Wyoming home. Her poems and writings have been published by Rats Ass Review, Round Robin, WyoPoets, The Avocet, Kaleidoscope, Wyoming Writers Inc., Hydroquest, Writing Women of Zurich, American Planning Association, The Contributor and Pudding Magazine. Next to standing thigh deep in water, her favorite haunt is a 1953 log cabin in the Bridger-Teton Wilderness with her Catahoula-mix pup, Beowulf.
Tim Kahl
The Luxury of Having
For three days the household has no
toilet paper. I remark we could use
a dark sock from the laundry,
then return it to the pile.
My son wants to use a wool one,
but I intercept and suggest synthetic.
“Think of the poor sheep and how it
would feel if it knew.” But he wants
the angora, the fine merino, then
the cashmere. “Outrageous,” I say,
“an insult to every petting zoo you’ve
ever been to.” But he cares little in
this case for my righteous indignation.
He wants the best and only the best,
like everyone else,
to keep the stink off of him.
Superhero
I am butler to the brown Shih Tzu
that attends to the scents along the sidewalks.
With bag in hand I stand to the rear
of the only superhero of pooping in the land.
One, two, three, four, five, six times
on various lawns the urge is incorrigible.
So that my neighbors' pet peeves
don't turn into grievances
I collect the precious specimens
as though they are rare caterpillars
admirable for their instinct to
transform into beautiful flight.
But I, too, have my issues.
The guy ahead of me at the stoplight
who cracks his door to spit on the pavement
needs to have his ass kicked.
The litterbugs, the scammers, the users,
the brazen liars in pursuit of a sale
they are the next to go.
The positioners who push themselves
to the front of the line
I've had my fill of them.
I'll sick my Shih Tzu that shits you
to visit their lawns every day.
Yes, now I shall dangle the bag
with the fresh weight in the bottom
like it's a brand new scrotum.
I am ready to smite the next fat cat
prepared to pay for privilege
who demands this is the rightful way.
There will be no placating me.
Tell everyone you must that I left
my cape at home today
but I will sling my bag of dog crap
at the next Goliath I see.
Damn I Bruise
Damn I bruise like a top shelf peach.
A sickly yellow purple gray patch
announces itself on my bicep and thigh
just from hauling a mini-fridge
down a flight of stairs. I hugged it
too tight and it bit back. I feel
like an old man on a strict diet of
prunes, all clogged up and sputtering
into some ridiculous predicament
that will happen later this week.
Like once in a while when you hear a guy
in the stalls two doors down who
sounds like an outboard motor starting up.
You want to say, Hey, Johnny Thunderclap,
get a hold of yourself. You don’t
always have to rush into the drama
of a gale force. Still the guy continues
to press his vehemence. And I’m thinking
of the fence falling down on the back of
my lot. When is there going to be the energy
for that? Right after I watch the All-American
kid at third base come up to bat on TV?
Hell, I have underwear that’s as old as him.
It settles into its role at the bottom of
the drawer, waiting for the elastic on
all the new guys to give out. My wife tells me
I should get rid of things I don’t use anymore.
She understands how the middle class works.
I’ve seen the unkempt and the snarled get
thrown to the wolves. There they are at
the end of the offramp holding up a tattered sign
that says, I won’t lie. I need to get drunk.
Suddenly I realize I need to get old,
but don’t make me hold up a goddamned sign.
Don’t discolor my hide or make my veins bulge
or let my joints become gnarled. I won’t sign off
on that deal unless . . .what’s that? You’re saying it’s
non-negotiable? I have to stay this way until
I completely crap out? What if overexert myself
once again? Will I get some sort of honorable mention?
Probably not. In that case, I will make my way to
the last resort, where I can ride my motorboat
out to the middle of the lake and float and drift
like a piece of cast-off bait in the chop.
~ Tim Kahl [http://www.timkahl.com] is the author of Possessing Yourself (CW Books, 2009), The Century of Travel (CW Books, 2012) and The String of Islands (Dink, 2015). His work has been published in Prairie Schooner, Drunken Boat, Mad Hatters' Review, Indiana Review, Metazen, Ninth Letter, Sein und Werden, Notre Dame Review, The Really System, Konundrum Engine Literary Magazine, The Journal, The Volta, Parthenon West Review, Caliban and many other journals in the U.S. He is also editor of Clade Song [http://www.cladesong.com]. He is the vice president and events coordinator of The Sacramento Poetry Center. He also has a public installation in Sacramento {In Scarcity We Bare The Teeth}. He plays flutes, guitars, ukuleles, charangos and cavaquinhos. He currently teaches at California State University, Sacramento, where he sings lieder while walking on campus between classes.
June, 2017
Contributors:
Dan Abernathy
Carman Hittle
Mya Swain
Jocelyn Moore
April 2017
Contributors:
Todd Moore
Dan Abernathy
Donal Mahoney
A.D. Whans
March 2017
Contributors:
Dan Abernathy
Katie Ernst
Jocelyn Moore
Shayla Peredies
February 2017
Contributors:
Dan Abernathy
Katie Ernst
Bonnie McDonnall
~ Dan Abernathy makes available 98% of all his perspectives, be they fluid and random thoughts, or meandering and incomplete rants to the masses. They other 2% he keeps to himself, archived and a gift for the scholars and naysayers to decipher.
When not roaming the road in his converted 1991 International school bus, Abernathy claims Pinedale, Wyoming as home.
Contributing to the Chaos is Seeking Poetry Submissions!
Contributing to the Chaos is seeking well-crafted poems, three poems per submission. Include poets name, location, where to be followed on the web. Expect a semi-timely response. We publish poetry on a weekly basis. As of now, the Contributing to the Chaos cannot pay for poetry, but poetry and links will be kept live on the website. Email them with subject title, Poetry Submission – Your Name, to danielschaos88@gmail.com
What we like:
Contributing to the Chaos and its readers like travelers, vagabonds and gypsies of all shapes and sizes, especially those with a sense of bohemian vagrancy of dark, jovial and yet humble, the ones that are electrified to be known as an outlaw poet. Beatnik type poems with a little sparkle and a lot more grime that would make Boroughs, Bukowski and Brautigan take note. Above all we are a kind bunch that care for nature and the natural way of being while seeking a hedonistic way and we love to laugh. If you fit into this wide range of anti-conformity and can contribute, or just have something that totally doesn’t fit into any category but you want us to read, please send them in.
Contributing to the Chaos is a weekly newsletter that promotes the eclectic ways of Dan Abernathy, but in doing so he surrounds himself with like-minded talented people that bring us all to life. Thought provoked freethinking that flows towards free speech. It’s an underground type newsletter for open minded people highlighting the arts, hot springs, poetry, travel, moments of compassion, moments of political stupidity and all the wonderful oddities that catch the eye. A place where no is seldom heard.