I took my coffee to a seat
facing the toteboard.
the odds flashed, I sat down
spilling hot coffee
on my
hand.
“shit,” I said.
and the day went
on.
poetry contest
send as many poems as you wish, only
keep each to a maximum of ten lines.
no limit as to style or content
although we prefer poems of
affirmation.
double space
with your name and address in the
upper left hand
corner.
editors not responsible for
manuscripts
without an s.a.s.e.
every effort
will be made to
judge all works within 90
days.
after careful screening
the final choices will be made by
Elly May Moody,
general editor in charge.
please enclose ten dollars for
each poem
submitted.
a final grand prize of
seventy-five dollars will
be awarded the winner
of the
Elly May Moody Golden Poetry
Award,
along with a scroll
signed by
Elly May Moody.
there will also be 2nd, 3rd and
4th prize scrolls
also signed by
Elly May Moody.
all decisions will be
final.
the prize winners will
appear in the Spring issue of
The Heart of Heaven.
prize winners will also receive
one copy of the magazine
along with
Elly May Moody’s
latest collection of
poetry,
The Place Where Winter
Died.
peace
near the corner table in the
cafe
a middle-aged couple
sit.
they have finished their
meal
and they are each drinking a
beer.
it is 9 in the evening.
she is smoking a
cigarette.
then he says something.
she nods.
then she speaks.
he grins, moves his
hand.
then they are
quiet.
through the blinds next to
their table
flashing red neon
blinks on and
off.
there is no war.
there is no hell.
then he raises his beer
bottle.
it is green.
he lifts it to his lips,
tilts it.
it is a coronet.
her right elbow is
on the table
and in her hand
she holds the
cigarette
between her thumb and
forefinger
and
as she watches
him
the streets outside
flower
in the
night.
the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
living too long takes more than time
going out
the sweet slide of the luger
toward your temple,
a flight of birds winging
northward,
the clicking sound of the
safety catch being
released,
the eclipse of the
sun,
the sound of something being
shut
hard,
pal.
the replacements
Jack London drinking his life away while
writing of strange and heroic men.
Eugene O’Neill drinking himself oblivious
while writing his dark and poetic
works.
now our moderns
lecture at universities
in tie and suit,
the little boys soberly studious,
the little girls with glazed eyes
looking
up,
the lawns so green, the books so dull,
the life so dying of
thirst.
the genius
this man sometimes forgets who
he is.
sometimes he thinks he’s the
Pope.
other times he thinks he’s a
hunted rabbit
and hides under the
bed.
then
all at once
he’ll recapture total
clarity
and begin creating
works of
art.
then he’ll be all right
for some
time.
then, say,
he’ll be sitting with his
wife
and 3 or 4 other
people
discussing various
matters
he will be charming,
incisive,
original.
then he’ll do
something
strange.
like once
he stood up
unzipped
and began
pissing
on the
rug.
another time
he ate a paper
napkin.
and there was
the time
he got into his
car
and drove it
backwards
all the way to
the
grocery store
and back
again
backwards
the other motorists
screaming at
him
but he
made it
there and
back
without
incident
and without
being
stopped
by a patrol
car.
but he’s best
as the
Pope
and his
Latin
is very
good.
his works of
art
aren’t that
exceptional
but they allow him
to
survive
and to live with
a series of
19-year-old
wives
who
cut his hair
his toenails
bib
tuck and
feed
him.
he wears everybody
out
but
himself.
a poet in New York
eating out tonight
I find a table alone
and while waiting for my order
take out my wife’s copy of
A Poet in New York.
I often carry things to read
so that I will not have to look at
the people.
I find the poems bad (for me)
these poems written in 1929
the year of the stock market
crash.
I close the book and look at
the people.
my order arrives.
the food is bad too.
some say that bad and good
run in streaks.
I hope so.
I wait for the good, put a slice of
lemon chicken into my
mouth, chew
and pretend that everything is
fairly
fine.
no sale
I just sat in the bar
non compos mentis.
it was about a week before
Xmas.
big Ed was selling trees
outside.
he came into the
bar.
“Jesus, it’s freezing out
there!”
big Ed looked at me.
“Hank, you go stand out there
with the trees.
if anybody wants to buy
one, you come in and
get me.”
I stood outside.
I was in my shirt sleeves.
I didn’t have a coat.
it was snowing.
it was ice cold
but a nice ice
cold.
I wasn’t used to snow
but I liked the snow.
I stood with the trees.
I stood there about 20
minutes
then big Ed came
out.
“nobody come by?”
“no, Ed.”
“you go on in, tell Billy Boy
to give you a drink on
my tab.”
I walked in
got a stool.
I told Billy Boy,
“double scotch and water,
Ed’s tab.”
Billy Boy poured.
“you sell any trees?”
“no trees.”
Billy Boy looked at
the patrons.
“hey, Hank didn’t sell
no trees.”
“whatsa matter, Hank?”
somebody asked.
I didn’t answer.
I took a hit of my
drink.
“how come no trees were
sold?” somebody else
asked.
“as the bee swarms to
honey, as night follows
day
in the stink of time,
it will
happen.”
“what will happen?”
“somebody will sell a tree
though it won’t necessarily
be me.”
I finished my drink.
there was
silence.
then somebody said,
“this guy is some kind of
nut.”
being there
with those
I decided
I had no argument
with
that.
this
self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness
you
wonder where
the real ones are
what
giant cave
hides them
as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades
as
the fools are
fooled
again
you
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.
this
self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions
centuries.
this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless
it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope
it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street
more difficult
near
damnable
as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness
as
the fools are
fooled
again
humanity
you sick
motherfucker.
now
to reach here
gliding into old age
the decades gone
without ever meeting one person
truly evil
without ever meeting one person
truly exceptional
without ever meeting one person
truly good
gliding into old age
the decades gone
the mornings are the worst.
in error
a warrior
I come in from a long but
victorious day
at the track.
she greets me with some
trash
which I carry and dump
into the garbage
can.
“Jesus Christ,” she says,
“push the lid down tight!
the ants will be
everywhere!”
I push the lid down tight.
I think of Amsterdam.
I think of pigeons flying from a
roof.
I think of Time dangling from
a
paper clip.
she’s right, of course: the lid
should be
tight.
I walk slowly back
into
the
house.
confession
waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for
my wife
she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again:
“Hank!”
Hank won’t
answer.
it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.
I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were
things
ever splendid
and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:
I love
you.
mugged
finished,
can’t find the handle,
mugged in the backalleys of nowhere,
too many dark days and nights,