Ladies Night #69

[Mark A Becker]

Ladies Night #69

Honky tonk heroes
knocking back pitchers of beer
bulging belt buckles.

Geared up in the parking lot
hot blooded rods burn rubber.

Inside on the floor
dancers fall in line in step
wobbling drinks in hand

their line bends and nearly falls
as the band goes double-time.

Couples saunter up
when slow songs simmer 'em down-
"that's the way love goes"

Cheeks digging into shoulders
new-found lovers locking lips

sweat and grinding hips
under where steamy desire
melts her cheating heart.

Pedal steel to the metal
high lonesome harmonies ring

chugging bass line throbs
thumping kick drum drives the beat
fiddle fingers fly

Mississippi saxophone
pumping out deep throaty moans.

Ladies sing along
”help me make it through the night”
falling for last call.

She stopped loving him today
found another song to play.

rowdy renga rides again

[rowens]

Honky tonk heroes
knocking back pitchers of beer
bulging belt buckles.


There are many things that bulge. Not sure if it's the buckle. 


Geared up in the parking lot
hot blooded rods burn rubber.

Inside on the floor


Inside on the floor? That sounds like excessive information.


dancers fall in line in step
wobbling drinks in hand

their line bends and nearly falls
as the band goes double-time.

I appreciate the long, unpunctuated sentence. 
There's really nothing to complain about. But the critic is obligated.  The career of the critic depends upon your improprieties. 
Unless the critic also has own poetry to fall back on.



Couples saunter up
when slow songs simmer 'em down-

We know what them is. Unless you find ' aesthetically applicable/aurical. 


"that's the way love goes"


I remember being taken to Carolina Country club when my uncle was the houseband in the late '80s. 

Cheeks digging into shoulders
new-found lovers locking lips

sweat and grinding hips
under where steamy desire
melts her cheating heart.


Be more subtle with the lyrics, man. It's not like this is the For Fun forum. 



Pedal steel to the metal
high lonesome harmonies ring

chugging bass line throbs
thumping kick drum drives the beat
fiddle fingers fly

Mississippi saxophone
pumping out deep throaty moans.

Ladies sing along
”help me make it through the night”
falling for last call.

She stopped loving him today
found another song to play.



There is no song to play after he stopped loving her today. She? Yeah, I buy that a drink. 

[Tiger the Lion]

Ladies Night #69

Honky tonk heroes
knocking back pitchers of beer
bulging belt buckles.

Geared up in the parking lot
hot blooded rods burn rubber.

Inside on the floor
dancers fall in line in step
wobbling drinks in hand

their line bends and nearly falls
as the band goes double-time.

Couples saunter up
when slow songs simmer 'em down-
"that's the way love goes"

Cheeks digging into shoulders
new-found lovers locking lips

sweat and grinding hips
under where steamy desire
melts her cheating heart.

Pedal steel to the metal
high lonesome harmonies ring

chugging bass line throbs
thumping kick drum drives the beat
fiddle fingers fly

Mississippi saxophone
pumping out deep throaty moans.

Ladies sing along
”help me make it through the night”
falling for last call.

She stopped loving him today
found another song to play.

rowdy renga rides again

This one played out for me with all the characters and set design of "Thelma and Louise." The images are clear and simple.

[Mark A Becker]

Hey Paul, hi rowens,

Thanks for the comments. 

I started this one many years ago and just now re-visited it.  It's a "rowdy renga", 5-7-5  7-7 structure throughout, but without the other poets.

It's also based upon the personal experience of playing in many dives.  HEY! Look Ma, that's me on the Mississippi saxophone, aka harmonica.

Seems like a whole other lifetime ago now, but people still remind me that I did indeed live it, to which I guess I should just say "thanks", or maybe, "you're mistaking me for someone else."  Either way, I never considered it "misspent youth."

[rowens]

I read these poems thinking they're based on you going to these country clubs around the North Carolina and Maryland borders and reporting back from the mainline.

I was imagining you out on the weekends enjoying yourself and coming back and reporting in poemtage.

Now it's like losing another Easter Bunny.

[Mark A Becker]

Sorry for breakin yer eggs rowens.
The view from on-stage was highly entertaining, though. It was always a lot of fun to instigate lewd behavior.

[rowens]

Take a musician home, he never gets to dance.

[Mark A Becker]

I liked to play from the dance floor, too. Made things more interesting... mingling with the sweatiness of it.

[rowens]

Liked?

Get out there!

You're still alive, buddy!

[Mark A Becker]

pleasure crazed my ass off while I still could.  Have trouble even standing now, after multiple surgeries. Them’s literally the breaks. Ah, but I can still smell those memories.

[rowens]

I'm not giving up on you.

I'm the James Dickey of motivational speakers.

Makes me think of a poem I didn't write. Hmm.
Think I'll post it in the Poems You Love category, though I posted it there years ago. Some things are worth rehashing. Don't you feel so?

[Mark A Becker]

But most times the rehashing is like trying to put the egg back in its shell. May be better to just scramble it up.

I’m still an alien funseeker- but from a different planet now.

[rowens]

Not rehashing a poem. Which is what I was referring to. Bringing an old poem back to light. One by James Dickey, called Diabetes.

[Mark A Becker]

oh, my bad…
Ain’t the one about diabetes by Dickey called ‘Sugar’?

[rowens]

The one about the birds is the best part. It's a two-poem sequence. The second is about birds. About doing what you want.

[rowens]

There's a video of James Dickey reading Under Buzzards in the presence of Robert Penn Warren.
I've posted it before, in the Poems You Love section. I don't necessarily love these poems, love is something that is spontaneous and individual, you give it out just anywhere, and it gets cheapened.  . . . Yet, I'm no one to complain, and will have to settle to get it where I can get it.

I'm bad with math of all kinds.

I said in a previous post that I was about eight miles from the North Carolina line. I also made a poem called Countyline Liquor Store, which, it sounds better than Stateline Liquor Store. And, technically, it is a county line. You can buy liquor in this North Carolina county, but not my Virginia county.

I'm about a mile and a half away.  

And not even that, if I go through the woods. The woods are feral, the roads are bluesy. 

I wanted to make these things clear, since they matter to me.

But I'll save face by getting back to you, damn, I forgot your name, you shouldn't have used your real one. No, I'm kidding, Markel Becker.
I have family in the wealthy parts of Virginia, the areas where they vote Democrat.
I'm taking this opportunity to spill out a few folk details of my own, and asking you now, as a challenge: Is there much folklore of your area of the state? I know there is. And will you write a poem on the matter? That's my challenge, HERE IN THE FOR FUN SECTION.
And I'd be glad to read a poem or story or personal anecdote.
And this is not restricted to the For Fun area. But the electric dog collar that gets closer and closer to my neck and testicles is giving me good reason to only speak from the HEART. Or else and even then.


Look up that, video, Mark Becker, then:

Tell me a story.

[Mark A Becker]

There's a video of James Dickey reading Under Buzzards in the presence of Robert Penn Warren.
Look up that, video, Mark Becker, then:
Tell me a story.

Dickey: so damn happy to hear his own voice- a true 'song and dance man'.  Check out his poem called "Falling".

A story?  OK. One of mine that I tweeked since I first wrote it: being guided to follow your 5 senses, and finally finding your way with that elusive, yet all important 6th sense...

Senses of Direction

Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
at red, white, ‘n blue house fer the star spangle trim, ‘n at thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, ‘n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. at Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out ‘ere jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,’n
triple large raslin t-shirt.  If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.

Jus act natchal like, whistle a little, ‘n bear lef on Poplar, keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear.  But 'at ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of 'at ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’ bitch
oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot ‘n soulful.

Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend 'a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. 'At nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o’ Murky Bottom Run
where 'at reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, ‘n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t ‘ere I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank 'o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on 'a path ‘n head on up ta the tracks.

Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
‘n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it).  Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got all balled up by them Bowers boys.  Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece ere’s 'is gnarly oak what’s got ‘n old, frait rope swing on 'er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot ‘n swing ‘er on out 'cross a crick.

On n‘other side ere’s this small clearin, ‘n a bit beyon ere’s a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick ‘n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
tatse em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off ‘a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, ‘n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good tase 'a some buckshot. Blam! right’n ‘a snoot.

Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot ‘n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back.  By a big bend in the crick
ere’s dis flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar ‘n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.

Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?

[rowens]

The documentary about James Dickey called Lord, Let Me Die, But Not Die Out is plenty of him talking.

You remember the american art of the boast and boasting. From the redskins to the blacks and mexicanas to the too bigforhisbritches and longwinded white Southerner.

You can find this in beautiful and exciting explosions in Rudy Ray Moore, James Dickey, Buddy Rogers, Tully Blanchard, Ric Flair, Donald Trump, and, in one offkey/apparently moment, Howard Dean.


I'll come and read your above lore-poem when I get back.
Is that okay? Won't upset you that I'll read it but not right now?

I will.

I posted that James Dickey documentary about five years ago in the Pig's Arse or Sewer. No one was interested. Now, you are. That post has been annexed aka deleted. Go find it yourself elsewhere.

You're never too old to boast and be exciting.

[rowens]

If you make it to the end of the Direction poem, the last line is effective. You could call the poem Directions. And the theme of the senses can be registered by those with those senses.

Did you know that each sense is its own person, and that they come together to form this monster we call our self?
We? Me and you? Or the senses?
The word confusion could be profusion or simply fusion.