The Redbook (part 3)

From Plastic Tub

 The Redbook from  , 2004.
The Redbook from T.Wilson's Mansucript Portraits, 2004.

Collection of poetry by Steven Adkins (2001)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3


	I want to open 
	that delicate 
	soul flower


	but only for you

I can get laid
like that
(snaps fingers)

but she talks too much
and is not you

dansk mutter
rotund like Europa
PP Reubens painted your elbows
that night, on the highway
Royal Mount, N.C.
it got hot during the night
and you took off your clothes
I know cuz I saw
flash of white bottom
hint of breast from behind and the side
you were lifting the covers
to get in your bed
that glimpse is a gift
a treasure of memory already
painted on the mind’s canvas
One last view of the moon
before heading out to space

John Locke you ain’t got shit

Boxing day
A glimpse of a fire-nugget
small moments of peace
but waiting….
still waiting

The house is empty of the physical bodies 
        of people
I don’t say people because they are
This place is redolent of humanity
Such a plenitude
My mother’s cupboard a cornucope
Walls aflame – no! (heh heh)

I look down the curvature of the
        court and see a golf course
upon which I have fucked
and smoke endless bowls

The dark conundrum of my soul
is a sable racing thru the
undertow of nature imagery

My dog is afloat.  A bed of
coals to trod upon
A tight rope to …. what?
Make sure you try to walk it
But set it a few inches off
the ground until you learn
Hit it
Aim High, just use a ladder

If Memphis lies
the need to be here together
becomes an opportunity 

That I am still in love is not
That I still write about it is a lil’
(I daresay)
Insomuch as….

A Romanian Jewess she is tough
she is bitter
She drinks too sweet wine
And hands crumpled pound notes
to a pet monkey who stores it
in the upper boughs of the 

What did you expect?
A sentimental tale
Tall as a blond SS Officer
A dagger of lightning
camps, yeah, My Holocaust
Mein Schatz
This monstrous deliverance
Human sacrifice for cult of Black Death
Run afoul of the Crypto-Masonic conspiracy of light

Have I no feeling for pain
    and suffering
Can’t I approach anything without
    that maudlin proclivity of mind?
<Where is the suffering zygote?> 

Criminy and crikey
Yorkshire pudding and pot roasts
Boxing Day 2001
Goofy visions cannibanized
in good human
concerned about
smell in room
expecting her
and the other thing
I don’t deliver….

Whoa now there is wind and a 
flowered bedspread
What I lie down in for dreams 
is like an idyllic field
of daffodils
I can float across the indifferent
malaise of suburbia
and cast an eye about for visions
turn the tan and the grey
into the Mountain of Heaven
and the balmy Plains
of Ellsinore
Grails pouring manna
(Le Marquis de Sade c’est mort)
the gentleness is open for business

The whole rub was that he could
        not stop when the leaves
        still speaking
        like CEO’s giving dictation
        (dictating, in other words, but  not
        in short)
All right you clanging you can stop
Now listen there is a jetliner how can I
not think of you?

It’s like having someone to talk to
something to do

What a cheapness

I suppose I am infected
No need to proselytize

I shouldn’t complain
I don’t pack a gun
carry a pumpkin

This disorder of mind
Chaos on pentip
Distilled into
usable fragments
“a pale reflection”
into the -------- 
broken disorder
jammed ammunition

Oh drop it just drop it
you are just filling space
killing time
saving face
making rhymes
disavow the meta
get into symbol
disavow the concept
the jesus view
the unopened head
the scarce dog

get out of time with whatever it is
that is around you at this very moment
do it now:

kill your parents 
seduce your prepubescent neighbor
wipe your ass with Old Glory
send a check to Osama

she escaped two night with me

what is it?
when exploding eggs
bite themselves they
do it fiercely

know your diseased cutlet:
the sound of my bowels 
is the music of the stars

the silver foxes	the silver foxes

two unprofessional thieves
    inserting articles into

a young couple in LOVE
    marches in the rain
    “too damn wet for the liberals”
one is a good old texas boy

drugs are the future
    drugs and computers
made in 1980 about 1968 
    that’s about right

“that arm owes me 27 dollars”

UFO Sightings:

those second no those last two
numerical facts come from a cartoon
and a TV commercial, respectively

the title of this poem is “3 vignettes 
from a small circle”

(you got too close and
backed out
too late)

A great father
farther than stone

away in a land of pillows
thrust among green grass

white eggs nestled
among nests of bioluminescent snails

the trodden path
crosses through the gate &
down around the rectory

look over the hill and thru the boughs
the sun is rising isn’t it beautiful

I am inspired and woozy with poetry in the
goldenred splendour spreading upon the cheek of Dawn.

And already I am bored
(as in shot thru with drill-bit)

that is too much for me now
my masochism daze behind me

so the refrain you always sing….
your art of psychic wounding….
where is the wastebasket?

challenge and stimulate me
but don’t berate me
and make me wither
(wither wenst thou?)
Into my head where you were still my friend
I’m writing you off
and over

it is not over
there is the red
and then there is the black
my mobility being a case of 
infiltrated wings
the leather is brittle
the screws rusty and loose
the latticed wood frame has mildewed
and the feather of the goose –
How do they expect me to fly
in this contraption?
Say I remember an anonymous mister
singing Kyrie Elysons
and offering hope
the wings cannot be repaired….
all materials are being directly funneled
into the war effort
the key then
is to learn to fly again

a new style adapted to the machine
super clean cadywompous like a bike
ride thru suburbia

the air is balmy and cool
and the nights are even cold
I have grown so distant
from this place in such a
short time it may as well
be death unfolded

that scabrous hulk the
neolithic typewriter produces
it lumbers and roars
pees on its pant leg
and disavows something
it hasn’t quite comprehended

the amazing energy of
the natural elite
it has been lost here long ago
yeah this foolish
parade stalks by seemingly unencumbered
but the long and the short of it
is a decadent despair
a kingdom jaded by vice in irrevocable 
an empire even
or merely on beleaguered soul
the mountains are on fire
the eagles are waiting

This is the end of the Redbook
a certain plan of autobiography
gone awry

I have been challenged on
everything in less than a week

I am more committed than ever

I have overcome that which cannot
be written
I still nurture my superstitions like babies
bearing broadswords
as I head into the BLACKBOOK

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

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