Monday, August 30, 2010

Time Masheen: I Found Some Old Poems

photo by Ken Barton (McMinnville, OR) 1996
Posting these pieces (below) is a good exercise in humility, because it shows exactly how bad of a writer I was before I started poor saps press: the series (April 2002), going to the Coffee Cottage Writers group (Spring 2003), and moving to Seattle (December 2003), which in just being here, present around all those writers more talented then me, really developed my style and helped me to locate my voice and how I can shout the loudest.

Believe it or not, competition is actually a good thing for artists (at least it has been good for me) in order to sharpen pencils and bring out that natural flare (I got thirteen pieces on now; I don't know what they say, but they're there. Count 'em).

Leave me a comment as to which one is the worst and which is the best of the worst...

22 May 2000:  C H E E S E P I E R E C E P E

1> Crush/Crumble three cups cracker of choice. Saltine, Ritz, Wheat- Thin, you get the picture.
2> Mix cracker crumbs into desired pie tin with a dash of (extra-virgin) olive oil or melted butter and form a crust on bottom and sides of tin. If more crumbs are needed, by all means crumble some more.
3> Spread two or more cups grated cheese onto crumb crust.
4> Cover Cheese with an additional layer of crumbs w/o mixing with oil substance.
5> Bake pie at 350 degrees for 15 minutes or till cheese is melted -- whichever is longer.

You may find three cups of cheese to be to much cheese. If so you may wish to cut the cheese with vegetables or refried beans or whatever suits your fancy. Note, however, to do so will lengthen the cooking time of the pie. Also, after cooking you may wish to let the pie cool slightly before serving.

2:30AM - 4:32PM, 1/1/2000:  The Blue's

Rhythm in tunes
Dancing thru
Saturated bones
And swaying flesh

Mary's innocence
Off colored past
Dreamy eyes
And curving lips

3:08 - 3:26 am, 12/31/1999


rickety back porch




3:00 pm, 11/19/1999

Dive into the"Rabbit's Hole"
Plunge through the Poet's Mind
Who is this Poet asks "Alice" into a tree
'Tis not She, He, nor Me says the Cat perched on a leave

Only those who listen to image
Ramblings of the Under Mind...

5:23PM October 17 -20, 1999:  "IRON JOHN" part one:

It feels good to touch
That wild person extant inside
You know

That wild man or That wild woman

We keep locked away inside an Iron Cage or
beneath the waters of psyche's pond
The feeling of potency radiates
When the key touches the lock
tickling the toes
laving down the head
That tamed person
Gripping those Iron bars
Enthralled by the waters waves
lips twitching
nostrils flaring
fists clenching
eyes blaring
With demonstrative rage
The items of frustrations projection
possessed flies about the room
vulgar syllables dart off the tongue
thick course hair sprout up over the body
Guess what friends
The tamed just loosed Enkidu again
When the flame dies down
Adrenaline throttles back
The wild person is forced back
While the tame pours buckets of shame into the pond or
Over that prison which houses "Iron John."

July 5, 1999 8:14pm Draft 3

Groan groan groan
Time again to work
A day or two away is not enough
groan grumble moan
Drink some coffee
Eat a chunk of bread
Think motivational thoughts

-- "I Live in a Van Down By the River" -- Cris Farley SNL

Examine the bank balance again
Don't cry
OK boo hoo hooo
breath eat drink think
Is it worth it
Its supposed to be
A place to go or to find happiness
Why then do I feel as a whore
The Pimp finds me a job
The Madame keeps me busy and fed
Each days end is the same
Pain Physical Emotional Exhaustion Pain
Contending with others hidden chaos
Vampires sucking dry a dwindling power supply
Hard to remain obedient
Prostituting the self for another's sadistic fantasy
Adding to the Brothels box of gold
While the whores remain the same
Destitute Disparity Disrestorative Justice
Trickles down to greet each hooker on the street
Scraping by on the tartar of ones teeth
Waiting for the weakly tid-bit
One faded dollar for me
Ten crisp ones for the Pimp
A hundred lumps of green for the Madame
Is it really worth the effort
grumble groan Creek
Don't Think


More Coffee
Chew on some Bread
Crawl to work again


1:14AM October 15 - 17 3:25PM 1999:  IS THIS DAY NEAR?

Systemic Contempt
Breeds lingering death
Poor pretentious children
Masters, they call themselves, of the Universe
Chasing their primate tails
Evolved useless ear's and narcissistic eye's
In their quest to tower into heaven.

A labored breath wheezes
Distant movements rumble
Joints crack and groan
The Mother spits blood over and over
Tears flood across her wailing face
The last cry for her children escapes.

They have no choice but to bend down
and kiss their own backsides
Screaming while they inch and slip
Into the fiery hot gash which opened in her side
Realizing too late the pride they engendered
Hair or not they are still just apes
Silence ensues across the Mother's tired face
While she mourns the loss of her children this day....

photo by Ken Barton 1996
Today, 8/29/10, I sold this guitar
to a guy on Bainbridge Island
1996 or 1997
Poetry is the language of my life
These thoughts dance through my days like dreams
Perhaps Dreams are my Life
I just don't know sometimes.
Incense and Indian classical wafting through the air
Transforming my house into a hut.
I sit along the banks of the River Ganges,
Contemplating the mystery of the Brahma.
Dreamily, I drift, to the desert Sinai --
To the dirty stone shack with a grass roof --
Fire burning in a pit on the floor --
Sitting, upon pillows,
Eating, a sinewy old goat.
Attentiveness Lapses,
Listlessly wandering on,
Caught between a dream and a thought.

The Yogi ponders,
The Mystic wanders,
Trapped between two worlds East and West.
A storm progresses,
Confusing the Mind
Catholicity emerges,
Gracing rest to pains of heretical Soul.

Vividly, the pen


                           into my hand



The warrior slashed his sword, with madness burning in his eyes, popping the head off one of the gray skinned aliens; on the back sweep he sliced through the middle of two more, screaming, "You bastards, you killed my brother, you're all going to pay...!"

During the massacre the wry lilith princess, leader of the enemy battle force, teleported away when she realized the mission to capture the Warrior was a total failure. In anger she blew apart Captain Dennal with a single word-thought. She then cut off his testicles and ran to the hall-way of dimensions while leaving her commandos to die.

The cavernous room was beginning to look like a slaughter house during harvest time. The sinister black eyed commandos did not stand a chance against his glimmering two handed sword. With every precision stroke, executed by the warrior, another quivering body part was severed and flew aside accompanied by a sickly smelling black fluid that oozed, squirted, or pulsed out of the enemy causing his magical blade to purr gleefully in his hands. The cacophony of mental agony that assaulted his psychic was staggering; it did not slow him down but served only to fuel the fires of madness building within him. After forty five seconds of parring and whirling like a windmill, the whole force of alien commandos were still.

The warrior waltzed over the pile of mutilated bodies to where the scattered remains of his brother lie. He knelt down and picked up his brother's head and cradled it in his arms. A look of melancholy crept upon his face, his mood rapidly twisted into vengeance. In a fit of rage he threw the head across the room where it smashed like a ripe watermelon against the wall. He roared, "I shall avenge you my brother!!!"

An instant later he disappeared through a shimmering cloud of energy -- in hot pursuit of the enemy princess.

Ken Barton & My Favorite Hotrod Guitar (it was stolen) 1996
1988 was the year that it first entered into my mind that I could be a writer. 

When I applied to Linfield, I almost put creative writing as an alternative major to Physics. I wonder what would have happened if I had taken a risk back then and got a degree in writing?

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