Mastodon OgFOMK ArTS: June 1998

Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998

29. Jun. 1998

I guess that I am writing now, because I can not
Talk to Christine,
What are poems about anyway?

I used to think that I could rule the world as
An anarchist,
But I should have listened to Papa
And studied more about design and the way things
In some way I am listening.

I once said that I was a poet,
Sure, I was a poet,
That is why they made machines to handle words,
Because someone was listening.

I am calling San Fran to speak to someone,
But it is Sunday and even they are asleep there.
I am trying to call my cousin Bri.,
But he is asleep too.
Shoot, Man, ain’t somebody awake?

I could talk to Corey, but he got shot in the face
In P-town and he’s dead.
I could talk to Steve,
But he died of AIDS and that Marinol never saved his
Skinny, white, ass;
But Josh was up in San Fran and he lamented about
How he had to work--
Hell, I got to work, too!

In San Fran it is
Here it is 0234,
In England it is 0634.
I’ve got to get up at 0600 Eastern Daylight Time
And go on to work
But I am still hanging on and not forgetting that time that
Al called my apartment four years ago and wanted to
Speak to me and she said, “Hey, this is Allison...”
and I
Hung up on her because it was too late.
I said,
“Look, I am married and I can not talk to you.”

We are all on so many path’s of God’s big disintegration.
Time to leave words and maybe it will all bring us back to
The center.

Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998
Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998


Poetry by Alex Nuttall, title: Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998, Original Date: 19980629 – © Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 – 2017 – Retro-published 20170823.

Early in the morning before the sun was up our hero was dwelling on all things life. Running through the names and faces of people he knew. He makes a phone call or two. Recollections and reflections. Some dead names, some old names, some current names and some names nearly forgotten. Sleep returned once it was realized that neither he nor God was in control.

#AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Montag #God #Anarchy #Listening

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“Montag @ 0230, 29 June 1998“ Alex Nuttall - 29. Jun. 1998 – #AlexNuttall #OgFOMK #Poetry #Montag #God #Anarchy #Listening

© Alex Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017 - 20170823 -ABN – Ed Date: 2017-08-23 01:57

Your Stuff

15 June 1998

It was easy to pack your things,
I played romantic music
While doing so,
I missed you still,
But it was easy to eagerly pack your stuff.

I had a little wine at the end
Of my cardboard box party
And Patsy Cline was being played;
It almost could have been sad,
As I packed your drawers away,
But I was happy, or I felt complete
Since I knew that our time had passed.

I found a love poem
That I thought I had written for you,
How sweet that you had saved it!
But as I decided to to throw it away,
Looking over it,
I noticed that my name was not Steve,
So I did not throw it away,
I packed it, too;
So keep Steve,
Leave me, and I will be gone--
Erased--Eradicated—Kaput—No more.

Packing was easy
And now
When and what feelings do resurface
I can write them down
In my great American novel;
All hope is here,
In solitude;
I am happy we only had a verbal agreement

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170723 -ABN

Rain Does This

10 June 1998 @1146

If it rains, then rain it comes;
Showers reduce the dust to firmament;
But I love to love anyway,
However the dust does settle;
I ask myself what are those
Words that I am writing?
Another poem with me stuck
Inside of it;
Patiently I settle down on this;
July, what did she know?
June, there was no room;
May, in dismay I wander;
April is no good;
March on by the freeway of the heart;
And then there are epochs
To deal with;
Another mans fetter--
Another one's secret wish;
So there settles now evenly the water,
Finding its own ocean,
And dust pools itself together,
Forever making wishes;
Forever making wishes.

Rain Does This
Rain Does This

© Alexander Blair Nuttall/OgFOMK ArTS 1998-2018
2017-06-14 16:44:35 ABN

Eulogy For Old Men

7 June 1998

...and, my Roman friends,
There was that time I got a hard on
Just from watching the cleaning lady,
But that was then,
Long before i had ever read Buck Fuctowski.
After Buck, even the white-trash, missing teeth, and
Looked good to me;
But i must say that the other
Great writers,
Bull Lee Biscuit
And Jack Daniels Bladder
Made me feel queer, sometimes,
But they wrote from the wrong head.
Fuctowski, on the other hand, he wrote from
The gut
And that was nice of him to do that.
But he's dead now and so is my granddaddy-
That is, one of my granddaddies.

My dad's dad, he would have loved Fuctowski;
They could have gone fishing together.
So i guess that now they are in that part of
After-life where
Old men arm wrestle and show off
For old women
Feeling their pained lives and bodies,
Bodiless with only the mind,

Oh, cleaning ladies are still good,
But i know that they ain't the best;
O Fuctowski, you're dead, but I tilt this one to you

[From Ogfom-k #7,  June 1994]
(edited 29 Sept 1998)

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1998
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1998 - 2017
20170626 -ABN

Fat Sun Hour

9 Jul 1994

I day dream
In the fat
Hour of the Sun.
I use the pen incorrectly
And I die.
In the eve,
The whiteness grows to

I am not listening anymore.

Fat Sun Hour
Fat Sun Hour

© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OGFOM-K Arts 1994
© Alexander Blair Nuttall / OgFOMK ArTS 1994 - 2017
20170728 -ABN

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