Mickey O'Connor is one of those wonderful poets known only to a small circle of worthies, in this case, mostly Seattle worthies, and not enough of them. He's been published in Anatomy:Raw and Bombay Gin. This is from his chapbook, The Charlesgate Apartment Poems, published by Elbow Press in Seattle (Steve Creson, whose works we have also seen here before).

Little Tragedies Little Reassurances

(for Anselm Hollo)

Listening to the radio all thru the morning. Laying in bed wondering, "what the hell?" Once bitten, twice shy, thrice paralyzed. I gave a deaf mute on the street 4 bucks so he could get something to eat.

*** "We see the world through faulty eyes." Yes, that's becoming more & more evident. Or Sam Beckett's "Ill seen Ill said" Tricked by ones senses & tricked by the mind. How to go ice skating knowing it's all a trick? How to fly a kite? Ride a bike? Eat a cookie? The wool's being pulled over our eyes. Nothing to be done. No one to elect that can fix it. No god or goddess to beseech. Who busted the wheel Still spinning round & true? Who broke into my eyes? Catburglars & assassins abound. Scoundrels swindle the pork barrel down payment on a peaceful sunny day. Simple melancholia becomes the norm. Raging, out of control gas tanker explosion fires a place to warm one's hands & toast marshmallows. What god created this everyday, bleating anarchy? No one's gonna take the rap. Not me, no sirree. I'm an impartial observer. A guy with 20/400 vision, waiting for the bus.

Mickey O'Connor

My teeth hurt, I don't brush'em enough. I hope to god they don't fall out. Everyone in my family has great teeth. It figures I'd lose mine. Always the fuck up. I laid in bed & watched T.V. for two hours. I could have been practicing my craft, That's what Charles Olson would have done. Maybe I wasn't writing because I don't care about life enough? Maybe if I didn't care about life at all anymore I'd write constantly, because there'd be nothing else to do? I'm fucked either way. I want someone but she's distant & kind of involved with someone else. I have a bottle of bourbon. It's snowing outside the open window. I ate a greasy hamburger & feel wretched. Why do I do things that cause me pain & guilt? Why do I hate so many people? All my friends are in Boulder & I'm tired of writing letters. I'll have another glass of bourbon, Smoke a cigarette, Dream of greatness & high wild humor. Convince myself this is nothing terminal, Only a lull, A momentary dull point In an otherwise magnificent, creatively unfettered Existence with possibilities & love previously only hinted at In shimmering fantastical dreamland reveries, Written by Hermes, Apollo & the Nine Muses Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Isis, Osiris, Andre Breton, Homer, Mayakovsky, Ted Berrigan & Popeye the sailor man.

A Good Time

MORE & MORE WITHDRAWN BUT Concerned with having a good time, whatever form. Talking to Dean all night, smoking from the same pack of cigarettes, drinking beer after beer. Talking about our families, sexual affiars, etc. Driving, another good time except too many worries since I have to borrow a car, no driver's license, no insurance. Having drinks with April at Ernie Steele's then going & sitting on some steps me saying, "I miss you, I always loved you," realizing it's hope- less, always was, then going to my house, dancing crazily, drinking vodka, trying to fuck on the table, it flips over, we laugh, go out on the back porch & continue. Or sitting on the couch talking with Jennifer, she's making a big point, I reach inside her shirt & feel her nipple. Her voice changes pitch slightly & she goes on. Purity enters, a good time. Today & yesterday I created miniature good times for myself, like wearing the jacket I borrowed from Dean, gas station man's jacket with 2/3 a pack of Camels in the pocket, I wore it to go meet April last Tuesday. The night we renewed our interest in each other & she wore the jacket because she was cold, so now I wear the jacket & get all sentimental. Really just a sentimental slob. Always thinking there must be a better phrase, but no, sentimental slob is it. Staying up Saturday night, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes & playing cribbage with Jay, acting goofy. I love being goofy, almost as much as anything. Displaying emotions in a slap-dash manner. Not wearing my heart on my sleeve, more good times for all.

IIt's An Ill Wind

There's a monkey where the outboard should be, he's counting his pennies so he can buy a maroon 1963 Cadillac convertible that's never been kissed by Elvis. "The stars are a blanket above the sea & clouds a pillow for me to lay my head upon." Yea & I'm tossing out lines of poetry like Roger Clemens on Quaaludes. Hogtied by my sensibilities, all I want is a good night's sleep but someone's sewn a noose into the collar of my pajamas. Yikes, it's 3:44 a.m. & I'm not Francois Villon, he's dead & I'm faking it. Six swallows of Kentucky bourbon pack of Camel filters Billie Holiday & a long night of terror. Oops, I meant to say "in song I glorify men crumpled as hospital beds & women battered as proverbs." A city of 1 Million People & I have nothing to say to any of them, except "It's time to go out & steal a newspaper & it's time to get religion."

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