The Poet Spiel- Three Poems

The Poet Spiel. Lifetime of mental illness and psychotherapy provide rich material for his art and writing as “The Poet Spiel.” Born a small town farmboy more than 7 decades ago, now substantially confounded by loss associated with vascular dementia, Spiel struggles to keep his lips above desolation. Internationally published as The Poet Spiel, his 2015 book, is his 100 year anniversary tribute to Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg Ohio; Anderson’s grotesque’s: “Dirty Sheets: 28 stories of passion, pathos and payback,” published by Rain Mountain Press. Spiel has published more than a dozen books. Learn more about his body of short stories, poetry, spoken word and his lifelong career as a visual artist at www.thepoetspiel.name. Spiel and his partner of 30 years, live and work from a mountaintop in southern Colorado.

outside the air

i’ve come to recognize

i live in somebody else’s hometown.

when they bear their young,

they spank them to grab for air;

then teach their young to hold spanked air

til they die.

i don’t know if i can survive here;

outside, the air is very thin.

Prev pub, Skidrow Penthouse, March Street Press

it’s walls that keep my chair

a whole truck box of tools outback, sweat an oil, deep-rubbed 

into a tired belt with slots matched ta ma two-pound hammer —  

like fingerprints. my scratched-out tape measure, my monkeywrench,

ma square an grip — what i know: ma powerdriver, the whole shebang.

isn’t nothin i cain’t put up er tear down.

i’ve single-handed laid up barns an schools; set ma house

on a stretch a sand where they all swore nothin could stand.

by maself, raised headers it should a took four men ta lift;

never broke a sweat.

i’ve cleared forests, honed timber, dovetailed trusses,

sat back an entertained ma blues, plus too many men,

in just one sunday. all a it, b’fore sun set.

i like my walls jist where they are, spite a them that reckons

i ought stretch out a ways; get ta know a bigger piece of earth.

sure, i could do it in a day, all four walls, roof, floor, windows.

build a sprawlin ranch house out in idaho, retire, fill it with books

i could write myself an men i know ma spine’s too gawldang broke ta ride.

but ma chair loves these walls, knows its place by these walls,

an i know my place inside that chair an i got no need fer stretching.

well… maybe ma legs up front my chair, my gawldang tailbone,

ma back, it’s been trouble, so i press it upside ma walls

ta straighten it.

i groan my walls, warn ma chair b’fore i land.

i’ve paid for what i’ve got; what i’ve got is what i like:

ma socks, same color a my walls, ma walls, color a my air,

color a my everyday soup.

it’s my walls confirm my stench, what’s common to me:

ma crapped out boots, jeans i’ve wore that wraps my bends

ta count on, months on end.

ma walls’re what stands straight fer me.

i won’t be goin nowhere, my walls’ll stay right here

ta keep my chair fer landin in; romance my pain

ta smell my blues, use the tools

that least spends up my spine.

Prev pub, March Street Press, eyepoint press

Weighing In

Weigh a pint of the blood

of the homo soldier 

splattered on his foe,

also a hero 

dying for his cause 

his country 

what he believes is right.

Weigh the blood of the hero foe.

Weigh the blood of the homo hero.

Weigh the blood of every proud soldier

downed by friendly fire.

Weigh the blood of every proud soldier

who fired upon him.

Tell all their kids

in pints, pounds, or buckets

the quantity of their loss.

Does a pint of the blood

of the homo at war   

weigh less in a jar?

than a pint of blood

sapped from his foe?

or a pint of the stuff

from your average Joe?

Compare to a pint

of dirt or sand,      

                                a pint of gold or a pint of lead.

Weigh a pint of the blood

of the homo soldier.

Phone his mother her son is dead.

Prev pub: Four Sep Publications, Anthill, Lucid Moon, Pudding House Publications, StrangeRoad