Poetry
• Kenpo Man - Sean F.
Lynch
• Stray Cat on Speedball Alley -
Joy Bashew
• Little Chapel of the
Speedway - M.W. Lindenmeyer
• When the
thugs hold you by the throat - Paul Hershfield
KENPO
MAN
By Sean F.
Lynch
A cold winter night, on dirty
Dorchester streets,
Reeks a gang The Sharks -
trouble they seek.
No choice but to join the
gang against my will.
If I choose to side
against them, I will be killed.
Tonight
is the night the initiation begins,
To jump a
man and put his life to an end.
Fellow Sharks
won’t let me do the job on my
own,
Sharks creed, “Blood Brothers Do
Not Stand Alone!”
It’s late
as we wait, hiding in alleyways for prey,
I
pray to God that no one walks down our
way.
But magically appearing, on the graffiti
street,
An old man in a black gi with no
shoes on his feet.
It’s him, many
who refer to as Kenpo Man.
For his style is
Kenpo, it means open hand.
It is said he
could kill a man with a single blow.
Although
a living soul never witnessed these tales
told.
Recently, a Shark had quit and
walked away.
To start a good life and leave
behind the bad days.
Roach, our leader,
considered this treason.
He beat this traitor
to death for no other reason.
Unaware
of at that time, traitor was nephew of Kenpo
Man.
Who’s here now, to come and avenge
the blood of his clan.
Carrying chains,
knives, baseball bats, and Billy clubs,
Roach
approaches very slowly, followed by his
thugs.
Kenpo Man softly says with
squinted eyes,
“Roach, you drew first
blood, prepare to die!”
Roach just
smiles and does not break sweat.
He lives for
the challenge of the fight to the
death.
Quietly, these two warriors
collide head to head.
Quickly, one is
dropped, who clearly is dead.
Kenpo Man
stands tall and remains untouched.
For he
applied to the punk’s throat, a Death
Touch!
Angry and shocked, all Sharks
jump in to attack.
And one by one, they get
thrown onto their backs.
The old man blocks
strikes with quick reflexes,
Countering
thrust punches to the gang’s solar
plexus.
Rugged hands which are callused
so thick,
Move lightning fast and hit hard
like bricks.
The combat has ended as I look
all around.
Every Shark is laying dead on the
ground.
The action displayed leaves me
breathless.
To see the deadliest weapon ever
witnessed.
He now stands before me, remaining
still and calm.
Then rapidly unleashing to my
face - an open palm.
Not certain if
I’m dead, I slowly open my eyes,
Slowly
and surely I realize I’m still
alive.
His leather open mitt is set an inch
from my nose.
Why didn’t he follow
through with the lethal
blow?
Resolutely, he places his hands
on his lapels.
And I ask him a question if he
could please tell.
“Why did you choose
to let me live and not die?”
He replied
“I saw a good man as I looked into your
eyes.”
So now I live to tell the
tale and repeat it I will.
Of this legend,
this fable, this great man of myth.
Who had
granted The Shark’s last request.
A
Death
Wish!
-----------
Stray
Cat on Speedball Alley
Some times she
hovers in the doorway,
waiting to
pounce,
lets you walk on
by
if you don’t
have
what she
needs.
Other times, like
now,
her howls are bouncing off the walls and
the closed windows of the buildings
above.
Once upon a time those guys would all
fuck her; now no one even lets her come
up.
People eat at
cafes
next to the
dumpster,
stuffing their
faces
full of the
Hedra
watching, like it was
another
Hollywood scene, and
thinking,
She shouldn’t get so
upset;
it’s bad for the baby.
– Joy
Bashew
------------
from
the Beachhead Archives
Dec.
1987
Little
Chapel
of the
Speedway
So Doc and me went on a
pilgrimage
To the Little Chapel of the
Speedway
Down by the
Ocean.
The aisle was
crowded
With skateboarding
grandmas
And rollerskating
clowns,
A rooster toodling on a
kazoo
Steel guitar Willy kept on
trying.
People with dogs and dogs with
people
All visiting the holy
shrines:
Ice cream parlors and pizza
stands.
In the temple
courtyard
The sellers held sway
-
Buy sunglasses and a
T-shirt
To appease the
Gods.
Beneath the hallowed portals of the
Cadillac
The hippies spread their buffalo
robe
with quartz crystals and elk horn
pipes.
Have your fortune
told
Your back
massaged
Your karma
cleansed
All at the Little Chapel of the
Speedway.
As the sacred rites
ended
We sat under the Fig
Tree
And watched the finest
sunset
We could
remember.
–
M.W.
Lindenmeyer
------------
When
the thugs hold you by the throat
and
threaten
then offer to break only one leg
instead of
both
then you have to thank
them
and wash their dirty
laundry,
make it look clean and
make it smell flowery sickly
sweet
with your held-back
tears
and you have to be
good
and tell their lies as
if
they were your own
truths
make them sound pretty tinkly
trite
with your silenced
cries
they’ll give you a cast for
that
broken
leg
and a cane to get
around
and have their picture
taken
standing next to you,
smiling
and shaking your
hand
then they’ll show it to
everyone
see how we help the
handicapped
but the others like
yourself
will see the real
picture
see the venom in the
smile
see the
warning
and will know how to
behave
and you’ll hate yourself
in the morning
– Paul
Hershfield
Posted: Thu - December
1, 2005 at 06:28 PM