Jacob Sandock Poetry

gag and heave and randy travis ‘til country dawn do us part

rise and shine breakfast at the OK Corral

two eggs anyway you take em

for three bucks and you can smoke and

straight up listen to the old people

talk about their failed

grandchildren/thyroid conditions

-- Sandy has gout in the big toe --

the waitress her name is Rosie

she is offended by politeness

has the look of the gray wolf about her

a cigarillo dangles off

the side of Rosie’s mouth as she stirs

your oatmeal in the kitchen

there is a jukebox at the far end of the counter

Jim sits near it

never says a word

just drinks coffee, black

clutching for dear life

in a country kind of way

dumps dimes in the machine

so that the voice of Randy Travis

is as constant in here as the hot air

caked to the ceiling

“You look familiar” an old fella says to me

“Yeah” I reply and go back to my eggs

he reads the obituaries, dismayed

I reach for the pepper, I take a lot

it clears my sinuses

Rosie drops a piece of toast

wholewheatdry

onto the kitchen floor

picks it right up

brushes it right off and

(it might have been yours)

she puts it on a platter --

questionable in your head

but in Rosie’s

the toast is dry, incapable of

absorbing particles of dust and hair

and mouse turds and anyway

what kind of asshole orders toast

without butter...serves that

stupid fucking white man right

smart is just another five-letter-word

and no one here can spell it sober

or save the world with caring

just because it needs saved

as hungry mouths in Africa watch

for signs of fire in the sky

we’re talkin, big fire,

and rice bombs with parachutes

and fire and ice and Rosie in the kitchen not caring

and Jim listening for signs of life

and Randy Travis needing to be heard

gone platinum

gone fishin

back at noon

high noon, a knife fight in the lot

tell yer ma about a place, a place like no place

biscuits and gravy for the depths of your soul

and they’re not very good biscuits

but everything

expands heated hot enough in the kitchen

diners and people are the same

They are dismantling the old, broken diner one piece at a time. The old man is standing out there, watching on shuffling feet (as the high school kids run past unaware) scratching his white head and fidgeting with his white beard as they pick his life's dream apart in chunks of matter; the neon is pulled off the facade, the facade is stripped of siding, plywood removed to reveal a skeletal gestalt of slats, planks, shank bones and nicotine…End of the world or not -- the truth, good folks of Arcadia, is this: diners and people are the same.

climbing for air

adventure for the blue

and black of it all

I’ll climb this wall

scale that mountain

hire a sherpa to guide me through

inner-city Toledo armed with

freeze dried peas

jerky for the masses

the sherpa never had Sonic burger

before today but he’s good with altitude

we’ll rappel old Adamlee building

when he gets over the diarrhea

yonder calls, all else silent

on the prairie tonight

spelunking for pennies

bobbing for gold apples

sponsors and sherpas

Subaru sidekicks axes and bottled water

boots and gloves handcrafted in China

--pegs and spikes--

sailing just won’t cut it

not anymore

not with our highs and lows

and sherpas are afraid of water