she said

Kiss my ass!

I quickly complied

I don’t know why she’s pissed off now

MISCHIEVOUS PATTERNS: NOT SO FANCY TANSHI VOL. 3: Schaefer, George: 9798829991593: Books


The bar’s empty but they’re open.  I manage to get a beer and look around at the exotic décor.  It’s a mix of new age Asian and early dive.  I learn they have a city wide special that entails a PBR pounder and a shot of Maker’s Mark.  They also do a variation  that includes a can of Tecaté with a shot of tequilla.

It’s that point when you have to make a decision and you don’t want a reputation for always erring on the side of caution.  This is the point where the evening many get hazy.  Will I even make it home alive.

A pounder of beer

chasing down high grade whiskey

the sun is fading fast

I talk with the bartender who reveals she is a lovely mix of Latina and Asian.  She’s wearing a Kurt Cobain T-shirt.  I ask her if she was even alive when Cobain played.  She was 5 years old when Cobain died.  Fair enough, Jim Morrison died 2 days before my 5 birthday.  We talk about music and the overworked air conditioner.  An old man crushing hard ends up tossing down 3 citywides before realizing the need to catch a train back home

Lovely Melita

giggling and pouring a shot

it’s love at first shot

Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798416456573: Books


I’m still not sure the actual laws but Cambodia seems to be at least partially lenient on marijuana.  I remember reading that they legalized it to attract tourists.  I never knew if that was truth or fiction.  I do know that a lot of places in Phnom Pehn liked to serve “happy pizza”.  This was pizza spiced with a substitution for oregano.

Moments of sheer bliss

oregano like cat nip

coaxes playful mood

You could order the pizza as happy pizza.  They knew what to do.  Best yet, they didn’t even charge any extra for the substitution.  American restaurants could learn from this example.  Give the people what they want. 

It was even a pretty tasty pizza, too.  I mean, no one in Boston or New York is losing their job but this was tasty.  Of course, it also provided a delayed but pretty intense kick.  You can walk out feeling full but you know that something is going to hit real soon.  Get thee to a safe space.

Sitting on a bench

happy pizza greatly

enhanced the mood

as Mekong River flowed

it’s dark muddy water

Of course, watching the mighty Mekong is intense but you realize that you might be best to make haste and get back to your room ASAP.  It’s starting to kick in.  Across the street from the hostel is a bar featuring karaoke.  Yes, this will be an enjoyable and amusing evening.  Someone who can barely speak English is singing a Prince tune and the happy pizza is asserting its presence.

Enjoy enhanced mood

momentary bliss unreal

and yet paid in full


I never really identified with the hippies.  I don’t know why people think that I am.  Even  when I was a Deadhead I always felt a stronger bond with the Beat Generation.  Beatnik would be closer to the truth than hippie although both are largely generic terms at this point.

Silly labels

identifying with myths

and legends

Poetry is deeply fused in my soul.  It’s the driving force of my life but truth be known a good bit of that 19th century existential dread has seeped into my consciousness.  Nietzsche and Dostoevski have left indelible brands on my shoulders in lieu of birthmarks. 

Tragically doomed

facing another new day

not sure who I am


It was a hot fucking day in July.  We were young and gloriously naïve.  The Grateful Dead were set to pack JFK for a jubilant celebration.  Shakedown Street was shaking as all the Deadheads shopped for tie dyed t-shirts and kind grilled cheese sandwiches.  JFK was an old decaying stadium and one could envision gladiators in leather helmets going to battle on the field of honor. 

Decrepit bathrooms

a parking lot full of dreams

liquid joy bestowed

Bruce Hornsby set to open up the show.  He was Jerry’s buddy and some of us knew how good he was.  It meant going in early and enduring the heat.  Harken back to those gladiators.  We can tough it out ourselves.  Lest we knew a final celebration in an antiquated house.  Inspectors were in the stadium day of making a final condemnation of JFK.  An announcement of closure and destruction less than a week away.

Fall apart slowly

not suited for rats or bums

but Deadhead approved

It was a grand time.  Certainly not there best but some interesting songs in the mix.  They should have played “Samson and Deliah”  but I’m guessing they didn’t know themselves.  The inspectors condemned a building but were willing to let 80,000 Deadheads face the danger.  They didn’t realize it during the show but they were going to tear the whole building down. 

So we danced joyous

in the soon to be ruins

blissful unaware

An estimated prophet took a wharf rat to Hell in a bucket and the other one turned on your love light. A little red rooster standing on the moon gave scarlet begonias to a loser.  Not necessarily in that order.  We elevated our consciousness as we sweated away impurities in our hearts.  We filtered out feeling good.  The party continued on to the next stop on the tour.  Soon we would learn the news.

An old piece of shit

we miss her in spite the flaws

some joyous moments

lifted spirits brief moment

not knowing we said goodbye


I think one 

of the real funny ones

was the Australian hooker

in Amsterdam

I was wandering thru

the Red Light District

with a spare 50 guilden

I made a good choice

I noticed the accent

when she greeted me

and led me to a room

She was great

I made an off hand remark


about penis size

and she remarked

with her Australian accent

“Don’t worry, honey,

I still fake it

even with the big ones.”

I couldn’t believe

a whore would say that

to a client

but it actually

made me feel better

blunt honesty

can be a real good thing


I have to admit

that I never laughed

so much during sex

laughing and coming

at the same time
can cause a heart seizure

but at least

you’d die happy

and she even,

for a few moments

made me think

she was enjoying it

as much as I was

so what

if she faked her O?

I didn’t

so at the end

of the day

it was payday

for each of us


Choke the Chicken (or Auto Erotic Asphyxiation Gone Horribly Wrong): Schaefer, George F: 9798434885959: Books


We are getting snippy and contentious anymore.  It doesn’t seem like anyone can have any fun anymore.  So we have poets declaring on their posts that ass kissing doesn’t belong in poetry.  Hmmm, I initially misread the post and thought he wrote ass kicking.  I was thinking to myself that I can see room for both.  Sometimes you do have kick ass and depending on the person, you may actually want to kiss their ass.  It isn’t all bad.

No ass kissing

No poet slap fights

No fun of any kind

Then I see a poetry group that frowns upon poet slap fights.  I mean, come on, are you suggesting we go for full on poet fist fights?  I just don’t see that working.  What was the immortal line from Groundskeeper Willie:  “You speak like a poet but you punch like one, too.” Better to let poets slap fight and allow the illusion that they weren’t trying to hurt one another rather than let them actually have a fist fight and reveal the pathetic truth.  Besides, I happen to like both ass kissing and poet slap fights.  What can I say.  I am a little kinky even if I did chicken out when my dominatrix suggested CBT.  Being kinky doesn’t mean I need my scrotum scraped with sandpaper.  I’ll take a hard pass on that one.

Let my poets slap

enjoy thy frenemy’s ass

all good in the end


Her in a tight

black miniskirt

hugging her

hourglass figure

me, scraggly unshaven face

reading a poem about

a radical armchair

my tie dyed shirt is

faded and oversized

even on my expanding belly

She tilts her head

as though examining

my every word

Her eyes are blue

leaving temptation

for comparisons to sky or sea

She doesn’t seem to mind

my balding scalp or even

the expanding waistline

or my eyes badly dilated

by consumption of weed and brandy

I raise and lower my voice

to correspond to the emotions

expressed in the poem

I flail my arms wildly

and nod my head

to accentuate the verse

I steal a momentary glance

into her blue eyes

for a clue

revealing what her

true intentions are

Nothing gained; nothing ventured;

the words of the poem

form on my lips

I seek her attention

through the grandeur

of my performance

and apparently gain it

her eyes follow the words

as they crystalize from

soul to open air

I glance at her nonchalantly;

a dirty poem calls

for an obscene gesture

now she’s either hot to trot

or totally turned off

We’ll know soon enough

in either case

She continues to devour

my performance with

intense eyes suggesting assent

I read my poem alive to her

as the rest of the audience

slips away into

some form of oblivion

In this rapturous moment

she is the sole receiver

of the poetry

and I bide my time

till the end of the performance

and hope we continue

the rapture late into night


 (a casually buzzed lament)

So it takes

a rainy Christmas Eve

 to rediscovedr Li Po;

to throw one back

with the great;

raise a drink

to a new drinking partner.

And it seemed likely

to garner a slight buzz

and a late night rush

as I step outside

still barefoot;

toes sinking into cool mud

and the ground remains

unwilling to freeze.

A possum is on the lam 

as I cautiously step along

and press flesh onto wet grass.

I toss a Kaiser roll

after the scurrying possum

and laugh at December 

and the early days of winter.

AUTHENTIC STONER GIBBERISH: Schaefer, George: 9798811598632: Books