BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S
BOB'S
poetry, music, comedy
Sundays at 3pm
21 First Street, Pittsfield, MA
poetry, music, comedy
Sundays at 3pm
21 First Street, Pittsfield, MA
A
BOB'S is a multi-purpose performance space
seating 35. Available to rent for art display, poetry readings, live music, theatrical shows.
BOB BALOGH manager, artistic director
413-212-7180 www.balogh613@aol.com
ON RADIO:
every Monday morning, 6:00-9:00 a.m.
streaming at www.valleyfreeradio.org
ON TELEVISION:
"In the Slammer" www.ctsbtv.org
BOOKS:
"Iced Tea & Apologies" $10
"Scat" $10
"Earthworms Have Five Hearts" $7
"Manage the Sweat" $7
"Incidents" $5
"Mornings" $5
"Greater Backfish Journal" $10
"Variations of You" $5
RANDOM MASTERWORK:
RHINOCEROS INCIDENT
Today you are marking
your wedding anniversary alone.
You are alone because
your husband is dead.
If you had taken a more
conventional approach to marriage,
like tying the knot with someone
from the same species as yourself,
well, I guarantee your husband
would be right by your side
right now,
rounding out your dreadfully boring
ways & means.
But no.
You married a rhinoceros.
All of a sudden you were turning 50
& you’d never even been
French-kissed.
Too busy, too neurotic.
Then with time passing you by,
you looked in the mirror
& saw a petrified prune.
You bit you nails.
You were fidgety.
You had the shakes,
You had intestinal butterflies
& circulation of just plain
botheration.
You’ve had a successful career
as a real estate lawyer
with Johnson, Peters & Wood, LLC
down in Myrtle Beach.
But while rotting as
a 50 year-old virgin
you collected a handful of pills,
a big thick rope & a stool
& set yourself up for
eternal nothingness.
But then Craig’s List posted
something from a horny rhinoceros.
Horny rhinoceros.
Made you wild & gooey inside.
You met & flirted at the zoo
& lucky for you, the zookeeper
was a justice of the peace.
Well, because of the rhino’s size,
he had to live in your garage,
which meant improvisational
consummation.
And after the obligatory
period of adjustment
& learning the expected
matrimonial drill,
your rhino ran off with
a lascivious quarter horse
named Citadel.
So, today as you mark
your wedding anniversary alone,
be grateful for the rhinoceros
Kama Sutra experience
& next time try to keep
to your own species.
BOOK INCIDENT
That book you sent me,
the one about your love affairs,
I mailed it back to you.
Did not crack it open.
At my age,
in my imperial wisdom,
I can easily judge a book
by its cover.
Yours is titled
“Lucky & Luckless in Love.”
That tells me right away
that I’m not in it.
We were a bad fit:
Bridgeport by the Sound,
Queens by the river,
Berkshires by the lake…
A few days of being love-sick,
a moment or 2 of tingling
in our body parts.
Maybe once in red heat
we hit the high spot.
But not lucky & not luckless,
just a droopy mismatch.
Sending your book back,
Honey.
I know I’m not in it.
But you can't say we didn't try, right?
CEMETERY INCIDENT
The 24-horsepower
Cub Cadet lawnmower
made its final cuttings
for the season.
Grass mowed up & down 142 acres
of Pittsfield Cemetery landscape.
Fall leaves getting chopped
& mixed in with the grass.
The Cub Cadet with Corey Boggs
at the controls.
Corey in her 11th year
working maintenance
at the cemetery.
Forgoing wages to live rent-free
on the grounds.
Money in the bank
from a bad guy,
a drunken bad guy,
years ago plowing into
a carload of Boggs.
Father driving, mother next to him.
Corey & her brother
riding in the back.
Death in the vulgarity
of a drunk’s collision.
People said:
“You were the lucky one,
honey. By the grace of god
you survived.”
But no.
She knew that god fucked up.
“No reason for me
not to be dead,” she said.
But the drunk was a state senator.
Plenty of money, plenty of guilt.
$4 million made the problem
go away.
Berkshire Bank promised
not to let her money go astray
& she could live off the interest.
Corey Boggs working that boneyard
& living right there on the campus.
Works hard riding that Cub Cadet
& won’t accept no pay.
Every blade of grass
belongs to Corey Boggs.
And here comes
those hot-colored leaves,
mix & mulch with the last cutting.
Good sunlight on these autumn days.
The shrubs on her family’s plot
are tilting in the direction of the glare.
And that heavyweight front arch
looking like a prison gate…
nobody knows there's
a cozy apartment carved out
inside those blocky bluestones,
home sweet home to Corey Boggs.
PHILDELPHIA SEWER RATS INCIDENT
It is exactly 1 year since
my mother became dead.
It is exactly 1 day since
I received my inheritance check.
5 figures, big numbers.
My first inclination was to go
to Saratoga
& throw it at the horses.
Then I thought that maybe
I would invest in a heroin addiction.
I hate the money & I particularly hate
the hungry rats from probate court.
Especially 2 Philadelphia
sewer rats.
Mother & daughter,
who spent the last 20 years
sucking up to my mother
for a piece of the cheese.
One of them thinks
she’s a blood relative.
Not part of my bloodline, she ain’t.
No fat, ugly rodents are
linked to me.
Real kinsfolk know better
than to disgrace the memory
of Marie Balogh, my mother.
Over the years these 2 parasitic vermin
would make regular visits
from their rats’ nest
in the Philadelphia sewer line
down to Virginia to brainwash
the old lady, Marie Balogh.
They would put yellow Post-it notes
on all of my mother’s belongings.
First dibs.
Post-it notes on the back of
furniture, appliances, TV,
stereo, bedframes, rugs, antiques…
disgusting.
Plus fill her cognitive declining head
with mercenary bullshit.
I hated these 2 frauds all of those
20-something years
& I hate them worse now.
My great hatred for them
could only be eclipsed by
how much my mother & father
both despised them,
right up until that special
split second when their holy souls
flew out of the Milky Way.
Exactly 1 year since Marie
became dead.
25 years since Red & Marie’s last kiss.
And exactly 1 day since my prize money
showed up in the mail.
If these 2 fat, ugly, Philadelphia sewer rats
weren’t so inconsequential
along with their cretinous credentials,
I’d give all my new cash to Terminex
to search & destroy these rat bastards.
No, I’ll start with a new trumpet
for the grandson.
We all loved the way he played “TAPS”
for Marie exactly 1 year ago.
WINNEBAGO INCIDENT
I parked my Winnebago
on the White House lawn.
Listened for sirens & choppers.
Waited for bullets & RPGs.
Watched every direction
for killer squads
in camouflage or black suits.
But it was quiet.
It was lonely.
So, I made a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich.
Opened a quart of milk.
They must know who I am, I thought.
If you’re me, you’d expect that,
especially on the White House lawn
in a Winnebago.
Bet Obama knows me.
Bet he spread the word
that a barrage of gunfire
at my sorry ass
would have been extravagant
& just plain wrong.
Then Obama
leaned in the passenger window.
“Something you want to talk about?”
he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I was just passing through,
wondering if you wanna hop in,
share some adventures for a few days.”
“Can we head down to the Outer Banks?”
“Hell yeah, get in.”
He drove most of the way,
one hand on a peanut butter & jelly,
the other one steered the Winnebago.
He was wearing that big campaign smile,
waving at motorists on I-95.
All of them jaded, all thinking:
“Jerk don’t look nothin’ like Barack.”
And Prez enjoying a taste
of being mistaken for a nobody.
But he said:
“This is a one-time thing, you understand.”
He looked at me sideways
from the driver’s seat.
I said: “Sure, Mr. President,
just keep your eyes on the road.”
LOLLIPOP INCIDENT
Lopresti was told
that he would outgrow the problem.
He heard from all the adults
about the power & value
of ignoring the cause of his troubles;
the cause being the kids in school.
They taunted Lopresti
by convoluting his name
into “Lollipop.”
Lollipop Lopresti.
Tall, rangy child
bukly head,
big greasy pompadour.
1962, age 12.
“My boy Lollipop.
You make my heart go giddy-up.”
He reacted with embarrassment,
then obscenities,
then he’d grab a provocateur
& bang his fist
into the motherfucker’s nose.
Teasing Lopresti
soon became high risk & no fun.
The Lollipop years lasted
less than 12 months.
It took the routine practice
of following the adults’ advice,
of ignoring ridicule
to make the problem go away.
But in a jam,
he might bloody a challenger’s face
with his knuckles.
Yesterday,
Lopresti is on the front porch
watching the sunset.
A silver Lexus pulls up.
“Hey, Lollipop,” says the driver.
Lopresti walks to the driver’s window.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
says Lexus, a cigar & a big grin.
No comment.
“We were in school together back in the day.”
No comment.
“Come on,” says Lexus.
“Howz about all the fun we had?”
He sings: “My boy Lollipop.”
No comment.
“Shit, Lopresti. You’re still a freakin’ weirdo loser.
Same old sour-ass Lollipop.”
Comment:
Lopresti throws a strong left jab
breaking the bridge of the driver’s nose.
On the front porch
watching the sunset,
Lopresti is rocking his golden years.
Can’t quite outgrow
that old schoolyard problem.
Tries hard when he’s hard-pressed,
but still gets sucked in.
Lollipop.
Just an all-day sucker
with shame past its prime
still making his heart go giddy-up.
FALSE ALARM INCIDENT
There goes the false alarm
& here comes a stampede
in the hallway.
The elevator is knocked out
& they make a mad gallop
down the stairs.
False alarm,
with a shriek & pulse
that says incoming nuke
& forthcoming coronary
& shit in the pants.
But it’s a false alarm.
Lisa, from the 4th floor,
just got pissed off
because I wouldn’t give her
cigarette money.
So she pulled the emergency lever.
This is the effect I have on women now.
Lisa & I are the only ones
who haven’t evacuated the building.
We know the score.
While 4 floors of people
are out on the sidewalk,
distress signal still stinging their ears;
they are deafened by a false alarm
& listening for the wrong answer.
SUNSET INCIDENT
The sun sets
into the Berkshire Taconic ecosystem.
You see it 3 or 4 times a week,
best viewed from the upper deck
of McKay Street’s parking garage,
the ugly downtown whirley-gig parkade,
the dirty car ramp spiral
that nobody mistakes for Guggenheim.
But up on the roof,
there goes the sun,
unrivaled in dropping dead.
You lean against the rail,
best seat in the house,
watch another day break down.
Up on the roof,
where sunsets are better heard,
not seen.
And you are getting the melody.
And in wonder you are saying:
“That used to be my favorite song.”
CARDBOARD INCIDENT
Cardboard boxes
were not part of my moving equation
this time.
I moved two weeks ago,
packed, loaded
& drove 3 miles
from point “old” to point “new,”
with personal property,
stuff, gear,
bits & bobs,
shit & Shinola,
forensic evidence of an unspectacular life.
But no cardboard boxes.
For once, I moved out & in
strictly with milk crates
& some wonderful, sad, smelly luggage
from the thrift.
And not one cardboard box, hear me?
Shipping the miserable cargo at age 64.99
with no help.
All my best friends had sacroiliac dysfunction
or a yoga class
or they were out
changing the course of history
with placards & megaphones.
No help, no problem.
No cardboard boxes,
mnemonics for all my glum moves
moving backward;
missteps & dead ends,
worn out welcomes,
cleaning out nests
& compacting everything into cardboard
wrapped with duct tape,
Sharpie scribble on the sides saying:
kitchen utensils,
bathroom supplies,
office supplies,
books,
CDs,
photo albums,
junk drawer debris,
breakables reinforced with newspaper,
scratchpads of genius,
journals of madness,
convoluted resumes,
C-4 & hand grenades…
then take 5 when a bottom falls out.
But not this time.
Milk crates & valises
& an elevator at the new place
made for a low-key heave ho.
I am intact.
I am ready for the championship round
& so far
I’m not a cardboard cutout of myself.
copyright (c) 2015 by Bob Balogh
All rights reserved
BOB'S is a multi-purpose performance space
seating 35. Available to rent for art display, poetry readings, live music, theatrical shows.
BOB BALOGH manager, artistic director
413-212-7180 www.balogh613@aol.com
ON RADIO:
every Monday morning, 6:00-9:00 a.m.
streaming at www.valleyfreeradio.org
ON TELEVISION:
"In the Slammer" www.ctsbtv.org
BOOKS:
"Iced Tea & Apologies" $10
"Scat" $10
"Earthworms Have Five Hearts" $7
"Manage the Sweat" $7
"Incidents" $5
"Mornings" $5
"Greater Backfish Journal" $10
"Variations of You" $5
RANDOM MASTERWORK:
RHINOCEROS INCIDENT
Today you are marking
your wedding anniversary alone.
You are alone because
your husband is dead.
If you had taken a more
conventional approach to marriage,
like tying the knot with someone
from the same species as yourself,
well, I guarantee your husband
would be right by your side
right now,
rounding out your dreadfully boring
ways & means.
But no.
You married a rhinoceros.
All of a sudden you were turning 50
& you’d never even been
French-kissed.
Too busy, too neurotic.
Then with time passing you by,
you looked in the mirror
& saw a petrified prune.
You bit you nails.
You were fidgety.
You had the shakes,
You had intestinal butterflies
& circulation of just plain
botheration.
You’ve had a successful career
as a real estate lawyer
with Johnson, Peters & Wood, LLC
down in Myrtle Beach.
But while rotting as
a 50 year-old virgin
you collected a handful of pills,
a big thick rope & a stool
& set yourself up for
eternal nothingness.
But then Craig’s List posted
something from a horny rhinoceros.
Horny rhinoceros.
Made you wild & gooey inside.
You met & flirted at the zoo
& lucky for you, the zookeeper
was a justice of the peace.
Well, because of the rhino’s size,
he had to live in your garage,
which meant improvisational
consummation.
And after the obligatory
period of adjustment
& learning the expected
matrimonial drill,
your rhino ran off with
a lascivious quarter horse
named Citadel.
So, today as you mark
your wedding anniversary alone,
be grateful for the rhinoceros
Kama Sutra experience
& next time try to keep
to your own species.
BOOK INCIDENT
That book you sent me,
the one about your love affairs,
I mailed it back to you.
Did not crack it open.
At my age,
in my imperial wisdom,
I can easily judge a book
by its cover.
Yours is titled
“Lucky & Luckless in Love.”
That tells me right away
that I’m not in it.
We were a bad fit:
Bridgeport by the Sound,
Queens by the river,
Berkshires by the lake…
A few days of being love-sick,
a moment or 2 of tingling
in our body parts.
Maybe once in red heat
we hit the high spot.
But not lucky & not luckless,
just a droopy mismatch.
Sending your book back,
Honey.
I know I’m not in it.
But you can't say we didn't try, right?
CEMETERY INCIDENT
The 24-horsepower
Cub Cadet lawnmower
made its final cuttings
for the season.
Grass mowed up & down 142 acres
of Pittsfield Cemetery landscape.
Fall leaves getting chopped
& mixed in with the grass.
The Cub Cadet with Corey Boggs
at the controls.
Corey in her 11th year
working maintenance
at the cemetery.
Forgoing wages to live rent-free
on the grounds.
Money in the bank
from a bad guy,
a drunken bad guy,
years ago plowing into
a carload of Boggs.
Father driving, mother next to him.
Corey & her brother
riding in the back.
Death in the vulgarity
of a drunk’s collision.
People said:
“You were the lucky one,
honey. By the grace of god
you survived.”
But no.
She knew that god fucked up.
“No reason for me
not to be dead,” she said.
But the drunk was a state senator.
Plenty of money, plenty of guilt.
$4 million made the problem
go away.
Berkshire Bank promised
not to let her money go astray
& she could live off the interest.
Corey Boggs working that boneyard
& living right there on the campus.
Works hard riding that Cub Cadet
& won’t accept no pay.
Every blade of grass
belongs to Corey Boggs.
And here comes
those hot-colored leaves,
mix & mulch with the last cutting.
Good sunlight on these autumn days.
The shrubs on her family’s plot
are tilting in the direction of the glare.
And that heavyweight front arch
looking like a prison gate…
nobody knows there's
a cozy apartment carved out
inside those blocky bluestones,
home sweet home to Corey Boggs.
PHILDELPHIA SEWER RATS INCIDENT
It is exactly 1 year since
my mother became dead.
It is exactly 1 day since
I received my inheritance check.
5 figures, big numbers.
My first inclination was to go
to Saratoga
& throw it at the horses.
Then I thought that maybe
I would invest in a heroin addiction.
I hate the money & I particularly hate
the hungry rats from probate court.
Especially 2 Philadelphia
sewer rats.
Mother & daughter,
who spent the last 20 years
sucking up to my mother
for a piece of the cheese.
One of them thinks
she’s a blood relative.
Not part of my bloodline, she ain’t.
No fat, ugly rodents are
linked to me.
Real kinsfolk know better
than to disgrace the memory
of Marie Balogh, my mother.
Over the years these 2 parasitic vermin
would make regular visits
from their rats’ nest
in the Philadelphia sewer line
down to Virginia to brainwash
the old lady, Marie Balogh.
They would put yellow Post-it notes
on all of my mother’s belongings.
First dibs.
Post-it notes on the back of
furniture, appliances, TV,
stereo, bedframes, rugs, antiques…
disgusting.
Plus fill her cognitive declining head
with mercenary bullshit.
I hated these 2 frauds all of those
20-something years
& I hate them worse now.
My great hatred for them
could only be eclipsed by
how much my mother & father
both despised them,
right up until that special
split second when their holy souls
flew out of the Milky Way.
Exactly 1 year since Marie
became dead.
25 years since Red & Marie’s last kiss.
And exactly 1 day since my prize money
showed up in the mail.
If these 2 fat, ugly, Philadelphia sewer rats
weren’t so inconsequential
along with their cretinous credentials,
I’d give all my new cash to Terminex
to search & destroy these rat bastards.
No, I’ll start with a new trumpet
for the grandson.
We all loved the way he played “TAPS”
for Marie exactly 1 year ago.
WINNEBAGO INCIDENT
I parked my Winnebago
on the White House lawn.
Listened for sirens & choppers.
Waited for bullets & RPGs.
Watched every direction
for killer squads
in camouflage or black suits.
But it was quiet.
It was lonely.
So, I made a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich.
Opened a quart of milk.
They must know who I am, I thought.
If you’re me, you’d expect that,
especially on the White House lawn
in a Winnebago.
Bet Obama knows me.
Bet he spread the word
that a barrage of gunfire
at my sorry ass
would have been extravagant
& just plain wrong.
Then Obama
leaned in the passenger window.
“Something you want to talk about?”
he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I was just passing through,
wondering if you wanna hop in,
share some adventures for a few days.”
“Can we head down to the Outer Banks?”
“Hell yeah, get in.”
He drove most of the way,
one hand on a peanut butter & jelly,
the other one steered the Winnebago.
He was wearing that big campaign smile,
waving at motorists on I-95.
All of them jaded, all thinking:
“Jerk don’t look nothin’ like Barack.”
And Prez enjoying a taste
of being mistaken for a nobody.
But he said:
“This is a one-time thing, you understand.”
He looked at me sideways
from the driver’s seat.
I said: “Sure, Mr. President,
just keep your eyes on the road.”
LOLLIPOP INCIDENT
Lopresti was told
that he would outgrow the problem.
He heard from all the adults
about the power & value
of ignoring the cause of his troubles;
the cause being the kids in school.
They taunted Lopresti
by convoluting his name
into “Lollipop.”
Lollipop Lopresti.
Tall, rangy child
bukly head,
big greasy pompadour.
1962, age 12.
“My boy Lollipop.
You make my heart go giddy-up.”
He reacted with embarrassment,
then obscenities,
then he’d grab a provocateur
& bang his fist
into the motherfucker’s nose.
Teasing Lopresti
soon became high risk & no fun.
The Lollipop years lasted
less than 12 months.
It took the routine practice
of following the adults’ advice,
of ignoring ridicule
to make the problem go away.
But in a jam,
he might bloody a challenger’s face
with his knuckles.
Yesterday,
Lopresti is on the front porch
watching the sunset.
A silver Lexus pulls up.
“Hey, Lollipop,” says the driver.
Lopresti walks to the driver’s window.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
says Lexus, a cigar & a big grin.
No comment.
“We were in school together back in the day.”
No comment.
“Come on,” says Lexus.
“Howz about all the fun we had?”
He sings: “My boy Lollipop.”
No comment.
“Shit, Lopresti. You’re still a freakin’ weirdo loser.
Same old sour-ass Lollipop.”
Comment:
Lopresti throws a strong left jab
breaking the bridge of the driver’s nose.
On the front porch
watching the sunset,
Lopresti is rocking his golden years.
Can’t quite outgrow
that old schoolyard problem.
Tries hard when he’s hard-pressed,
but still gets sucked in.
Lollipop.
Just an all-day sucker
with shame past its prime
still making his heart go giddy-up.
FALSE ALARM INCIDENT
There goes the false alarm
& here comes a stampede
in the hallway.
The elevator is knocked out
& they make a mad gallop
down the stairs.
False alarm,
with a shriek & pulse
that says incoming nuke
& forthcoming coronary
& shit in the pants.
But it’s a false alarm.
Lisa, from the 4th floor,
just got pissed off
because I wouldn’t give her
cigarette money.
So she pulled the emergency lever.
This is the effect I have on women now.
Lisa & I are the only ones
who haven’t evacuated the building.
We know the score.
While 4 floors of people
are out on the sidewalk,
distress signal still stinging their ears;
they are deafened by a false alarm
& listening for the wrong answer.
SUNSET INCIDENT
The sun sets
into the Berkshire Taconic ecosystem.
You see it 3 or 4 times a week,
best viewed from the upper deck
of McKay Street’s parking garage,
the ugly downtown whirley-gig parkade,
the dirty car ramp spiral
that nobody mistakes for Guggenheim.
But up on the roof,
there goes the sun,
unrivaled in dropping dead.
You lean against the rail,
best seat in the house,
watch another day break down.
Up on the roof,
where sunsets are better heard,
not seen.
And you are getting the melody.
And in wonder you are saying:
“That used to be my favorite song.”
CARDBOARD INCIDENT
Cardboard boxes
were not part of my moving equation
this time.
I moved two weeks ago,
packed, loaded
& drove 3 miles
from point “old” to point “new,”
with personal property,
stuff, gear,
bits & bobs,
shit & Shinola,
forensic evidence of an unspectacular life.
But no cardboard boxes.
For once, I moved out & in
strictly with milk crates
& some wonderful, sad, smelly luggage
from the thrift.
And not one cardboard box, hear me?
Shipping the miserable cargo at age 64.99
with no help.
All my best friends had sacroiliac dysfunction
or a yoga class
or they were out
changing the course of history
with placards & megaphones.
No help, no problem.
No cardboard boxes,
mnemonics for all my glum moves
moving backward;
missteps & dead ends,
worn out welcomes,
cleaning out nests
& compacting everything into cardboard
wrapped with duct tape,
Sharpie scribble on the sides saying:
kitchen utensils,
bathroom supplies,
office supplies,
books,
CDs,
photo albums,
junk drawer debris,
breakables reinforced with newspaper,
scratchpads of genius,
journals of madness,
convoluted resumes,
C-4 & hand grenades…
then take 5 when a bottom falls out.
But not this time.
Milk crates & valises
& an elevator at the new place
made for a low-key heave ho.
I am intact.
I am ready for the championship round
& so far
I’m not a cardboard cutout of myself.
copyright (c) 2015 by Bob Balogh
All rights reserved