We waited by the ridge for an

Hour, or more, until the

Steel-gray-suited soldiers

came into sight. We waited,

on the knoll for Tim to give

the cry to fire, to defend the

ridge from the advance of

Longstreet, only I knew who

it was we battled, with our

cap guns, Michael waited

cap gun ready, I could never

load mine right, as we

waited, stubby fingers loading

red paper caps into my Davy

Crocket Disney rifle, one by

one. I hoped

The Rebs would charge

so I could ignore the stupid

caps and just go

swinging like Davy at

the Alamo, in the movie, but

we waited for Tim to shout that

the Rebs were near or a car

was coming, so we could

ambush them. Scare drivers

with our cap guns, or do

something, other than hide

in the stupid grass.

Urban Legend

By Jason Ungart

I love this time of night
So silent- hushed as death
I used to fear it
The quietness, deep in the woods
That some witch or beast
Fangs and claws or hooks
Would eat me.
That I, in my rural home-could be the victim of Urban legend

Poignant A short poem by Jason Ungart

Well, I still haven't started my homework
and there is a bag on my head.

Hardcore Action = Broken Pen

Inkstain
on my jeans.
Very black and faded green

We are six days from Vienna.

The soldiers tire from long march

Can we just stop for a second.

No, we are too close to

Old Lady Millers Junk yard.

She’ll tell my mom for sure.

We’ll make camp near

That hill, no fires or sound.

Scouts will not find us there.

I don’t think we should

Go near the bus, and

What if her dogs are out?

Don’t be such a fraidy cat,

Sir, we won’t get caught

C’mon, you big baby.

I’m not a baby, fine

March you’re men down there.

I hope the dogs eat you!

Quiet, we can’t give our

position away, just a minute

I’m tired, and hungry

Fine. Eat your rations,

We’re not going back home

‘Till we reach Vienna

Vienna is Michael’s house?

That’s pretty far for

Our soldiers to travel.

We can’t go back we

Promised to visit him

Now finish your candy.

I don’t feel so good,

Sir, I think we should

Go home.

Quiet! Let’s go. I hear

The goats bleating, she’ll

Catch us for sure

I hear the dogs are

Barking. They must be outside.

Let’s get outta here!

Great White Hunters, We

© Jason Ungart 2001

Great White hunters we,

The air scraped dry and hot by green fingers of the oak trees.

The pleasant smell of summer,

budding pink-white blossoms on the Apple trees.

The cold blue-black metal, the hiss, hiss, hiss.

Our hands worked in unison pumping,

Great white hunters we, with pellet guns

A safari in the orchard of my father

Two cracks from guns; the bird fell,

Unexpectedly; I wondered why

There wasn’t any blood.

“Touch it,” Mike said, looking at me.

 I shook my head- “No, you touch it”

I  had never killed a thing, .

I looked at it for a long time

Great white hunters, we.

I’m more a butcher  now, I think.

I am perhaps more subtle, not gun but word.

Not a bird, but ideas on pages, twisted, broken, bloodless

Just the same

Of my hunting partner, I know little anymore

We’ve grown apart in the years  that have passed.

He sits in a sunless room I’m told, gathering dust and curt remarks.

A killer too, it seems, in slow charade of suicide from lassitude, and alchohol

 I rarely see him when I visit, at our hang out, on the cliff

Overlooking the slate-gray waters of lake Michigan

Nothing lives there anymore, even the grass is hoary, and olive brown

I stopped visiting ghosts.

Great white hunters, we

After a while, of looking at that bird, it’s red breast, its’ feathers splayed out,

We kicked in the tall grass; ran home for lemonade,

And sought to forget.

Great white hunters, we.

Diffusion, by Jason Ungart

"What are you going to do with your Life?"
I don't know, father
"Well, then, get a job"
Yes sir, Yes, sir.
What Kind of Job, Father?
"Here, Paint a house!"
<swoosh-swoosh-swoosh-bink...sploosh>
Oh...

"What are you going to do with your life?"
I don't know, mother.
"Well, then, get a job!"
Yes mom, yes mom.
"Here- be a cook!"
<ssssssssssss...ack! Cough!>
hmmmm...

 
"What are you going to do with your life?"
I don't quite know, lover.
"Well, then, get a job!
Yes love, yes love.
"Here, wield a hammer!"
<Bang-bang-bang-bang-crack!>
eh...?

"What are you going to do with your life?"
I'm not very sure, teacher.
"Well, then get a job!"
"Write a book!"
"Give a speech!"
"Paint a portrait, then"

Perhaps I'll shrug my shoulders,
and remain right where I am.

Hannah.

By Jason Unagrt

Hannah, amber cat

A tabby with desires for

A human being

Mewing at me

At 6 o’clock, revile

Instintive Morning March

Spiteful cat urine

On sheets, but not to worry

I returned the favor

Ogre at His house

December 17^th 1997 12:59 am

My dad in thick glove pulls stones from the earth

Laying them aside, clearing the fallow field in a day

Son let me tell you of a man’s worth

He hefts the rocks with a crude curse

Tossing them This- This is how ploughmen pray

With thick gloves, my dad pulls stones from the earth

Sweat from his brow drips into the earth

He gathers it, By this debts to man, and God are repaid

Son, let me tell you of a man’s worth.

Hour after hour, in the sun, for our bread we will work

Our birthright, from sin, the price that we pay

In thick gloves, My dad pulls stones from the earth

Keep your mind focused, forthright, and firm

God pays no mind to the idle or stray

Son, let me tell you of a man’s worth

A man needs no building to make him a church

Instead honor him when at work and at play

He says, pulling great stones from the earth

Son, let me tell you of a man’s worth.

In the night, my father stomps down the stairs.

An ogre leaving his mountain den.

The earth trembles with every step,

of his feet, massive blocks of pig iron,

trampling carpet beneath like stone

In the night, my father stomps down the stairs.

His hoary ears have heard the sound,

of boys laughing at his table..

He has caught their scent,

in his bulbous, warty nose.

In the night, my father stomps down the stairs,

Mangled limbs dragging across blasted rock

scrub brush, and sand

He catches three boys,

that play beneath his home

In the night, My father waddles into the kitchen.

His eyes squinting shut against the brightness of the lamps

Brow furrowed in discountenance

His jaw juts out in sleepy snarl.

Yellow teeth, polluted breath.

In the night, my father stands before the table.

On spindly, bowed legs, ropey from carrying his weight

wearing only threadbare rags.

His genitals and rotund belly shake

When he lifts and points a crooked finger

In the night, my father heaves in breath.

And barks to the boys held impotent with fear.

“Get outta my house!” My father cries,

in  jaundiced voice of vinegar and outrage

Thrashing the boys, driving them from his home.

In the night, my father storms from room to room.

Looking for signs of the three boys trespass.

Finding his lair undisturbed.

Returns his eyes to me,.

“What are you still doing here?” 

In the night, my father pushes me up the stairs

Still bellowing, throws me into my room,

Groans, closes the door.

He curses from his bedchamber.

Then mumbles himself to sleep.

In the night, my father snores loudly

Grunts and coughs and snores again.

In the night, my father dreams.

of bread baked from children’s bones.

Lethargy
By Jason Ungart

I don't know how to bribe a wet towel,
To assure it doesn’t arrest me,
For leaving iton the Floor, mother
So I guess they already told you.

And since then my dresser laments.
Now I hang them on him- Like you showed me
mother.
 

I am buried by paper, sheets and sheets and spiral-wire-bound books of it
they obscure the soda stains that etch the carpet.
The contents of a Wendy's bag.
On the floor-not in the trash.
I pray, mother, don’t send your secret police.
to invade my sanctuary
 

It’s exactly as you said.

I never could keep my life simple and clean.

My stuffed raccoon from ages past glares sullenly at the easel
Bright Heart is jealous still. I left him for an art class.

Then left the art class for some one else.

My easel pleading to be used again
Like it once was - like my first lover
On the cushions of your couch, mother.

I never could keep my life simple and clean
 
My guitar stares at me, counting the minutes since last I played it.
one thousand twenty four -to be exact.
I imagine the guitar, Bright heart, the towel

Will relate to these things and other sins they have observed

 in clandestine meetings, when I’m at work.

They’ll say to you:

“It’s exactly as you told him,

He never could keep his life simple and clean.”

Downtown Milwaukee

By Jason Ungart

Parking lot

Broken bottle

Cigarette butt

Bead Store

Cracked concrete

Yellow weeds

Old shoe

Parking lot

Street sign

Rusty barrel

Hubcap

Blue car

Oil slick

Parking lot

Beer can

Neon sign

Brown suit

Gold tooth

Fedora

Dark tie

Thick mustache

Short skirt

Red nails

Slender fingers

Painted lips

Blonde hair

A Skywalk

Donut shop

Chinese place

A smoke shop

Hooters

Jesus freak

Fast food Italian

A bridge

Firstar

Popcorn Kiosk

Lakeshore Drive

Ugly Orange Statue

The Water tower

A Lexus

A city bus

Grandfather.

Ó 2001 Jason Ungart

I remember

The last time I saw my grandfather

The wrinkles, the fading hair

The lines and folds and creases

Of his skin-it was very thick- his skin.

I remember his mouth, drooping, drooling,

The crusted purple-black ulcer

A crater on a titan’s chin.

I remember the moans, grunts and slurps,

Barely intelligible when his teeth were set in correctly.

And his eyes, blue and hard and milky with

tears and cataracts.

And I wondered:

Could this be the man that sired my father?

Is this the man who came from Germany, on a boat when he was 9?

Could this man have raised a familiy and built a house?

Laying brick by brick with only

a spade, cement, his hands?

Hands that reached out, trembling, for mine

Angrily, I turned away and left him there

Urine running down his leg; up my nose.

I was 14 then,

Now I’m 23

And think of him often.

I walk faster, head lowered, his ghost beside me

My father tells stories of my grandfather

Of his laugh and his German-speak,

spankings and love.

I simply smile or laugh,

but never say to my father:

This is how I remember him:

The lost man in a body too frail to stand, or sit or pee.

Too dulled by disease- the war against age

Not a grandfather, not a man,

Just a skeleton -muscles limply hanging to bone

A burden, a loss.

The last time I saw his face.

As he plummeted to the ground

His eyes alert with pain,

seeing himself as I did.

Myopia
by Jason Ungart

Maybe you're gay.
Or high.
Or grabbing the peanut butter from the kitchen,
and your dog- and your
super model girlfriend- and herding them,
all of them into the bathroom.
Just to see what develops.

No. No. You're just finishing a shower
Turning the silver-scum stained tap.
Turning it off.

You wrap your head in a towel- and
pretend it's a turban.
Your Roommate says it looks “gay”
And that it's offensive at this time.
truth is that you just like turbans
And you don't mind if it looks “gay”, whatever that means.
And besides- He's never had long hair.

So in spite, or perhaps to spite him, you strut
A Turkish drag queen scene in your skirt and turban
Dance-Queen of the Desert.

Well-No. No. It’s just you after a shower.
And your reflection in the window,
fat and hairy and wearing towels,
on your head and hips.

Dejected-You saunter into the kitchen for some tea,
but there is no tea.
The apartment is an anti-tea environment,
and your roommate is looking at porn.
So it's probably best to leave.

In your room- Guitar and lights and
a full stadium
of groupies in tight-tight clothes
Screaming-Sweating for you

But no, you pluck away, in silence
The light burnt out- The TV on.
Sounding more like sesame street than Soundgarden
or Bob Dylan, or even Jacob Dylan

Lavish silk sheets, and a new lover ever night.

In sassy lingerie, rose petals

Hot steamy sex,

with that super model girlfriend of yours

Not a chance, it’s just you, on cotton sheets

It’s 3 am and you wonder why you stay up so late anyway.

Try to sleep but can’t,

So close your eyes and wish it away.

You’re the hero, the saint, the lover, the magi,

the god, the goddess, the poet, the rock star,

the master, the artist, the soldier.

No. No. It’s just you.

Value

By Jason Ungart

How I adored your curves,

When I first saw you, understand.

How I fell for your material,

and search empty pockets for correct payment.

“The store had sold out”, said the clerk

but we found you still, my chair

How someone can forget a chair,

or how it embraces gently a rear end’s curve,

is beyond a simple accounting clerk.

Wielding numbers you do not understand

About accounts received and due payment

Things of wealth and material.

Wal-mart does not use fine materials,

but they can sell a good chair

Without need of lay away payments

I wheeled you about the aisle’s curves

A honeymoon bride, no one understands,

What you mean to me, not even the clerks

But I am not in love with clerks

As much as I want to touch your material

Am I wrong to think you understand?

As much as I do the importance of chairs?

I slipped inside your supple curves

Returning the worth of my payment.

You have served me faithfully since that payment.

And have not strayed to other clerks

Who eye with envy how you support the curves,

Of my behind, and the black woolen material.

They must make due with company chairs

Ergonomics is not a science these clerks would understand.

When I bought your sister, I hoped you would understand

That I was not betraying you by giving payment

She seemed exactly like you, in all the ways a chair

Can be a-like, and “Its on sale,” Said the clerk.

And yes, I glanced a little longer at her material.

I was not aware she does not fit my curves.

I learned the hard way; I was bamboozled by the clerk.

I could not understand the chair, and payments dearly lost in cheap material

And guilt does not fit me like your curves

The Ten-Minute Affair at Wicks N Sticks

© Jason Ungart 2002

I have never been to France,

Or to any place where they speak French,

Or even to a French Restaurant-though I have had French bread, and French fries,

And I’ve seen France on TV, and in movies, and on Maps.

But I will think of France, the mall, and you,

When I light this candle

It’s a purple votive, called Vineyard,

You helped me pick it out, among the neatly stacked shelves of Blues, reds and greens

We must have stood for 10 minutes, letting our noses share intimately the scents of each candle.

You told me to stay away form the “cooking” smells-

The Pumpkin, The oatmeal cookie, the Cinnamon.

You said the Key Lime and Sage and citrus are good.

but the Vineyard smelled like bubble gum

The smell of Vineyard with Green Grass, I said, reminds me of California, or France.

I lied; I’ve never been to California either.

But I’ll pretend that I know California, to talk a little longer about it.

I was infatuated, you see, for that ten minutes

You had a lovely nose, and our noses had much in common.

The sharp and rich smells of the forest, of moss and wood and sage

I imagined our noses slipping off to elope in Nevada.

Keeping it secret from the faces who would not approve.

It was over nearly before it started.

The passion our noses shared.

All I have now are my candles, my receipt,

And my validated parking.