The Campaign Builder's Guild

Quote from: The GuttersnipeTonight, a poet died
Just above a sewer grate
Smelling of the gutter,
A whiskey bottle in his hand
A bullet in his pocket,
And a piano key hanging
from his neck
Swinging, sharp and flat
A needle in his arm,
His shoes untied and floating free,
His face bloated from rain,
And mottled, worn, and empty,
Washed into the gravel,
A playing card between
his thumb and index finger:
The King of Hearts.

A scarlet notebook, wet and ruined,
Was tucked into his breast pocket,
Tied shut for none to see,
And filled with shorthand stories,
poems,
songs?
and sketches,
Obscure, illegible, and somehow
beautiful,
I was an intruder into
this dead man's mind,
and so, with sorrow,
I closed the book,
And set out with one thought:
Who has killed the poet?

The singer-songwriter was last
to see the poet alive and well,
and so I besieged him with
a myriad of questions:
How did you know him?
"He was my mentor."
Where were you last?
"The coffee shop."
What were you doing?
"Discussing his latest poem."
What was it about?
"His wife, the noblewoman."
And where was she?
"Dead, so very long ago."
I took my broad-brimmed hat,
My amber cane,
And my wired glasses,
And I vanished from the
singer's loft.

The publisher would take no blame,
He had only ever loved the poet
Royalties? That all was settled,
Money would not be a motive
His rounded jowls, raspy laugh,
His fattened pocketbook,
And his poster of the poet
Hanging ideally on the wall, he
Cannot, could not, won't believe
That the poet is truly dead!
But there was a hint of glee;
For now the poet's sales
would triple.

Dredged from the sewers,
Stinking of the refuse
of a city full of personas,
empty masks,
empty lives,
and among this trash and filth,
the poet's mode of death;
a pistol,
gleaming,
fingerprinted,
held only by one man--

Who has killed the poet?
Why, he has killed himself.

Quote from: Next of KinWilliam Ian Anderson,
Nephew of the deceased,
Despondent, coolly-lit,
With cigarette dreariness and
Eyes as cold as iron,
Says the poet was never
His responsibility.

For what could he inherit?
Unpaid bills and license fees,
Ill repute among the "serious" crowd,
A literary shadow clinging
Like mourning storm clouds,
With wooly mittens,
Stilted breath,
And pillbox precision,
He absolves himself
From all matters of the
Dead poet's estate.

For though the nephew
Once wrote psalms,
Sonnets,
And silly poems set to lyre,
Those were the province
Of young and foppish boys;
Lest he live in utter ruin,
Dying on a sewer grate.

Quote from: CasketThe task then fell to me;
As the only one who cared
Of the poet's sad demise,
And none, except the nephew,
Already dead in mindful eyes,
A walking corpse-dream of
Commercialist conformity,
Confirmation,
No, none would even claim
The poet's name as theirs

The funeral home,
A house built for the dead,
The short-lived residence
Inhabited by those slept eternal,
Has its footservants, butlers,
And its chamber maids, too
Beauticians who will bring out
Your smile, perfumed,
As you lay in repose
Within your padded bed

Evergreen and ever keen,
 I hesitated at the pine, which
Seemed a disservice to the poet,
Whose red notebook I read again,
Yes, yew, rosewood or even oak
Would be better suited to his life.

Quote from: The Bagpipe PlayerI arranged to meet a bagpipe man,
For what reason, I don't recall,
Wheezing, arms a-flailing,
With distant eyes, glassed and green,
His face, blubbered,
Misbegotten,
Ten ropey squid-legs on his hands,
Dancing, dreaming,
Kneading phantom dough,
Needing validation

A funeral march,
So he said,
Was all the work he'd had in months,
As moths devoured his faux-kilt,
And threatened his livelihood,
With a hint of undue glee,
And a clap upon my back,
He marked the date upon
His blank calendar,
And squealed a hymn
of joy.

Something of this matter,
This red-veined, pulsing mass,
Seemed unpoetic.

Quote from: PallbearersThere was commotion,
Window-paned elusiveness,
Unraveled yarns of familial ties,
I scrounged the city for six souls,

Bound to bodies, with strong arms,
Coordinated heartbeats for the stress,
For transporting the poet's mattress-home
Into the gaping wound of earth that the digger
of the graveyard had plotted for his final place to rest

Moist mounds of dirt-clay
Shoveled, shuffled to the side still
Populated with a throng of ants, those
Tiny fascists, microscopic in their boot heel
Selves, their river-consciousness pouring as the
Lines of necessity begin to fracture my hurried need
Plateau-platoon paratroopers, parried into position patiently

And all the city fell silent, hushed,
Quiet as a broken tombstone,
Burdened, built on boredom,
When I asked for just six men.

Quote from: The Dirge-WriterApproached on a rainy Tuesday,
Three days until the poet's last performance,
Sitting in his spacious garden,
The singer of the solemn songs
Was smiling

A rainbow glimmer from his fountain,
Tilted statue heads and smirks,
Crooning caramel coins and thought,
I spoke in whispered words and shame,
Asking for a notebook poem

In disbelief, his cheeks drawn back,
His sleeveless rage billowing in the wind,
He beckoned for his man-at-arms,
Commanded mistily for my departure;
Quivering, quaking with fury
Unprovoked.

I later learned the cause,
The purpose for his sudden rage,
He knew the poet very well,
For he owed him
Everything.

Quote from: The TailorCurtain-collars of rage,
Frilled and tied so neatly,
Costumes for the ball,
Slippers made of crystal,
Somehow though,
This was no fairy godmother

Nasal, short, long-nosed,
With slender fingers grasping,
The tailor wrapped his tape measure
Around me, around me, around me

All measured up,
He fitted my coat,
Entrapped me in his finest suit,
I asked if he had any orders
For the poet's funeral

He shook his head
And shrugged and said:
"Never heard of him.
But who reads poetry
these days?"

Looking at his hand
I said no more,
For I did not know the answer.

Quote from: The PreacherHook-nosed, bumbling,
Steadfast, bowl-cut?
Warm and welcoming,
His outstretched hands

He asks:
"Did you know him?"
I shook my head,
Holding forth the
red notebook.
I say: "I am learning
More about him than
I know of myself,
Simply from his poems
and prose."

The preacher smiles,
Pats my back, and
Straightening his horn-rimmed glasses,
Excuses himself
To think.
I make my way out
The church door,
Past the choir loft,
Past the organ pipes,
Past the stained-glass window,
Past the rifled bulletin,
And to the bar across the street.

Quote from: The Pub"Drink to drink to drink to
poets and thinkers, thinkers, thinkers
Saviors from
Eternal bo-ore-dom!"

At the pub,
There's always cheer
They offer me
My usual beer
I explain what runs in red,
The thoughts culled from
The poet's head,
They laugh and humor,
Mustachioed sneers,
Rubber-faced happiness

Brewed from discontent,
Fermented from boredom,
Grains of isolation,
Swinging alone within the field,
Crowded in competition,
But forced to silence,

My understanding of the poet
   deepens as I leave
      in silence

Quote from: The GravediggerMy paranoia,
Like a greedy child,
Could not trust the words of others,
I began to retrace the steps
Of the funeral planners,
Slaves unto a lower cause,
Servants of the damnable,
Dead in soul already

I spoke with the gravedigger,
Brother to the cremator,
With one eye made of burgundy
And a curling grin upon his face
He slurred his greetings
And his wide, round eyes
Were of those who
Did not often speak
To the living

His shovel, wet from morning,
My cheeks, wet from mourning,
The silence between us,
Like an unplayed harpsichord,
Spoke volumes

And wrapped in my scarf,
Mummified, shrouded,
I left in satisfaction

Quote from: The AlleywayI crept into the alleyway
As daylight slipped and
slithered down
Engrossed with the
Poems of the notebook,
My mind was frenzied,
Frantic,
Solemn in its solitude.

By morning's rise,
Rats had gnawed at
My fingertips,
And my face was scabbed,
My shoes filled with trash,
And I,
Smelling like the dumpster,
With spoiled food and
Rotted carrion
Tucked beneath my collar

Yes, I
Returned then to my home,
Filth-encrusted,
Grimy, and breathing
The poet's volume

Quote from: The HearseI spoke with the uniformed man,
The driver of the hearse,
With jaundiced eyes and
Fearsome breath, the
Rotten smell of sulfur,
His old tin lighter,
Kerosene,
And cheap dime-store cigar,
All drove me to great
madness.

I could not breathe,
Entombed in smoke,
I pleaded for freedom,
As wispy arms coalesced
Around my lungs and
Squeezed them shut

With principal,
In princely form,
I settled that the hearse
Was ready, inspected its
Preparations, and knew that
The Poet would be
Comforted.

I read three poems to the driver,
He must be made to hear His voice

Quote from: The Ex-WifeNone had told the poet's wife,
His first one, before the
Noblewoman,
And so, smelling of the dead,
And of the rotted flesh of
The poet and his newfound neighbors,
Ventured to her home
And spoke with yellowed teeth
Words that bore great meaning

My visage, so scarred and gnawed,
Did not deter her countenance,
And she, with presence and a
Graceful glide, hovered at the
Mansion door. Her voice,
Like echoed sermon bells,
With laughter like an organ pipe,
Recalled her ghostly, porcelain skin
And her hollow eyes

She thanked me, like a bubbling creek
That floods the graveyard in a storm
Discomforts all its residents,
But soothes their living neighbors

I read her tombstone address book
And continued on to witness
to the unconverted

Quote from: The MorgueA sea of marble, green and worn,
Iron beds for corpses, guests,
The state will foot their bill,
Their room number tagged
Upon their toes

I ask the worker of the morgue,
Whose shocks of starch-white hair
Jut from his head, grotesque spines,
My stomach heaves at every word

He treats the poet,
Apologies, cadaver nine,
As though a mortal,
Made of flesh,
Cuts him open, sees his innards,
But will never truly know him

Beneath the venire,
His unfurled snarl,
The smear of hubris,
His cut-throat ruin,
And his empty chest,

I see my face reflected
Upon the mirrored table

Quote from: The VisitationI tasted blood,
Tongue-chewing, many-fanged,
Dogs with noses dappled red,
Smelling iron on their fur,
Cockroach in the choir loft

Sparse,
Five guests in black
I, in tailored suit and tie,
A hobo dressed in surplus coat,
Mortician, maid, and nephew,
All stinking of perfume

A Bible in my hands,
Tore out the page of Job,
Swallowed it as penance,
And stared upon the
bone-colored walls
of the sanctuary

Fever,
Freedom,
Pending doom,
Predestined, portentous,
Full of omens meant for poets,
I am not where I should be,
I am bound for
Ever more

Quote from: Meditations on the PoetHow can this stranger touch my soul?
Does his specter haunt me?
I know the beauty of his mind,
His burdened knapsack far too heavy
Like doves perched on a crucifix
To mock the Prince of Peace,
So must all those who owned his soul
Been cruel, driving nails into his wrists,
Loading his pistol and pointing it,
Murdering the spark within his heart

The poet had no choice,
His notebook tells me that,
The hatred for himself, the greasy strands
Of needless pain,
The knowledge that none should keep,
Innocence withered from his flesh,
Until, in silence,
Knotted knuckles
Rapped upon his wholesomeness
And beat it to a pulp

I am not the Poet,
Not in skill nor form,
His beauty, darkly radiant,
Has been robbed from me
And I could not appreciate the chrysanthemum
Until after it had wilted

Quote from: The FuneralNo expense was spared
My pockets, emptied of all silver,
Provided for a festival,
The staid affairs that skulls forgive,
The casket open,
With the wounds so neatly hidden
Beneath a veil, a clumsy wig,
To hide the Poet's missing mind,
Stolen by his bullet

The spectral woman, slender hands,
The ghostly wife of Poet's past,
Appeared and slid into the pew,
Sidling next to the nephew
What perversion, pristine prayers,
They said in silence, laughing
At the genius corpse

I wished a plague of scarabs
Crawling on their skin and eyes,
Devouring their flesh and tongues,
Stealing from them breath and laugh,
All their joy,
And draining all the mirth
From their sliding leers

But I am not a poet,
And neither am a sorcerer

Quote from: The SermonLies,
A million pretty lies,
A bleached collar telling lies,
Slandering the Poet's life,
Remind us not of heaven's boon,
Condemning suicide,
As though he knew what
True pain was?

A demagogue, snarling, snaring,
His words the snakes inside the Garden,
Liars, tempters, charlatans,
Were all in his employ
Dreading honesty, quoted Peter,
Then recalled the Book of Psalms,
Pretty nothings
Petty mothlings

Black tears ran down the cheeks
Of a strange woman
Garbed in red
The Poet must have hated her,
So blind to proper color

Or perhaps for that,
He loved her most

Quote from: The OrganistOnward Christian Soldiers?
A grin, twin dancing hands?
These were her best shows of remorse?
For being among those who had
Put His soul right out to death?

Her flaring pipes of brass and wood,
So chiding in their little way,
Boast of peace and inner hope,
Stolen from a Holy Ghost,
How I loathe her morose smile

Forever chained and shackled to
Her peddles, keys, and music sheets,
Her fingers, ballerinas,
Know not when their beauty is
Resented, appalling, and reviled

She wears a sweet perfume,
Perhaps with hopes to find a friend,
A groom trapped in this haunted room,
Damned by her exquisite hate,
She holds contempt for the Poet

I hear it in her dexterous dance

Quote from: The EulogyThe gross facade continued,
As more gawkers hurried in,
Hoping to steal some glory,
Some sense of time,
Some feel for death,
Some satiation for their
Curiosity

The women, with their faces
So neatly painted white and red,
Were they clowns or worse?
Who brought them here?
Did they know him or did they
See right past him?

No one knows my sacred treasure,
Wrapped inside my coat and scarf,
The Poet's last and secret words,
I know now what sparkling stanzas
To which his heirs so quickly cling

Sepulchers filled to the brim,
Monolithic monuments,
The hieroglyphs of noblemen,
Pharaohs of the modern times,
These words were tied together,
Binding shut the poet's life

Quote from: The DirgeThe singer of the dirges,
Whom I so nobly had beseeched,
Rendered thus a hurried tune:

"May Gabriel embrace you,
With choirs singing and resounding,
May angels hold and brace you,
And feel the Spirit, all-surrounding"

Hardly worth the
Thirty pieces of silver
That he had demanded.

Quote from: The ProcessionA homeless man,
The nephew, reluctant,
An usher,
The mortician,
A stranger's husband,
And I,
As pallbearers,
Hefted thus the Poet's bed
And carried it out into
His velvet chariot

Satin, tempered, dark and gloomy,
The driver nodded at me,
Snorting putridly,
And hiding his contempt,
Behind his mirrored window-eyes

He yearned to see the notebook,
Wanted to defile it,
And when he brushed against me,
And pressed the book into my chest,
Rage shot up my spine,
And left my mouth disfigured,
Curled and curdled by his
Jealousy

Quote from: The SaluteThe poet once had been a soldier,
Something that I had just learned,
And Veterans, with guns in hand,
Most too old to hold them right,
Marched in line and in lockstep,
Giving the Poet his due

Their uniforms were clean and neat,
Their faces filled with proper grimness,
Surrounded by smiles, false and full,
Their stony faces were the beacons
Of great honesty

In the pale afternoon,
As gunfire rang out across the graveyard,
Birds drew themselves into the sky,
Folding themselves in clouded joy,
Oblivious to the pain of men,
And to those gathered,
Instead flying in formation,
Perfect and untangled

Quote from: The BurialWords were through,
I waited for his wooden box
To be lowered to the ground
For still, I was in disbelief

A symptom of my adoration,
Strangled all my common sense,
And left me paralyzed,
Without his guiding hand

Deep beneath the earth bereaved,
With worms that wriggle and decay,
Sits a poet deep in sleep,
Never to awake again

In eons past, he will be gone,
His body turned to ash and dust,
Washed into the river sand,
And trampled by the animals

The glades of grass will feed on him,
And none will know he ever lived,
Buried, buried, all alone,
His circle left unbroken

Quote from: The CemeteryI returned into this town
The home of corpses and of ghosts
I saw a woman in a gown
And knew the Poet loved me most

I feared the day I'd join him,
For now I held his sacred book
I had to see it published,
No,
I had to preach it, live it,
Become the Poet,
Save his memory,
And hope that through my body
His spirit could live on

Here, in this plot,
Generations of names,
Stretching back to a genesis,
Some patriarch,
Short centuries ago,
All are buried and marked duly,
Until such time as we are gone,
And none are left to care for them

Quote from: The EpitaphI asked the nephew,
The ex-wife,
I even asked the homeless man,
The men I knew from the pub,
The long-nosed preacher,
The eulogist,
What to write upon his stone,
And all but I were left
indifferent.

And so, my body shaking,
As my mind began to quiver,
I took a pen and a book,
And wrote and wrote and wrote
Until my blood mixed with the ink
And my mind reeled with doubt

How could I capture
The Poet's true beauty?

I took the Poet's red notebook
Opened to the first page,
And then I had the answer:

"This belongs to the Poet
If missing, please return"

Quote from: The BouquetMy return became a rite,
A Sabbath held in irony,
I always brought Him flowers,
A rose, a violet, two daffodils,
Three chrysanthemums,
A daisy (a personal joke),
Thirteen dandelions, fresh-picked,
And a poem I newly wrote
Seeking his approval

I asked the keeper of the grounds
What times were best for my return,
He asked if I knew the Poet,
I told him that I was his friend,
That his grave was my shrine,
And he eyed me with suspicion

Perhaps, so weary,
Malcontent,
He cannot understand
True beauty.

Quote from: The WillI managed to procure His will,
His lawyer disposed it carelessly,
Into the dumpster where I lived,
Now that I sold my house and toys
Among provisions dull and trite,
Doubtless added by his attorney,
Was a wish made bold and bright:

"Burn my journal, burn it slowly,
Ensure my poems are never read,
And that the pages are not faded
Ever by the daylight's reach"

I was aghast and filled with rage,
Stricken by the sickness grief,
Hostage to a damning thought,
That I had done a great misdeed,

Withered by my carelessness,
Rebuked by my only love,
I held the poet's volume close,
And planned to fulfill
His wish.

Quote from: DeathO, Fate
How cruel and maligned,
You are a hospice bed
Padded full with swords
And embracing only those
Who scorn your every touch;
A locket hangs around your neck,
Your Judas-clasp, bought with
Money smeared with blood,
The coins that only traitors love,
You spit upon the commoner,
Enrage aristocrats,
And murder plainly all that's good,
Guiding all the muse's pets
To madness, hatred,
Creative pondering,
Morbid speculation,
And fascination with their end,

I leave this volume,
My will and testament,
With apologies unto
The Poet and his timeless craft,
Which I have so abused.