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