Beat Bypass - Wichita to Denver

new and improvedded

2011-10-27T19:58:00.000-07:00

Beat bypass has been the home of poetry by Mike Klumpp. We will be expanding to offer more than poetry. Please keep an eye out for the coming changes.

left for dead

2011-02-12T06:29:00.000-08:00

left for dead
upon your doorstep
(hearing the children howl)

how did i ever ride this wind
on kansas plain
through grey brown grass
under open skyuponsky

where are the howls now?

upon the wind
and the face of the moon

i am an old negro
who wants to go fishing
cane pole in hand

cock your revolver
and let me go-

great spirits - in answer to Einstein's prayer

2011-01-22T12:41:00.000-08:00

they thought
Glass
was an ass
a monkey with an electric banjo

be
who you want to be

mediocrity
is no judge

-God
invented time
and death -

genius or folly?

dust

2010-09-26T04:59:00.001-07:00

i have heard the music of my own death
sweet yet melancholy

dancing
at the end of some string
the Puppeteer
has chosen to lay the controls down
and bring cease to my performance

lifeless
on the stage floor
the curtains close
to an empty house
only the dust
dangles upon the air
in the absence of voices and laughter

it is the way of things

today i will breathe deep
and savor the sun

perhaps

2010-09-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

i walk in half steps
on the dark side of the moon
searching for life

my sons are treading out a path in the sand
the wind covers their tracks

i am ashamed
and must return to the earth

there
perhaps
i will find life
for a moment

there
perhaps
the eagle will return
and nest in my heart

there
perhaps
i will find the sun.

on laughter in winter

2010-05-12T12:55:00.001-07:00

do not pity yourself,
good man.
you too will die.
but not without some fever
some sweat
and some feint

some laughter

give pause to cherish the laughter

in childhood we give it away like rain
until seasons of age
steal into our room
frightening even the bad dreams and boogie men of youth

then

laughter
swells up in an occasional cloud
drifts in over parched land
teases
and moves on to sprinkle other fields.

these seasons
that sound
like the sound of the first bird of spring
are refreshing and hopeful

but

this winter has no end.

and

was never meant to.

so

hold onto to your laughter
remember your fears
and create smiles in every eye that sees you.

then
and only then
will there be warmth
amidst the snow.

Singing

2010-05-11T10:28:00.000-07:00

singing
into a hole on a tree
the sound
beautiful
dissipating and unheard
it continues in waves of half lives
unnoticed and unending
a ripple in the pond
screaming - why

Ducks

2009-11-20T03:47:00.000-08:00

when God talks to ducks
which talk in quacks and sub quacks
walking in waddles
swimming with ease
He does
so
that i
can see Jesus in poems of color
leaves in trees and
in piles
blown to the side
into corners
filled with shadow

the leaves
gold red and brown
orange
crisp
like the wind
chill
the air
winter
sky gray

He says that He loves me and will not forget me

i waddle and slip into the water
drifting
designed to glide
the water caresses my breast
and with awkward webbed feet
i paddle on reflected sunlight
in search of beetles.

poet

2009-09-30T07:07:00.000-07:00

i hear the voice of a poet
outside
in kansas sunshine
singing
from the field

hanging

on the edge
of the gutter.

sky

2009-09-22T07:24:00.000-07:00

and indeed!
a blue sky has opened above me

wisps of pink and grey
high above
dancing on the blue floor

i look up
and that is all there is

-freedom-

on St. Peter's Street

2009-06-22T05:06:00.000-07:00

on St. Peter’s Street:

mad cracked anger –
the staggering captain on the deck of the sinking ship
drunk upon the call of sirens

death
the cold water of the deep green sea
the desire to step over the gunwale into the salt and foam

Fred – the first mate upon the Emerson
walked off of the front of the vessel
drunk and weary wanting some woman – out of reach
descending
he was dragged down the length of hull
and dredged through the screws
chum

the end of Fred
the end of his pain
and the end of his travels
the end of seeking at the edge of the horizon
for comfort in the arms of sirens

Odysseus and his crew herd them
circa 8th century BC

sound waves never disappear but diminish in half lives

the captain has heard their singing
and walks on water
like Saint Peter – loosing faith and sinking.

God's Tattoo

2009-06-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

without legs
you cannot walk
without eyes
you cannot see
without hands
you cannot touch

the end of the bed
is lifeless
it is only the end of the bed

the end of the driveway
is lifeless
it is only the place where the driveway ends

it enters the road
the road is only the road
it leads no where
it goes no where
to go someone must choose to go
to return
someone must choose to return

eyes do not look out
objects do not appear
things are and the reflected light cast images of form and color upon
rods and cones
transmitted to the brain
it understands the line and form

repetition distinguishes line and form into categories of things
things are labeled
language is applied
but actually
everything is what it is
seeing it
touching it
means nothing

a man may dream of seeing even when blind
imagine touch even without hands
and though we walk alone
we are not traveling

we are without legs
blind
and unfeeling

we imagine that we matter
we imagine community
we imagine
and expect that tomorrow
it will be so

it never was
and it never will be

we are vapor

i have no legs
i have no eyes
i cannot feel

you do not see me
you do not feel me
you were never here
so you cannot go away.

therefore,
i will not miss you.

where there is no life
there can be no death.

(upon God's arm
there is a tattoo -
it is a tiny red heart outlined in black
with an arrow
beneath it reads -
"in memory of ..."

meditation

2009-05-31T06:22:00.000-07:00

laughing and not laughing
butterflies lighting on candles of iris
i stare into the garden
until the thorns of the roses
prompt my eyes to bleed tears

slipping adieux

2009-05-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

slipping adieux:

i walk into a doorway
traveling from one room to another
but
when i leave the living room
to go into the bathroom
i step through the doorway
and arrive on the porch
i am eighty
screaming at the cat
to get away from the bird feeder
i turn to go into the kitchen
and am standing before the wall
in my daughter’s room
face to face
with the dark reality
that
this is madness

i see between thoughts
the thoughts i would have if
i were at a pace slightly ahead
or slightly behind
myself

where the reality of everything changes

it didn’t happen this way or that
because
it wasn’t this way or that
and in the end of it all
when i sleep
i wait to wake in the past

but of course
i never do

lately
when i watch a movie at night at home
the reflection on the glass against the night
confuses me
am i in this world or that
to the left looking in
or on the right looking out.

30

2009-04-30T06:44:00.001-07:00

Tolstoy’s beard
black
grey
dust to dust
green
brown
grey
Tolstoy’s beard.

einstein's eyes and tolstoy's beard - 29

2009-04-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

einstein’s eyes and tolstoy’s beard:

you do not know my inspiration or my hope
you do not understand the words from my mind
which usher forth from my mouth
or dance at the end of my pen
you do not love me
you do not hate me
you will not embrace me
you will not let me go
i am einsein’s kind but knowing eyes
in the sad and solitary vision of tolstoy’s beard
time and humanity
in the palm of the hand of an awesome and eventual God
now we despair
trapped by hope of better days
perhaps some day we shall rejoice in the now
the moment in which we live
and by the grace of einstein’s eyes and tolstoy’s beard
perhaps and mayhaps
we shall breath again
we shall live again
and again
but only in the hope of eistein’s eyes
and the smile of tolstoy’s beard.

tostoy's beard and the fog outside - 28th

2009-04-28T13:23:00.000-07:00

tostoy’s beard and the time of day - 27th/ almost there

2009-04-27T05:14:00.000-07:00

tostoy’s beard and the time of day:

tostoy’s beard
barked
like a dog
from within my overlarge yellow tea pot
overlarge and floating
not in water
but in mystic
vision
tea and russian cookies
fat round miniature russian mothers
walking in circles on the tray
chanting
“dosvedania dosvedania dosvedania”
fitting
i
suppose

in Japan
the samurai
upon dishonoring themselves
took their own lives
by
slicing open their

“i’m a little tea pot
short and stout...”

tolstoy’s beard and the darkness underneath a bridge 26th

2009-04-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

tolstoy’s beard and the darkness underneath a bridge
(to ian) – “it’s o.k. to eat fish,’cause they don’t have any feelings”

my son
has an appreciation
for Kurt alias Cobain
(the late)
because he
(Kurt)
like Billygoat Gruff
lived
(before he died)
underneath a bridge
(not knowing)
my son (that is)
that his dad
(me)
has also run away
and spent time
as a young boy
hiding
(not living)
underneath a bridge

it is dark
and funny people go there
to do funny things
and the smell
and the special trash
discarded there
(underneath a bridge)
is the same
under every bridge
(mold grows there)
animals go there(
)people pee there)(
and no one goes there
to find you

it is a lonely place
a forgotten place
(until you remember)
it is the darkness
underneath a bridge
(not tolstoy’s beard.

tolstoy's beard and the man who farted

2009-04-25T06:52:00.000-07:00

tolstoy's beard and the man who farted:

thanks to the beard
all i smell is borcht

24 - we are caught up

2009-04-24T06:47:00.000-07:00

tolstoy’s beard
aches
at the base of each whisker
in the root
the follicle

hurting

in the ingrown hair
which drives beneath the skin
of tolstoy’s boylike face
digging deeper
in misguided growth
going on ward not upward not out ward
causing pain and dimensia

we must remove the hair
which has gone astray
by digging beneath the skin
of tolstoy’s dear face

forgive us tostoy

we only want to save you
from one hair which given license
will dig deep enough
to wrap itself
around your brainstem
and
snap!
your lovely head
from your lovely
shoulders
alive in the face
this hair must die
free it from its path
and let the pain subside
tolstoy
boy

it is for your own good
and the end
to the aching
of tolstoy’s beard.

23 tolstoy's beard and the girl tied to the bed

2009-04-24T06:35:00.001-07:00

the girl tied to the bed and tolstoy's bed - 22

2009-04-24T06:14:00.000-07:00

the girl tied to the bed and tolstoy’s beard:

please – mister stoy
let me go
don’t hold me here
the blue sky is nice
but the bed sores burn

please – mister stoy
i’m too young to be this old
tried
tied gagged and bound
take the tape off and let me say – sir
- mister stoy -
your beard is soft
but your words are cutting my wrists
they’re too tight
and i am cold like the arms of some deep russian night
and as dark blue as the sky at dusk
when it is not as grey as my lips
-sir
-mister stoy-
please release me
i’ll tell the world you were kind
i’ll hide the scars
and pretend to have fallen from my bike as a child

please – mister stoy
loosen your grip
on my heart
and let the life flow through
i promise to always love you
and never to shave your beard.

where are you, tolstoy's beard - 21

2009-04-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

where are you, tolstoy’s beard:

tolstoy’s beard

where are you?
when i need you

i am in an evil turn of mind and mood
wicked
hurting
completely abandoned by God
the wicked
sperm and egg
of two evil parents
coalesced
and congealed
in this wicked and wasteful flesh
and perplexing
energy

i am in this moment
experiencing something
akin to the light
which came into my window
as a child

the arm of some foreign and alien
probing power
(and i used to fly around the den)

and i am unavailable for comment
i had to get up and pace
my nipples are hard
everything is solid and real
i
am aware

beginning, however, to be reminded that moments fade
satori
can be seemingly so
and diminish
leaving us wondering
was it really
is it or is it delusion

Kemmer
is my friend

and just now i wish a friend were here
to present myself to me and demonstrate which of us is real
which is the real me
which is the real moment in time
which is actual
and which is the actualness

where are you tolstoy?
and where oh where
is your beard?
when i need it.

tolstoy's beard and leaves of grass - 20

2009-04-22T20:30:00.000-07:00

tolstoy’s beard and leaves of grass:

father walt
preserve your wit, man.
(i’m sorry – i couldn’t help myself)

however, there is business here.
you
wrote leaf upon leaf
and were ultimately stuck
in the nature
of words you
had created
and
i am tangled in the web of tolstoy’s beard
(a wandering for which there may be no end)
for
who knows the number of whiskers in a beard
but the God Who
numbers the very hairs of our heads

and

who knows the wanderings of the grass
and the lives it touches
“Growing among black folk as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive the same.”
but this same God

and

who knows what wandering there may be
but the God of wanderers
Who watches over their wanderings
Who touches their lives
wandering among black folk as among white
giving freely to the wandering
we receive from Him the same

and

only He knows the wandering
so
should we wander and not wonder at its purpose
like the grass
touching lives
growing among black folk as among white
deliberate in our humility
deliberate in our lack of prejudice
in our charity
and deliberate in our love
deliberate in our wandering
as it is ultimately the only thing we know?

and
so
why am i tangled in this endless beard?

well

because
and that is all i know

and

so i praise the God of wanderings
for such fields as these in which to wander
and settle back
amidst my bed of whiskers
to savor this moment
and father tolstoy
for whom i am grateful
and the beard into which i have grown.

oops! 17 tolstoy's beard and the pervasive sadness of the moment

2009-04-22T12:26:00.000-07:00

tolstoy’s beard and the pervasive sadness of the moment:

in this moment
i feel
sad

whether it is a connection
to the sad heart of God
who looks on in mortification
Self aware
and aware of Self
and aware
that He called the shot
and that the nature of the nature of it all is that it is as it is
and that He will watch until He can’t stand any more
and that He weeps because He loves us so but has made it so
and so have we made it because such as it is it is
such that
all the circular bulls*+t thinking and thinking
will not unmake the will of man to be as he is
against the will to do otherwise
we will be as we are
us
myself included
i am no more above this horrid condition
than tolstoy’s beard is above his chin

or

whether i am just sad
because of love

i cannot say.

such is tolstoy’s beard and the pervasive sadness of the moment.

tolstoy's beard and the girl who split the atom - 19

2009-04-22T12:14:00.000-07:00

tolsoty’s beard and the girl who split the atom:

einstein
socrates
and
androgynous
sat
perplexed
as buddha
contemplated his naval
in lotus position
sitting upon the rocks
which
poked
their sea serpent heads
out
of the sea

this is the end of the world
all that is left
of all that we knew

threee philosophers
one mythematician
and the rocks on which they sat

oh yeah,
and the sea,
wait,
i forgot the sun,
which means threre’s probably still a moon
and a sky to hold them all

night
will still follow day
clouds, of course, if there is air and water and sun
(convection)
and probably animals
and plants
and
of course
tolstoy’s beard
and the girl who split the atom

(if a tree falls in the woods and there is no one there to hear it
does it make any noise?)

tolstoy's beard - the lost poem - 18 and coutning

2009-04-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

tolstoy's beard and the lost poem

2009-04-21T15:22:00.001-07:00

tolstoy's beard and the dim light of dawn - 15

2009-04-21T15:07:00.000-07:00

tolstoy’s beard and the dim light of dawn:

today!
the sun is rising

perhaps

if

it is not tangled
in the threads
of tolstoy’s beard

struggling
to get over
the hori
zon

pulling against
tugging
against

the hair
tangled
and

not
getting
loose

stuck
in the half light
rising to the edge of the horizon
unable to be free
unable to

Rise!

and be
the glorious sun

stuck
in the tangled matte
of father tolstoy’s dark greyblack beard.

winter like Tolstoy's beard - 14

2009-04-21T06:39:00.000-07:00

I have been traveling and regret missing each opportunity to groom the beard. I will double and triple entries in order to catch up.

winter like Tolstoy’s beard:

winter
like Tolstoy’s beard
grey
with it’s death rattle clatter
of bear branches
chilled
in the winter wind
warmed
in the smooth pearl of the Russian moon.

13

2009-04-13T11:29:00.000-07:00

each of us
like whiskers in Tolstoy's beard
twists and turns
each unto each
in our corkscrew patterns
color
texture
each unto each our own
one beard
one face
the eye's of God
and Tolstoy's beard

12

2009-04-12T03:34:00.000-07:00

if tolstoy
were to place his chin
on my kitchen table
laying his beard out before him
and look
down into the grey black swirls
he would see the texas prairie
stretched out before him
with the twists of low mesquite
he could see from his mountain
perch the lower valley of the
tennessee river
with her pines and oaks
mountain laurels and underbrush
curling out before him
he would look down from
everest into the swirl of cloud and mist
from the apex of the world
looking down on all that is

if tolstoy were to place his chin
on my kitchen table
with his beard laying out
before him

Elf - 11

2009-04-11T06:39:00.000-07:00

elf:
(though garold dislikes the number 12
i have left out number 11 in honor of my friend)

no beard here
not Tolstoy
not here
because garold
as a child
would not honor
the number twelve
and for that
there is no beard
here

(text note - elf is German for eleven)

the sun like tolstoy's beard - 10th

2009-04-10T06:03:00.000-07:00

the sun like tolstoy’s beard:

the sun like tolstoy’s beard
curls slowly over the horizon
then climbs
with a thousand maniacal tendrils
pulling itself up
extending golden tentacles into the sky
across the fields
and ponds
tiny arms encircling all that is
and splashing forth
in spirals of pain and light and beauty
tiny spirals of life
returning a numb world
from the sleep of darkness
the sun
like tolstoy’s beard

my mind like tolstoy's beard

2009-04-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

my mind like tolstoy's beard:

my mind
like tolstoy's beard
is grey and black
twisted
it swirls with eddies
of shadow
it hides the true form
of my face
it denies my smile
it contains the memories
of things tasted yesterday
it begins inside me
yet hangs lifeless before me
my mind
like tolstoy's beard
is twisted.

Dean Moriarty on Tolstoy's Beard - 8th

2009-04-08T06:27:00.000-07:00

Tolstoy kisses through his beard - 7th

2009-04-07T09:09:00.000-07:00

Tolstoy kisses through his beard:

Tolstoy kisses you
through his beard
his serpent tongue
in twisted passion
searches blindly
along the edge of
hairy lips
tasting old memories
which dance
no the edge of passion
in Tolstoy’s head.

He
loves you
with the power of words.

He courts you
with the sensuous Russian moon
Tolstoy moans softly into ink
and

through his beard

loves you
with a kiss.

2009-04-06T05:51:00.000-07:00

The Genius of Tolstoy's Beard"

Young Tolstoy
had

stubble.

Tostoy's Beard Like Music - 5th

2009-04-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

Tolstoy’s Beard Like Music:

Tolstoy’s beard
like music
curls forth
like froth from
his face
the smoky fog
of foam
madman
biting his eyes at
night
Tolstoy’s beard is
music
mastered
fragrant
pouring forth
in a flavorful
head
from the glass
of his
vision

Yeah-
Tolstoy’s
mad cat
beard.

Tolstoy's Beard Revisited/ April 4th

2009-04-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

today's poem is dedicated to Mr. Scott Sterling - friend and whisker

The Beard Re-visited:

Tolstoy!

why i could hack a
man to bits!

a woman!

a child!

no damned beard
to me-

i could
but Tolstoy?!

A muffin-
no hack-
spittle in the
corner of his
lips not even
on his beard.
not like Elvin
King
with Tobacco
yeller
on his

now-
not Tolstoy

jump, Boy!

The Question is Tolstoy's Beard

2009-04-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to Mr. Kemmer Anderson - poet and Milton whisker!
Some years ago I began an project called "The Question is Tolstoy's Beard". It was my own "Leaves of Grass" each poem a whisker. In honor of National Poetry Month I have resurrected this odd Van Dyke of poetry and will post one per day from the original collection for the month of April. Today being the 3rd, I will post three. This will give you a taste for what Tolstoy collected beneath his nose around his mouth and above his lip. Tolstoy's Beard.
April 1st

April 2nd

April 3rd

2009-04-02T07:17:00.001-07:00

Last Night I Kissed Ed Gein:

composition
decomposition
mirrors in their tiny dead eyes
blood dries black
skin turns bloated cold white

see across their heads
a vision of the sea
a transfigured sky
all water
we are therefore breathing our baptism
immersed

the stench
of death
becomes sugar in the nostrils of the prophet
who has the strength to send souls home

touched
tethered
tamed
timed out
fading
to black and white

press your mouth against cold cold lips
a skull for a bowl
sugar and salt
blood and urine
earth and sky

clouds flashing by in time lapse sequence
flies collecting
skin melting away from jaw and nasal ridge
skull balanced on a puzzle piece of bone
jenga!

oh mother augusta,
i never touched a woman.
i never et a man i didn’t like.

the red dragon is coming
and you are the woman dressed in the sun
in this cold sea of reflected sky,
transformed and transfigured.
have mercy on me-

poem written upon the death of a friend i never knew -

2009-02-17T20:06:00.000-08:00

dust storm:

the brittle broken bones of a thousand dead saints and sinners
ashes to ashes
dust to dust

carried aloft-
the sands of time in flight
each particle each parable each principle lived and lost.

the wind in kansas
carries the cross of lost love, of each soul,
the flame of life, the smile of each heart.

ashes to ashes
dust to dust
a great cloud of bone
cast into the sky by the tiny hands of angels.

sad sands sift under clouds
carried to foreign beds
laid to rest in tides of dust
traveling endlessly.

Justice, Faith and Power

2009-01-28T14:10:00.000-08:00

Estell looked into the back yard half hoping to see her dead father sitting under the hackberry tree at the picnic table shucking oysters. It happened every year at this time. The Carnival season hit the Crescent City with the promise of a daily dose of king cake and the coming of parades. Mardi Gras was for Estell medicine for the wounds of life. It marked a time when even as an adult she could roam the street with friends while waiting for the first float or stand among strangers and fight to the death for a pair of cheap plastic beads. Revelry and foolishness replaced common sense and decorum. And when it was Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Estell missed her father more than ever.

Estell's dad, Freddy Flannery, was a foreman at the Blue Plate factory where they made the world's best "mynez". Whatever the formula, for Freddy "it wadn't no poboy wit out da' mynez.An' it betta' be Blue Plate!" Freddy would laugh and hoist his Dixie beer.

"You know what Dixie is?" Freddy would offer his choicest bit of trivia "Not da beer but where da name come from? Way down yonda' in da lan' o' cotton. Dat Dixie? Well, folks workin' at da port here could get ten dollas a day fo' workin' an' a ten dolla bill was a dixie. Dat's where da' name come from. Dat's right. Fo' true." Freddy was all New Orleans and all Yat.

Estell especially missed those precious little bits of information she had labeled Freddyisms. Freddy would get a piece of trivia like that, open a Dixie and promenade around to every yard in the neighborhood finding any one who would listen "Dija know dat? Dija'?"

That wasn't all Estell missed. She missed the life and the fun Freddy brought to almost any occasion. She remembered her dad skipping across the yard on Carnival Day hollering "Mardi Gras, tickle yer paw, run behind a street car." A rhyme which she never understood but which always produced a giggle when she was a kid. "C'mon, girls weeze gonna be late. Don't wanna miss Zulu."

"Cheese maneese, Freddy," Mamma would grumble "It's only six inna mornin'. Ain't nutin'happinen'. Keep yer draw's on. Weeze comin'" out of the house and off to Lee circle we'ld go to wait for Zulu, Pete Fountain and the Half Fast Band and His Majesty King Rex. There is no foolishness so wonderful as the foolishness of Carnival in New Orleans.

Estell sighed. She looked out of the window above her kitchen sink at the City that Care Forgot. "How could dey still have houses all boarded up?" She mused. "Katrina was three and a half years ago. Will dis city eva' be da' same." She sighed again, then as if lead by some sad spirit and the Olympia Brass Band she sang slowly "If ever I cease to love. If ever I cease to love. May fish have legs and cows lay eggs, if ever I cease to love." Estell sucked in a deep breath "Ah well, I guess I betta get on wit stuffin' deeze mirlitons. Freddy woulda' loved 'em."