Armand Poetry

Welcome to Armand Poetry. The poems (and other words) here are composed for my own thought and amusement. Comment and discussion are welcome. -Amore, Armand-

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Make It A Clean Flight! No Hitting Below The Beltway!

The bell has rung!

Deep in the bowels of the Gipper,
All is not well.

Are you slipping on the winter mix
of snow and freezing rain?
Or are you loosing your grip on the
Teflon that you once admired?

In another time, the bases are loaded.
Your RBIs, ERAs, and RDXs no longer watched
by an evil umpire. The count is full,
the stakes are high, the pun is bad.

After the game, there will be time to party.
Time to pucca, time to check in,
To receive, store, ship, produce, renovate
and demilitarize conventional ammuntion
and related components.

At least now you are grinning ;)

Friday, January 28, 2005

Vegetable Juice

Broccoli juice, spinach juice,
Cauliflower juice, Pine juice?
Might have been some Lettuce Juice,
I am not making this up.

I drank it bravely. You may think
It tastes like brown disgusting juice,
for it is brown, but it tasted sweet,
Like corn does. It felt like something
Brown was plummeting into you.

-Son of Armand-


I didn't know you were back in town.
So I didn't look for you in the room.
I, lining up with all the extra men,
Went through the motions with the newbies,
Down the hall.

I was surprised when you said hello.
Everyone was leaving when you said
Half-jokingly "I saw you cheating on me
With that other woman". I guess i am
not the only one who confuses dancing with love.

You told me all about the things you did
Not accomplish on your month off. How
Work is stressful. Your voice is soft and
Cheerful, but your eyes are not, and I can't
Tell if you are upset with me, or just upset.

Next time, hopefully, we will dance.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005


The feast of the harvest of new fruits,
The feast of weeks,
Two loaves, two yearling lambs,
a buck-goat for sin,
a holocaust of seven lambs
without blemish, one calf and two rams.

At such a cost, my office left unattended,
I see no descent, my fifty days mis-spent.
My third day now arrived, but as before,
Unwilling to rite the measure, I am graceless.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005


They are threatening to cancel my class.
I need a real job.

I make less than the secretaries,
and don't have any job security.

When there are no wages to garnish,
will they put me in prison?

Monday, January 24, 2005

But For The Grace

It was still dark when he opened his eyes. The alarm had not yet gone off. His newly wakeful right ear caught the flapping of the plastic numbers switching from 5:59 to 6:00. A small sound which would normally go unnoticed in the commotion of the day, at this hour, was amplified by the otherwise silent predawn room. He had no urge to reach for the lamp next to the clock. Pink light washed through the window looking onto the 24 hour parking lot, which at this hour was not yet filled with the freshly washed cars of money managers, stock brokers, and real estate tycoons who, being late for work, never noticed the YMCA holding a sleepy eye fixed on the lot which used to be its athletic field. As he sat up in bed, pushing the sheets aside, the strip of white light beaming from under the door made him curse. The hall light which was too bright. The hall light which was always on. The hall that marked the end of his privacy and the diminishment of his dignity. He turned on the table lamp, filling the room with light, pushing the mean white of the hall and the creeping pink streetlight back under the door and out the window where they could hopefully be forgotten.

There was a triple crack in the mirror, which was covered with dull brown spots he hoped were some kind of rust. The lower part of his face was shifted to the left a full two inches, his jaw slightly at an angle. Somehow he had three nostrils. One blue eye was larger than the other; both streaked with red, pupils cowering in the new light. He was thinking how did it come to this? when he said to himself "Stan, you are a dirty rotten bastard." He was already dressed. He slipped into his ordinary shoes, not the cordivans he kept polished in his suitcase waiting to be worn on a hoped-for job interview. Putting on a wool cap, he looked again in the mirror. The hat seemed to be holding the pieces together well enough, so he grabbed his overcoat and took his wallet out of the inner pocket. He opened it. "Damn." He grabbed the clock-radio off the table, wound the cord around it, and bundled it up inside his coat. Stuffing the wallet in his pocket, he turned to the door, and shuffled as fast as he could through the horrible hallway toward the stairs.

He almost made it. As he heard the flush behind the closed door of the community toilet, he quickened his pace toward the stairwell door. Mr. Robbins beat him there. "Good morning Stan." "They say its going to rain again today; what do you say?" He didn't answer, but quickly raised and lowered his hand in a simultaneous gesture of Hello and Goodbye thinking he didn't even wash his hands. He flew down the stairwell two or three steps at a time, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the unwashed, overly cheerful Mr. Robbins. He continued to rush through the lobby, past the front desk. "Hey man!" "It's the 3rd already; you're late!" The clerk started to put down his newspaper. "The bank opens at nine; I'm on my way to take care of it right now." Stan was a bad liar. As his foot hit the street and the door to the Y swung behind him, he thought he heard "I'm gonna lock you out if you don't....."

The Casa de Empeno opened at 7:00. The unlocked iron folding gate was being shoved aside by a small, balding man in his forties who had reluctantly taken on the family business after a failed career in broadcast radio. Esteban Ortega had never understood why his show was cancelled. Public radio, it seemed, had an image problem that he couldn't quite understand. He watched Stan enter the shop and head straight for the front counter. "What do you got?" "A clock" said stan. "A clock-radio with an alarm....AM-FM." "Where'd you get it?" "I got a new one for my office, so I don't need this one anymore." Stan was a bad liar. Esteban unwound the cord and plugged it in to see if it was working. There was a silver sticker on the bottom that said Property of San Diego YMCA, San Diego CA. 92101. "I'll give you five bucks for it." Stan hesitated, "hey man, it's got a radio in it." Esteban knew his business. "Five Bucks, take it or leave it." Five dollars later, Esteban was shaking his head, watching Stan leave the shop.

The liquor store was crowded by now, with busy office workers, fighting for their coffee and doughnuts. Stan walked straight to the back, pretending to look for some unfound sundry. There was a sudden erruption of cursing and epithets as two boys, maybe fourteen, were being denied a box of Marlboroughs. The owner had already lost several hundred dollars in fines this year, and wasn't about to lose his license. Stan moved quickly and silently. A bottle of Chavez in the inner pocket. Two bottles of wine, one in each hip pocket. He walked to the doughnut case and chose the last jelly, and filled a styrofoam cup with crappy day old coffee. When he got to the counter. The owner was still ruffled from his argument with the teens. "Breakfast special, $1.35" Stan handed over the two bucks and waited for his change. As the yuppies outside were making their way to work, Stan headed down the block toward the park and his usual spot.

The Scotch hit the back of his throat with a sting of pleasure. He had journeyed far this morning through the desert. Now, in this oasis, with the means to quench his thirst, he did not hold back. The shade of the eucalyptus trees and elms enveloped Stan as he slipped into a comfortable stupor on the park bench, no dreams, no lies, no hallway, and no light.

Sunday, January 23, 2005


The full moon, just risen, anticipates a wakeful night.
We, preparing to go our separate ways, wish to stay.
Tea and Merlot, gently covering the cream and sugar,
Are not the only sweetness left to linger on my lips.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Avoiding Errands on a Friday

We don't start on time, as usual.
The weather has cleared and we must walk.
First, the drive and I park where you do not.

Can you feel it?

We avoid the sun, our usual route,
Down Fern Canyon, and past the Takin,
To the plunge and a long pause at the ducks.

I can feel it.

Down the hill, for more time,
Mother and Baby in the bath,
You want me to be bad, but I won't.

You must feel it.

Up the hill, slow with injury,
To the primates, empty cups,
You want me to break the rules, but I won't.

Why do we never speak of it? I wish we would.

Smile Morning

My morning paper was thin. Although the mid-week Tribune is never unwieldy, Tuesday's paper felt as though air had been whipped into it by an overly enthusiastic pastry chef, hell bent on serving up a soufleeish mouse, dangerously close to evaporating in my hands for lack of substance. As my coffee stained the bottom of the front page, I thought to myself: "at least now there is something interestingly brown between the lines." Not surprisingly, I was easily distracted from my coffee and paper souflee by a familliar face.

I knew it was her when I saw her eyes. She was smiling, which she rarely did when we worked togeher. The wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes only appeared when she smiled. They were the sort of downward traces of inner turmoil wrought of tension and conflict, sorrow and headaches. It was that brief sense that joy had somehow conquered the worst in her, if only for a moment, that I thought she was beautiful and forgot about my paper. She was wearing her glasses and a brown Greek Fisherman's cap, which complimented her probably-Italian dark white face. Not surprisingly, she didn't recognize me and walked on by.

Perhaps it was her freinds, with their boyishly feminine, open, and welcoming faces, calling her in unison to the front counter. Magali and "her blonde twin" (my nemesis) had managed not only to ignite that burst of a smile on my friend's face, but also to hasten her steps straight past my table. At first I was taken aback that she did not acknowledge me, but then I thought "how gladly to be pavlov's mouse for fromage de Magali!" Perhaps it was the fact that I am fifty pounds heavier, with a full beard, less hair, and missing my Clark Kent Birth Control Glasses. Whatever the reason, I was, for the moment, content to watch these three sisters (to me they were "sisters" because of my delicate sensibilities), all smiles and noise and unabashed happiness. The three of them left in a hurry. It was now nearly ten o'clock in the morning and I knew I was going to have a good day.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Tonight at Noon (appologies to Mingus)

Now, with the hour close at hand,
the hands moving closer, til one
obscures the other in an understated
changing of the guard.

Now, with merely a tick between
yesterday and today, with neither
din of birds nor chiming bell, no
grandfather gently swaying as a mark.

Now, the unnatural arms to one's side,
pale face ever the same, calm, unmoved,
as tonight becomes this morning, who
is mourning, pale, upset, and stirred?

Wednesday Night at Scilini's


"It's like walking a tight rope."
"You lean to one side and then the other;
and everybody wonders if your going to make it."


"I like to exploit the hemiola on the bridge,
but sometimes I don't know where it is going to come out."
"It seems to work itself out."


"You don't need to know where it comes out."
"You just have to commit to it. Once you are committed
to that syncopation, then you don't need to know, you just do it."


"Yeah, whatever."


"How is your cat?"




"Sorry, man".

Two Amstel Lights and back to work.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

I Should Know Better By Now

9:00 in the morning is too damn early
too early for you and especially for me,
too early to even hear you right,
too early for the basement dungeon,
and too early for real love.

It's not enough that you keep me awake at night?
Trying to figure you out!
As if that's ever going to happen.
Now you have to wake me up,
so I can share you with the world.

Can I just have one day where you won't mess with my head?
One day where I don't hold you in my arms?
After more than 20 years, don't you think we could take a break?


That's what I thought.

Monday, January 17, 2005

Goth Pink

I should be happy,
I have the day off
In memory of the King.
"Thank you very much".

At least these words are black.
My soul is somehow
Black on Pink.
And for what?

Did I have a dream?
Did I ride the bus?
I don't even talk the talk,
Much less walk the walk.

Instead, my electronically removed
unnaturally redheaded friend
Is getting paid to waste her time
trying to keep me sane.

Or at least "not harmful to others"

Sunday, January 16, 2005

You Dance Like A Fighter

How is your other life?
The life that keeps you away in the east.
That earns you all those miles.
That feeds your mania.
That looses your weight.
In Sponge-Bob motel rooms.
In the wrong time.

How is your wife?
The wife who stays behind.
Who loves to smile.
Who feeds your mania.
Who is now sixty six.
Knows all the details, but can't see the truth.
Knows the right time in a clean house.

How was your flight?
The flight you always take.
That leaves you alone.
That sips your drink.
That lets you sleep.
Where your cell phone must remain unused.
Where you can rest on the ropes, between blows, before the bell rings again.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Talk Box

Get on the web man!
And find the plan.
Five pages and not too hard.

Horn Driver, Tubing,
Pipes, Jacks, a Switch
The stink of solder.

Drill the box
Drill the box and make
it fit!

Some Glue.

A little quiet,
but oh so cool

Wednesday, January 12, 2005


Well done.
As a doornail!
That race is run.
Stick a fork in it.
An old dog new tricks.
Than never to have loved at all.
Down from the door where it began.
Awake at sunrise ridding the world of injustice.
To take upon ourselves the mystery of things as if we were God's spies.


Henry Frigon Son of mine
Karate Belts Pokemaniac
Strongbad fan Rush Songs
Books on tape Bowl of Mist
Loves to read the Lord of the Rings, especially
the parts about Legolas. Prefers costumes to
regular cloths. Pointy latex ears and a Jedi
ponytail. Teen Titans (especially Robin I think)
Green shoes Stretchy pants
Turkey baster Cheese only
World of war- -Craft. Dodge
Viper Racer Treehouse mess
Kind eyes and a kind heart
Henry Frigon son of mine

Monday, January 10, 2005


The rain is falling.
Somewhere out in the darkness,
a dog is barking.

I drive through the rain.
I am cold, my son is hot.
Monday is ending.

The rain falls gently
on nearly forgotten friends.
One is walking home.

Sunday, January 09, 2005


You must know that I love you.
Allthough the fresh warmth
of the oven has faded,
you still sit cooling in the window,
and your longed-for sweetness
remains untasted.

Friday, January 07, 2005



Thursday, January 06, 2005


Originally uploaded by arrrrmand.


No time for coffee today, we say
Having our coffee.

You are busy fighting for the cause
Before your vacation.

I am disappointed that Rita is gone.
And today, no Magali.

Our cups, now cold and empty,
Urge us with their silence,
To get on with our lives.