A Cat Will Eat Your Face. by Jon Bennett

When he moved in

it came with an 18 yr old

tuna fish addict

named Max,

a cat that had endeared himself

to 3 other households

and could still catch a mouse

if the need arose

to impress the suckers.

The Herbert Huncke of cats

he had no affinity

for other felines.

“Once the balls go,”

he meowed

between mouthfuls,

“there’s no percentage

in pussy.”

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

“Help me help you help me” by Jon Bennett

The thing about crime is
one often finds
one must
trust someone
who has no vested interest
in being trustworthy
And so, one crime
may lead to another
be it through bribery
or a heavy handed
intimidation
In the end
one must sit
with oneself
in the blue light
of the television
wondering who has
told whom
what.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

Cleave. by Jon Bennett

There’re 2 windows here

the window looking at

the strip club across the street

and the window at the deli counter

for the cold cuts

I often sit at the street one

I sit there and write

and watch the business guys

fervent at the door

Sometimes I get upset

waving my pen around

conducting nothing

so I go to the deli counter

and talk to the man

at the slicer

I’m comfortable here

I come from a long line

of butchers

It’s not my intention,

it’s my nature

to rip things apart.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

A Christmas Gift by Jon Bennett

I feel bad for  

the old tranny whore 

vaguely Asian, psychotic, 
always a smear of lipstick 
coaxing her masculine lips 
into a blowjob pout 
Orally transmitted gonorrhea 
has been going around the Tenderloin 
and one day I see 
her red gash mouth 
is a pustulating volcano 
like a mouthful  
of soggy cornflakes 
Yes, I feel bad for her 
How will she make ends meet? 
Surely no one would insert 
the specified organ 
into that hellhole 
condom or no 
But two weeks later 
she’s fresh as a daisy 
(go ahead Ginsberg 
pull that fucking thing) 
cured somehow 
maybe at the free clinic 
or by the Saint of Whores 
(not Mary, St. Nicholas 
is the Saint of Whores) 
and just in time 
for Christmas. 

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

Speed 50. by Jon Bennett

“Where ya going?”

“Bandon. This isn’t how

I thought I’d spend

my 50th birthday,” she said.

Coming down off speed, toothless

and stinking

I regretted picking her up.

“Sorry if I stink,” she said.

“You don’t stink,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said

and then nodded off.

I passed a sign,

‘Speed 50’

and thought it was ironic

but I didn’t

mention it

or that ‘Bandon’

was like “abandon”

without even

an ‘a.’

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

Back Against the Wall. By Jon Bennett

When it’s warm

Steel Reserve malt liquor

is undrinkable

but then

it’s undrinkable cold, too

Tom took a great swallow

The letter was on the nightstand

“7 years...” he belched,

“and 3 months sober.”

The SRO room was

small and run down

but it was permanent

at least he thought so

until that letter

‘...reevaluation of claimant...

substantial gainful employment...’

It would mean

men in suits

and the courthouse

and maybe even

the roof over his head

He took a great swallow

and leaned

back against the wall.

Cover art 'Man on the Bag' by Michelle Monreal").

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

This Can Be Broken by Jon Bennett

“I slummed it
most of my life,” I said
and reflected on
the SRO rooms
the leaky trailer
revelry in always having
enough
because I needed
so little
Enough for lamb chops
and beer and
pain pills
(always plenty of pain)
and the shitty coke
Pedro sold that made
our hearts ache
In the quiet moments
between
low wage jobs
and lunatic women
there was more than enough
art as well
Readily
it would come
But now I
am a rich man
with a nice car
and sober as
the days which have become
so long
More than enough
of everything these days
but not so much
art
anymore.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

Scalper by Jon Bennett by Jon Bennett

 “Come with me” 
The man was 25 yrs my junior 
with a couple years sober 
and I was new 
so after the meeting 
he took me to his apartment
“Babe, this is, um, John,” he said  
“Not again,” said his girlfriend 
“What are we doing here?” I asked 
He sat me at the kitchen table 
opened a new AA big book 
inscribed it and gave it to me 
I guess that’s what we were doing 
His name was Dylan 
I don’t like that name 
it’s already being used 
and I didn’t like how pretty 
his girlfriend was 
it made me want to drink 
although everything  
made me want to drink
He told me his entire family 
were ticket scalpers 
in a rustbelt city,  
Toledo or Des Moines, 
and he got strung on Xanax 
because if you have 
a lot of time and a lot of money 
you need something to do
His scalping business was  
easy and sleazy 
and his girlfriend was an engineer
so it made sense 
when I heard they broke up 
and he moved back to Toledo 
or Des Moines 
to wait in front of stadiums 
and hock tickets to teeny boppers
He was a weed  
trying to become a flower 
Maybe he made it.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in what once was San Francisco.

Noble Savage by Jon Bennett

I stomp down the trail
reflecting on 2 years
without a drink
“What the fuck
difference does it make...”
I say
It’s dark
No one else is there
I look defiantly
at a bush
“...if you can glean
a moment’s joy
from this shit!”
The bush only
stares back at me
so
I give it
a kick.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.  You can find more of his work on Pandora and Spotify or by connecting with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jon.bennett.967.

The Key. By Jon Bennett

I swung the gate closed
opened it

“See, this is the key!” I said

The dealer looked at me

winked, then

did a little jig

I used to live

in the building

and had a key for the parking lot

he sold crack in front of

and his customers

needed to fix and piss

and shit

in the locked parking lot

“This is the key!” I said

I had had everything locked in place

job, girlfriend, etc.

but now the dealer

I used to drive past

was my dealer, too

“Two, give me two,” I said

He gave me two

and then 

he had the key.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in
San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood.
You can find more of his work on Pandora,
Spotify and other streaming websites.

Gaspy the Smoking Clown By Jon Bennett

Her legs and arms stick out 

like on an engorged tick

nose a blossoming rose

playing slots, 9:45 a.m.

glass of wine, cigarette

long and white as new chalk

I miss cigarettes

wish I could inhabit her body 

abandon to vice

but I finally quit 

at age 26

as well as 37, 45, 48 and 51

A smoker is a soldier

doing war with fate

and I’m a deserter

She hits a bonus

but no shriek of joy

just another sip, click of the lighter

a veteran gambler

disappointed to win

having expected to lose 

for so long.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco.

The Twin Terrors By Jon Bennett

Loneliness and exhaustion

are the twin terrors

of middle age

although I’ve been tired

since 7^th grade

and when not tired

I’ve been poor

(poverty has always been

the price of sleep)

But lately, loneliness is worse

feeling like a hone stone

on a dwindling blade

I buy dope as a prophylactic

sometimes it works

I’m frightened of sobriety

the solitary hours

in front of the TV

the relentless

mornings.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco.

The Candy Man by Jon Bennett

Jolene’s is an old horseshoe bar
with mirrors on the ceiling
The bathroom is often
the center of attention
because that’s where 
you do your cocaine
Even though it’s clean
the bathroom always stinks
because coke gives you diarrhea
A high school teacher named Frank
comes in every night at 7pm
he doesn’t do coke
just drinks 3 beers 
while reading the newspaper 
with a flashlight
We never had a conversation,
same age as me, same education,
I just never spoke to him
and maybe he had his own reasons
for not talking to me
During the day it’s a place
to die of alcoholism
not many people in the Tenderloin
have the money for bar drinks
when they’re that close
to the end
so it’s mostly empty
There was a tranny for awhile
who drank a fifth of Patron everyday
she’s dead now
and a guy I thought of as
the Candy Man
His name may have been John
it may have been Kirby
I don’t know what it was
He had been kicked out of everywhere else
though he didn’t cause problems
he just smelled bad
He had advanced diabetes
and an addiction to candy
All day he drank screwdrivers
and had a sack on the floor
full of sodas and red vines 
and other candy
I think he had no way
to really clean himself
and probably had neuropathy
which is numbness
and probably had open sores
from the diabetes
He sat in the back
people knew him and he’d
buy them a drink
to go to the store for him
for more candy
The Candy Man is dead, too
It doesn’t mean anything
that he’s dead
or that I call him the Candy Man
you could take it as a warning
but it’s not one
and although he’s dead
it still smells bad
over where he sat
not because of his ghost
but because it’s so close
to that bathroom.

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin. You can find his work on most music streaming websites and by visiting https://jonbennettwebsite.wixsite.com/jonbennett/poetry or https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100067752415341.

Dope Rat by Jon Bennett

Tony has a million dollar condo off Masonic but he spends all his time in the Tenderloin working security for the Aldrich Hotel. They only pay $100 a week but it’s interesting watching the city crumble through the cameras he installed. He’s in an ongoing war with the street people trying to keep them out of the private alley leading to the hotel’s parking lot. We all appreciate Tony. 

 

One day I see him working on the lock for the gate. While it’s been broken the alley filled up with junkies taking shits, leaving shit, smoking shit. I’m glad to see him. 

 

“Tony! You OK!” 

“I’m fine, been waiting on parts.” 

 

We’re standing by a rat hole dug out under the foundation which Tony filled with industrial foam. Right above the hole is graffiti of a black rat, in silhouette, with the letters “f u” under it. 

 

“I wonder who did that picture,” I say. 

“Not me. At least the foam seems to have worked. I saw him come out one night on the CCTV so I ran down here. Emptied a whole cannister into it.” 

“I still see them,” I say. “They’ve colonized the parking lot.” 

“Yeah. I used to watch this one in particular,” he says pointing to the hole. “He’d come out here and drink the junkie’s piss.” 

“What?!” 

The shallow driveway to the gate is the only place to take a piss on the block. There’s always a puddle there. 

“He’d come out here and suck it up. In fact he seemed to prefer it fresh and steamy.” 

“That rat got strung out,” I say. 

“That’s what I figure. He sure did have a lot of energy.” 

 

The major drug in the area is EVERYTHING – meth, crack, fetty, and of course Steel Reserve beer. 

          

       “There no way he wasn’t getting fucked up on that piss,” I say. 

            “Yep,” says Tony. “You ever see a pigeon smoking a cigarette?” 

            “What?!” 

            “I’ll call you next time I see one.” 

 

end 

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco.