Category: POEMS

I saw the loneliest woman in the world tonight,
she was waiting on the checkout line in K-Mart.
She was purchasing a can of ginger ale,
a small bag of pretzels and a deck of Solitaire cards.
The loneliest woman in the world was buying a
solitary soda, a single serving of pretzels and a deck
of cards specifically designed so that you can
play games with yourself. I felt sorry for the loneliest woman
in the world. I wanted to invite her over to my house
and give her the use of my coffee table so that should
could play Solitaire, drink her ginger ale and eat her
pretzels. At least then she would have a tangential
brush with another human. I would not let it go any further
than that because the loneliest woman in the world
could very well be a serial killer or a really, truly, utterly
boring, but very talkative person. Actually, I would rather
have a serial killer in my house than a talkative person
that was really, truly and utterly boring. I never said I
was a normal person. Anyway, tonight I saw the loneliest
woman in the world, she was in Riverhead, New York, in
the K-Mart, on a Wednesday night. She was buying a soda,
a bag of pretzels and a deck of Solitaire cards. I hope she
enjoyed her evening.

As I sit here at the keyboard this morning,
I am 36 years old.
My driver’s license indicates that I am 5’10” but
I think it likely that I am 5’9″ tall. I do not
remember where that extra inch came from.
I think I’ll blame my mother.
I weighed 292 pounds during a recent visit to
the doctor’s office.
My penis is 6 inches long when erect.
I have not measured it while flaccid.
If I knew what my IQ is, I would share that
too, but that is a secret even to me.
I wear size 40 pants at the hips, my actual waist
size is probably closer to 42.
My inseam is 29.
I drive 2.3 miles to work every morning and
2.3 miles home in the early evening.
I work from 8AM to 5PM with 1 hour for lunch.
I make $65,780 per year by surrendering 40
weekly hours or 2,080 hours per year.
I have made approximately $234 dollars from
the writing and performing my poetry.
I have been married for 21 months, the
best 21 months of my terestrial existence and I
am not saying this to blow sunshine up my
wife’s ass. I am seeking no advantage or
sweet speaking upper hand by
saying it, I do it merely to state fact.
I own one vehicle manufactured in 1989, one
house built in 1939, one detached garage built also
in 1939, one pine tree, one maple tree, one
holly tree suffering from a ph imbalance because of
the as from my charcoal grill and
thirteen miscellaneous shrubs ages undetermined.
One dog and five cats share our house. Not long ago,
we had two dogs. I also have one gallon of home brewed
sorrow and 42 canning jars filled with pickled regret put
up in the basement. Those, are my numbers. People are obsessed with
numbers. From my numbers, people who know
absolutely squat about me will make assumptions,
judgements and draw conclusions:

You’re old, you cannot possibly connect with the
swift, electronic youth of this country.
You’re too young, you do not know anything.
You seem taller in your poems.
Like 2/3 of American adults, you are obese, lose
weight fatty, you’re overburdening the stressed,
yet insanely profitable health care system.
Short legs, average penis. You will never be a porn star.
You work for the man! You’re Whitey’s bitch! 40
hour wage slave! 8 to 5 shuck and jive toadie!
Look at that salary! You are wealthy. You’ll never
understand the suffering of the delicate, sad masses. You
are part of the problem not the solution. Step aside.
If you are so successful, where’s the shiny car,
the new house and the children?
Why write poetry? It pays so little. You could
make more coin punching license plates at the
State Penitentiary.
Only freaks and old, lonely people own more than
two animals.

Such are the reasons why numbers are problematic,
people judge others because of them, we judge and
criticize ourselves because of them, we make life
decisions, effect massive change based upon them
and yet no where in any of those numbers can you
find a quotient or indicator of happiness. These
numbers are meaningless and I will prove it. I
added up all of these numbers in my life, the
sum was 68,755.60, a completely arbitrary figure
that has absolutely no meaning whatsoever.
68,755.60 does not fail to attain the mystical,
magical USDA instituted
Universal Happiness Threshold of
70,000 life points.
68,755.60 is not an indication of my
credit rating or my
utter failure as a human organism nor
does 68,755.60 mean that I am in the
top ½ % of the world’s human population.

To conclude this, my lyrical lecture on numbers,
I offer this: If the sum of these life numbers is
meaningless, it seems logical to me
that the numbers used to obtain
that sum, are similarly meaningless.
Garbage Out. Garbage In, to reverse a famed acronym.

So…fellow citizens of earth, throw off
this oppressive yoke of numbers and
buy one of my books.
You do not need numbers!
You need me!

So…this is the poem where I make
several outrageous and/or silly,
semi-silly or occasionally serious
requests regarding the preparations when
I die. Something along the lines of:

I want to be buried in my favorite yellow
raincoat, a blood red carnation tacked
to the left breast pocket while standing in a red
English telephone booth, in Pere LaChaise or
Green River Cemetery. I want music, something bouncy
in the note of C, nothing dirge like or sad, except
for maybe O…Danny Boyyyy…the
pipes are calling. I always liked that
song. I want joyous tears and sweet
nostalgia not grief wailing as a
banshee. I want everyone to get
drunk and jump naked into a big flesh
pile after you plant me. I want you to
eat exotic food Thai or Indian as you have
polite, remember that time when we conversations with
one another. I want a moving eulogy from one of
my dearest friends. In lieu of flowers give money to
the homeless, save the whales or a free Tibet.

But we both know it won’t happen that way because you
are a poet and reality more likely will spin something like:

You will not have planned ahead and located
a red English telephone booth and it’s not like there is
an overabundance of red English telephone booths at
the dollar store or the pawn shops downtown and so
someone will pick out a plain wooden box for
you likely something in knotty pine with yellow
tinted varnish because that is what your thin budget will allow.

And in the general chaos that follows your death, no one will
be able to find your favorite yellow raincoat because it will
have fallen down behind the sofa three week’s previous because
you never could put things away where they belonged, could you?

And everyone will send flowers because they do not
know where to get in touch with the homeless or who is
saving the whales or freeing Tibet these days.

And there will be no music of your choosing because one
of your spacey, marginally functional poet friends or relatives forgot
the boombox and the CDs and it’s just too far to drive all the way
home for the sake of music alone, but another old friend forgot to
take his battered trombone from the trunk of his car after
last night’s Open Jam at the broken down roadhouse
three towns over and so he will play a few ill
conceived Beatles and Dylan covers to keep things lively.

And a lay minister you knew tangentially, who came to shake
your hand after a reading at the local community center will give the
benediction because there was no time to find or fly one of your
dear friends in from wherever they have meandered to over the years.

And there will be wailing and a definitive lack of joyous
tears and of course no one will feel like getting naked or jumping
into a huge flesh pile because an orgy would just seem
somehow…well inappropriate.

And people will eat what is always eaten after funerals: catered food in
aluminum trays warmed by Sterno pots, cold cuts on outrageously
minuscule dinner rolls, tremendous groaning pans of lukewarm ziti with
grated Parmesan cheese and Swedish meatballs in thick, lumpy gravy.

And Pere La Chaise and Green River are all full up with
dead artists already so you will be buried in a lonely,
windswept plot on a hillside in rural New York State in a
rumpled old suit and pants that date to your misguided early
career as a copy editor thirty years previous and the wrinkled
shirt beneath has a bad case of ring around the collar and the
tie is just too short and tacky for current fashion.

And the only consolation in all of this will be that there will
be a few sweet nostalgias and knowing the crowd you run with, more
than a few will dive well into their cups to mourn your passing which
is a better reason than yesterday’s sunrise and someone did manage to
locate a blood red carnation at the gas station and pinned it to your lapel.

And while we are supposed to cheer the minor victories in our
lives, these consolations do not taste at all like victory or indicate a
life well lived.

But neither should this be taken as an obscene or grand failure on your
part, you just never realized that your life was as much a rumpled ill fitting
suit, ring around the collar and bad trombone music as it was yellow
raincoats, red English telephone booths and bouncy music in the key of C.

I did not have an adequate answer to his
inquiry, “Didn’t you see that I was waiting
for the ATM?” I did not have an adequate
answer, so I did not respond the first time
he asked me. I did not have an adequate
answer, so I could not respond the second time
he asked either. If he had asked again, I
would not have had answer. I was not ignoring
him behind smoky self absorption. I just did
not have an answer. I did not have an answer
because I did not do anything wrong. I did not
purposely cut in front of him, I did not usurp
his place in line at the ATM. He was waiting
behind the tinted, heated windows of his large
gas guzzling MAN truck. The line for the ATM
was 20 feet from the driveway where his truck
was parked. I did not even know there was
anyone in the truck. I could not have known
if he was waiting for the ATM machine,
preparing a sealed deposit envelope, smoking
a fatty or making plans to invade Idaho.
I could not have known because I am
not a member of the Mind Readers Society of
America. Most days, I barely know what is
going on in my own mind, let alone that
which is going on in the mind of someone
sitting in a running, heated automobile staring
at the world from behind tinted windows.
If I could read minds, it is quite likely
I would have sensed his irritation, sensed
that I had inadvertantly wounded him in some way
and I would have let him use the ATM before I did.
I am a patient man. I was not rushing anywhere.
I rarely rush to or for anything. I could easily
spare the 20-30 seconds involved in completing
the average ATM transaction. I guess he is
very important, could not spare the time and
I trammled irreverently upon the
mighty principle of the matter.

As I get back in the car, I see the reason.
Jesus Saves. Jesus is Lord.
Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.
Damned Christians. He can probably recite
name, number and verse of obscure Biblical
references to justify anything he does in
life. He got the power of Jesus behind him.
He has turned his life over to the Lord, but
he is still a damned fool. He reads his
Holy Bible front, back and sideways. He still
does not get it. He goes to Bible study every
Wednesday, Sunday school, regular church services,
potluck dinners, rummage sales, bake sales,
leads a youth outreach ministry, tithes ten
and prays every night before bed. He still
does not get it. He knows shit about Jesus. If
he knew anything about Jesus, he would remove
the stupid bumper stickers from his truck and
stop parading his faith around town like a
hooker showing shining wares of thigh and ass.
If he knew anything about his Lord, he would
cease the empty posing and practice. Practice
turning the other cheek. Practice forgiving
those that sin against him. Practice doing
unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Practice humility instead of hubris.

This world is in pretty rough shape when a
heathenous, surely going to Hell or worse,
cursing, potty mouthed, non-believer
like myself has to tell a devout Christian
brother to behave more like Jesus and
less like an arrogant, overbearing asshole,
less like an uptight, middle aged asshole,
less like a the world revolves around
me and only my asshole.

Remember…
Jesus may love assholes like you,
but, He loves the rest of us too.
That’s just the kind of God He is.

The Jester teaches us that
expensive electronic devices
should be put away when
one is done using them
because they shatter
real nice when they
hit bottom.

The Jester teaches us that
it is occasionally necessary
to knock a dozen farm fresh eggs
from counter to floor
because the dogs like eggs.

The Jester teaches us that
snapping limbs from a
houseplant or shredding
another’s leaves is not
about destruction. It is a
lesson in the regenerative
powers of Nature.

The Jester teaches us to
challenge our perception of
junk, plastic bottle caps,
dripping droplets of water
and toys.

The Jester teaches us that
toilet paper ain’t just for
wipin’ anymore.

The Jester teaches us that
one should seek balance
between
our daily bouts of high speed
break shit madness
with
contemplative silence.

I casually mentioned to a co-worker
that I am often up past midnight during
the work week.

Astonished,
he asked,
“Doing what exactly?
Watching TV?”

Tom Waits gravels…
“What the Hell is he
building in there?”

He wouldn’t believe me
if I told him.

He slams his fist into the
steering wheel
yells something
at the car in front
that failed to turn
at an apparently
opportune moment.

I hear over my shoulder
“FUCK YOU!”
I turn to see
the ubiquitous
bird flipped
toward a white
car that just turned
the corner.

Returning to work
at yet another intersection,
a car swerves slightly,
as if changing radio stations.
The woman in the next vehicle
leans her screaming ugly head out
of the open window and nearly
ass ends the “offender.”

Looking left,
the long
narrow
snub nosed
backhoe
bucket digs
another final
dirt palace in
St. John’s.

Keep up the useless rage
useless emotion
useless boil over blood
pressure
and palpitating
heart,
the backhoe
operator has
nothing but time
and
an open slot
next Tuesday
if you’d like
to reserve now.

I have no words for now…
I had words for the torment
and joy that we were.

Twelve years of angry, biting words
hurled slicing into bitter arguments,
used like cudgels to batter
or scrawled in bloody delivering ink.

Twelve years of kind, soothing words
playfully caressed, massaged into my heart
loving words that embraced
and showed me the wide boulevard beyond
the simple alley of self-destruction.
I have no words for now…
I am not used to the silence.

The silence which settles uneasily
here
on sunny Sunday afternoons.
The brooding empty silence
in my word soul.

First of all, let me say that I find your poetry and rhythm quite tantalizing, however, there are a few things I think you should ponder:

I would like to suggest using more CRASHING waves. They are far more exciting than these several lines of mere and humble breakers. Reach! Strive dammit! Be angry!
Consider having more dead stinking things washing up on the sand. Perhaps even a famous model or television personality of some fame and stature.
A higher salinity content would allow even thin people to float easier.
More seaweed!
Is there anything you can do about all of these annoying surfers? A stronger undertow perhaps?
Any chance of having a mermaid fin surf in and land at my feet?
Ever since GPS, we have fewer shipwrecks, I think more rogue waves would solve this increase in safe sailing.
I sense that you feel pissed in and dumped on, perhaps you should seek counseling.
I know fecal bacteria and medical syringe floaters contaminate you, but you are still beautiful twice a day.

Anyway, there’s my dime’s worth. Hang in there. Keep ebbing and cresting. Drop me a line before the next hurricane party.

Your rhythm slave,
Little Stevie Cucamonga

1.
I am pissed at you Hunter S. Thompson.
I am royally pissed off at you.
I am so totally pissed off at you.
First of all, let me say that
I am not pissed off because you did it.
I am not pissed off because of some
it-is-never-so-bad-that-you-should-end-it-all
cliche speak, occasionally,
it is that bad and worse.
I am not pissed off because you had so much
on the ball, you were the voice and the conscience
of American dissent and you threw it out the window like
a fragmentation grenade merely for the sake of
hearing the BOOM.
I am not pissed off because I will never get
to read another dispatch from the edge of
sanity, Las Vegas, Colorado and beyond. The
T shelf in the spare room already groans.
I am not pissed off because part of America’s
rebellious spirit blew itself away on
a Sunday in February.
I am not pissed off because there will be
wagging fingers and choruses of tsk tsk.
I am not pissed because I will never get to
shake your hand or say,
“I really like your stuff man.”
I am not pissed off because your suicide is
indicative of the failure of the
politics, drugs and free love dreams of the 1960s.
I am not pissed off for any of these reasons,
some of these reasons are valid,
others are invalid pap various talking heads will
toss into the electronic wind as if it
were golden intellect or perfect insight.

I am pissed off…because of all the
terrible, overwrought, sentimental bullshit
“O Gonzo…We Hardly Knew Thee” poetry, prose
and TV speak
that your death will and has inspired.

Hack scribes, poetasters and poseurs everywhere,
licked their lips, unlimbered their pens and stirred
immense pots of hackneyed expression broth with
cliche noodles when the news broke.

Jesus Christ Hunter,
you have given lease to
the same bastards that
could barely wait until
the towers fell to
pen horrid, self serving,
I-am-so-terribly-wounded-by-this-day
I-feel-the-pain-of-the-victims
I-commiserate-with-all-humanity’s-suffering
opuses, epics and tomes.

For fuck’s sake Hunter!
If you did not want to save yourself,
if the pain and madness seemed beyond chemical management,
you could have bucked up to save the rest
of us from this avalanche of facade and
feigned interest and died quietly in your sleep
with strained peas on your forgotten chin.

I am pissed off at you
Hunter Stockton Thompson.

Save me a seat in hell so I can shake your
hand and say, “I really liked your stuff man,”
you selfish bastard.

2.
Upon further review…I have reversed my ruling on this matter,
I have decided to let the poseurs and poetasters have you and have at you Hunter.
What kind of man blows himself away as his wife waits and listens on the phone?
What kind of man swallows .45 caliber lead with his son and grandson sitting upstairs?
What kind of man spreads his madness thick like marmalade on his life’s innocent bystanders?
Jesus Fucking Christ. I hope you and the poseur posse are happy together.
You deserve one another. A match made in fucking Cleveland. Fare thee well motherfucker.

3.
Well children, I guess the only thing that can be said now is
that we should choose our heroes more carefully.