Dr Mohamed When I was taken to hospital with cirrhosis of the liver. The first person I saw was Dr Mohamed. After examining me, and asking a lot of questions he told me that my liver was in a bad way. I was really ill I was really scared. I asked him " Is this going to kill me ? " " Not this time. " He answered. " It's like you've driven right up to the edge of the cliff but you haven't gone over the edge, yet. " As I was leaving to go to wait to be admitted to a ward. His last words to me were " You do know that you've picked the longest, most painful way to kill yourself ? " That shocked me. I thought I was drinking to stop my depressive thoughts. I thought I was drinking to keep from killing myself.
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
Ken Kakareka
Q&A Does poetry pay? asked a faceless freak. I guffawed. Holy shit! Not unless you’re Amanda Gorman! Who’s that? Look her up. How long does it take to learn how to write poetry? whined another voice. A lifetime. Must poetry rhyme? Not when you’re drinking wine. How come none of your poetry has form? Form’s not as important as rhythm. What do you think makes good poetry? Bite. I maintained one-word answers from there; it wore them down. I had to make a fast break for the liquor store closing at 8. We made it.
Daniel S.Irwin
St. Patrick’s Day A wave of gloom and terror Quickly passed throughout The land of the Leprechaun When it was whispered That, on this St. Patrick’s Day, Santa was coming to town. Everyone has heard that He favors the little ones. Rumor has it that he can Savagely devour thirty elves In one sitting. Yum. Home Security Thefts in the neighborhood. Must secure house from robbers. All the locks have been changed. Shotguns rigged up at doors with Trip wires carefully tied to triggers. Vicious dog, suspected of rabies, Brought home from the pound And beaten over and over to Ensure his raw savageness. Now, If I can only get in my house.
Mimi Bourdeaux
L One two to five six done twelve dexies by midnight on I am flying like a vulture combing land over Atlantic seas PI see your great head stuck in the pillow face covered by feathers how I love your hair sticking out dreadies no comb put through it in months put pen to paper let the good times roll now I am really vibing got the dexies working ‘til after twelve midday yeah awake wide eyed child of your friend’s house we’re covered til winter summer close by we will go swimming in LA sands beachfront bulk great hilltop. It’s time to drive to New Orleans tonight let’s get pilled and hit the booze joints with some cool jazz playing I’m a coming!
S.F. Wright
MCDONALD’S That invincibility After scoring: So impervious That you don’t Think twice About leaving Your Pontiac In front of a Hydrant, While you rush into Wherever-you-know- you-can-use-the-bathroom. A few places You’ve discovered, But tried and true Is the McDonald’s on First and 23rd: Commodious, A locking door; A haven— Even if piss Puddles the floor And vomit Infects the air. So useless Is every other place— Everything, in fact— That this room’s An ethereality. Then, Briskly walking out, Unlit cigarette Between fingers, Touching your lighter; Outside, That first drag’s Majestical, too; And look: No ticket.
Nick Olson
RODEO CLOWN They got me to ride a bull in a West Texas rodeo! I fell off and broke my head; Took all of about a second and a half. The son-of-a-gun would’ve liked to kill me dead. So I decided right then and there, that if I was going be in the rodeo, A clown was what I was gonna be. I always thought I was kinda funny anyway. Driving around the country telling all my jokes, To all kinds of spectating folks. Paint on my face, my barrel in place. I always feel pretty safe hanging out with the pick-up man. Pretty much livin’ in my minivan. Trying to help the bullfighters with props made of old used mops. Doing rope tricks, and trying to impress all the chicks. Having a lot of fun. Then when the rodeo is done, I head to the bar, no paint on my face, And nobody knows who I am; ‘Cause I’m not a damn bull rider, just a silly old clown. 10/13/22
Merritt Waldon
In the times of struggle/\a new smoke break poem___ Waking up and going to sleep Living a life constantly on the ropes Blocking nor feet shuffling. Brings recourse Sitting out side The frozen world crawls upon me I am shivering beneath it Beneath the weight of all of it Smoking one of my rare these days Cigarettes thinking of how such A life was once sought by my younger Version now ragged and embroiled with Dis ease and despair I exhale what smokey life remains ----
Howie Good
Kama Sutra for the Afterlife We were just getting into it on the den couch when your parents arrived back home from a Saturday night out. And so we waited and we waited until they went to bed and then we quietly finished up. Later as I drove away from your house, I blew the horn a few times in goodbye. The next day a neighbor complained to your dad about the honking at one in the morning. Today I saw a flock of starlings covering a tree like black leaves. When we’re both dead, I want us to be buried together, not side by side, but top to bottom, in what the Kama Sutra inventively calls the Milk and Water Embrace.
Leah Mueller
No Sense in Waiting Rain fell like artillery on a chilly March evening while the four of us huddled beside a tiny wood stove in a damp farmhouse. We rubbed our hands together in front of the fire, and the flames sparked abruptly, making popcorn sounds as the wet wood ignited. It was one of those nights when no one had much to say-- words fell to the floor like sacks of laundry and remained there, unattended until the entire room was filled with the stench of dullness. My visiting boyfriend was an attorney who had followed me from Chicago to a tiny island in Puget Sound where I lived with Chris and Debbie, two women I’d met on the highway only a month beforehand. Debbie owned a dog who’d roamed the same highway while in heat, searching for a willing partner to alleviate her strange discomfort. Eventually she coupled with a canine who had bad genes, then gave birth to a batch of deformed puppies, who lay now in a jumbled pile in the nearby barn, attended by their anxious mother, waiting for their fate to be decided. We humans had known their fate for a while, but never discussed it openly. Debbie was a single mother who had migrated to the Northwest from somewhere in the South, her sullen toddler son and the dog tossed into the back of her car with their few possessions, stopping only to purchase soda, disposable diapers and cigarettes. Now she had a squirming mess of defective puppies but no money for a vet bill for their humane extermination. Still, Debbie was nothing if not intrepid-- she suddenly rose to her feet, strode across the room, and heaved herself over to the corner where her shotgun lay. She lifted the barrel to her shoulder and, while everyone stared at her with stupefied amazement, she said, “Well, might as well do it now. There ain’t no sense in waiting,” and stormed outside into the rain. A minute later, the gun fired six times and everything was quiet-- at least until Debbie came back inside sat down beside the wood stove, snapped the door open, and threw a new log on the fire.
Jodie Baeyens
Collecting Dust I have a collection of single lines that will never become poems. Thoughts and moments that I can’t pull anything from. Like waking from a dream with nothing more than a feeling that can’t be put into words, but stays with you throughout the day. Draped over my shoulders until I discard it over the back of an old chair waiting to be put away.