Only Dead Poets Are Famous

This poem is to be published
a lifetime after my timely death,

 

when jaundiced papyrus curls the
corners of cigarette-burnt edges,
surrounding scratches cut and
pasted together without wasting
whited-out words on artificially-
intelligent electronic screens
exhaling synthetically heated breezes,
before I suffocate under gray hairs
from unburied balding dust bunnies.

 

Only dead poets are famous,
but obsolete art can’t save us.

 

Previously published as the “Poem of the Week” by Zygote in my Coffee Issue #114, and featured in the Scars Publication chapbook Poems of Pain Volume 3: The War of Art.

 

 

 

 

Kill The Buddha

 
We’ve got this
curse or blessing
of wanting sex

that saddles us
with need

for Buddhists desire
and the difficulty
of controlling it

is the difficulty
of life

annihilate it and
yourself in the
process

and you shall
be truly happy
and free

when all want
something better

the best can
never be
simply nothing.

Therefore,
annihilate
yourself,

and kill the
Buddha
wherever
you see it.

This truth,
and
a knowledge
of it,

will lead to
your
Palace of Wisdom

and result in
an existence
of total boredom

just waiting
to die.

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RECENT EVENTS

The 3 of us were sat on

a public bench passing
a cheap bottle of
wine
between us;
I
hadn’t seen the
couple for a while;
they had some
place to live
but
they liked to drink

out on the streets;
“What’s been
happening?” I asked;

“Ronnie has been
in the hospital” said
the
woman. “Haven’t

you Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded his
head, grinning;
“He had
surgery” she
said, “didn’t you
Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded his

head with a widening

grin, like he was
proud of something.
“What happened?”
I
asked.
“Well”, the woman
said, “we were arguing
and
then he punched
me in the face, didn’t

you Ronnie?”
Ronnie
nodded his
head but he wasn’t
grinning anymore.
“That
was it” the
woman said; “I went
into the kitchen and
got a
small kitchen
knife; my nose was
bleeding, maybe I was
in
shock, but I
stabbed him in the
stomach, twice, didn’t
I
Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded his
head and took a
slug of wine
and then
passed the bottle to his
wife, who said before

lifting it to
her cracked lips,
“Go on, show him Ronnie,

show him the scars.”
Ronnie lifted his

shirt and I saw 2
raw
and fresh knife
wounds shining like
plastic in the
sunlight; I
nodded my
head and exhaled like
I was impressed;
“After I
stabbed him
I called an ambulance
for him, didn’t I

Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded his
head and lowered his
shirt
as his wife passed
me the bottle; I took

a deep swallow and

looked at Ronnie and
then he grinned again

as I handed him the

bottle to finish the
final dregs.
Ronnie lowered his head looked down looking at his sutured
wounds, he took a large pull off the
bottle, swallowed, and looked up
grinning at me; “See,” he said caressing his
wounds. “No leaks!” And
then; “God I love her.”

 
AN APRIL DAY AT 5PM

Stumbling, it came across
the
wooden decking; a wasp-like
insect, it’s right wings missing
and every now and then it would
flip over onto its back, it legs
frantically kicking at the

crushing air and suddenly it
righted
itself and then hobbled
forward and then
back-tracked
and then flipped over onto

it’s back and again kicked its legs
furiously and then it lurched
forward and then it
suddenly
stopped moving.
I watched and waited and

the sun was warm and the

neighbors were out and I waited
and
thought of alcohol
and of love and of
survival and
I looked back down at the now

lifeless thing, still and calm and
dreamless and I thought of

my grandchildren and of the shitty
day
that I’d had
but at least it hadn’t
ended up
breathless upon the wooden
decking and at 5pm on another
forgettable day, I feel thankful
that my heart beats, that I

can feel the pushing of an April
breeze
and hear small nature rustling
in its path

and I look down once more at
the dead insect; now a convenience
food for a spider
and soon

I will no longer be alone and soon
I will talk and listen to a

loved one, soon, the death of
this insect
will be forgotten
and the hours will
continue to
make dust of us all and soon
we
shall no longer hold hands or
hear the wind-chimes calling from
our infancy.
And for this
finality, I give the ultimate
Thanks.

 

 

MY FIRST JOB INTERVIEW

Was for a factory laborer;

I was a shy 16 year old

virgin pushing for a job
that required
scooping
jelly-sweets into boxes,
naturally I felt nervous,
I
wanted to make an
impression and
Mrs. Coombs was
stunningly
beautiful
she was in her mid 20’s
and it was June and
it was
hot and the
interview took place
in a hot portal cabin;
I sat
opposite Mrs.
Coombs and could not
take my eyes from off
of her
well shaped
breasts that hung naked
beneath a thin
white blouse
and I thought
of her lucky bastard
husband and I heard
her
talking to me and
then she stopped talking

and I looked up into her

face
“Well Mr. Robinson,” she
said in a sexy voice and
she
was waiting for a
reply; I looked into
her eyes, she had sexy
eyes
and I blushed
a deep red teenager
blush and I lowered
my eyes
and looked at
her breasts again;
speechless;
“And what
could you
offer our company
Mr. Robinson?”
the sexy
voice asked;
“I want to make a
success of things” I

blurted out looking
back into those
sexy eyes, my face
cooling
down and I
don’t remember what
Mrs. Coombs said but
I
started work a few
weeks later and
I never saw her again.

The Quiet Ones

 

The quiet ones we seem to forget

Always in the background

Working and surviving in the daily crush

 

Sometimes we notice them

Feel sorry for them

A few moments until out of our sight

 

Only when we become one of them

We suffer the endlessness

Of the grind in our deafening chaos.

 

 

 

 

Paradise Lost

 

Sun easing down below the horizon

Skylight fading into the beginning of night

Line of scarlet above the sea

 

Breeze coming in off the lazy waves

We sit at the edge of sand and civilization

 

Behind us stirs the streets

So sure of themselves

Fingertips wrapped across the continents

 

Never noticing dark clouds approaching

Stars glowing brighter as witnesses

 

Crowds of men and women and disturbed children

Walking nonchalant and ever greedy

Over the festering mounds of yesterday’s graves

 

There is a way out and we all know it deep inside

Everything telling of His creation for us

But we bit the apple and said we’d do it our way

 

Paradise lost.

God Protected Me

God protected me
from having kids
God protected me
from getting married
God protected me
from having my
father give me too much
God protected me
by not letting me
me get too remunerative
and exploitative a position
at any age
God protected me
by keeping me poor
God protected me
from having the problem
of too many girlfriends
God protected me
by not allowing me to too
easily succeed with out
much study, practice, luck,
and hard work
God protected me
by not allowing me to
successfully discount my character
and attempt to adopt one
or elements of one, or more,
not my own
God protected me
by not allowing me to
be what I am not
God protected me
by not allowing me to
succeed, in spite of
myself
God protected me
in that no real windfall
ever came my way
God protected me
by allowing me
an alcoholic mother
God protected me
by allowing me to
become crippled
at fifty-two years of age
God protected me
by having a really good-looking,
tall, popular and economically
successful brother
God protected me
by making me short, bald
at a young age, with bad
bones, diabetes, high
blood pressure, high cholesterol,
and sometimes,
less than average sense and sensibility
God protected me
in that I have mostly had steady
“blue collar” “working
class” jobs
God protected me
in that I’ve never really
been able to “talk a woman
into bed”
God protected me
in that I’m mostly meek
and mild and am only
explosive when I feel
I must be
God protected me
in that I’m allergic to heroin
God protected me
in that I most always have
been with the side of the
kindhearted, the outcasts
and the losers
God protected me
in that not many or much
have/has ever really wanted
me, but the law
God protected me
with an extra big dose of
empathy
sympathy
friendliness
honesty
humility
courage
moderate intelligence
sexual drive
drug drive
anxiety
depression
hopelessness
fortitude
perseverance
motivation
knowledge
an okay immune system
an good sensibility
of right and wrong
a more than
average amount
of goodwill
and cheer.
And now, at fifty-four,
I would have it
no other way.

Or has it been Satan that has afflicted me so?

Cry, For The Sake Of All

Time ends
with me,
God begins
and ends,
with me,
eternity
resides
in me.

Happiness
sadness
achievement
and despair
awaken and sleep
with me.

All beyond
below
above
and here
is near
because,
of me.

Now don’t
you think
I might be
a little
more
than a dollar
sign?

A’la Rousseau

Hold it!
Are you saying
an advanced
industrial society
is better than
a hunter-gathering
one?

Or that a metal tool
literate
farming society
is better
than
an illiterate
stone tool one?

That living within
nature is not
as fine or finer
as being separated
and somehow “above”
nature attempting to
control
and master
it?

Then, my friend,
me-thinks you
are sadly mistaken.

Love, Violence, and Joy in Survival

Think about the
fun of being
Native,

immersed in
Nature,

no whiskey
no TV
scant disease
and glorious
beliefs totally
free of the
corruption of
Science,
the cash nexus,
and a profit
motive.

Magical, lusty,
dangerous,
loving,
respectful,
still based on
action and
reaction,
gloriously free
living the
change of
seasons,
death and new life,
and the vagaries
of time
immemorial.

And most important,
being happy.

When a Pregnant Woman Reads the Surgeon General’s Warning

(Previously entitled “Lucky”)
The upside-down brown cylinder sits
amongst the rows of circular white filters.
I slowly slide it beyond the gold foil,
and my fingertips raise the cigarette
to its resting position between my lips.
I flip the lid on my shiny silver Zippo,
and as my calice-laced thumb rubs the wheel,
it sparks the flint that combusts the charred wick.
The flaming orange cherry bursts the tip
in a cancerous cloud of crackling steam,
as inhalation lunges against my lungs.
I round my mouth so swirls of smoke
spiral in disintegrating circles into the sky.
The ash drags along the paper and tobacco,
until I flick it with a snap of my wrist
and watch as dust drifts with the wind.
Once the glow reaches the cotton butt,
I drop it to the cold concrete and snuff it out
with my moccasin, extinguishing the smoldering light,
knowing I will decompose long before the remains.

 

Previously published by “Chantarelle’s Notebook”, “The (Original) Beatnik Cowboy”, “CC&D Magazine” and published by Scars Publications in the chapbook Antimatter. Also, read on YouTube by John Yotko.

Gender Inequality

The uncommon
is common
in America today.

 
Not that there’s anything
wrong with that, Seinfeld
might have said to George

 
had they seen the latest
Glamour Magazine
naming Caitlyn Jenner

 
Woman of the Year.
The public seems to agree.
No placards hit the air.

 
but Caitlyn has to stand
and spray what other
women sit to tinkle.