Fuck This Shit

Everything is just a god damn fuckin' nightmare.
When you're computer illiterate.
I can e-mail, search the web, order stuff
but don't know shit beyond that and
there's no way to find out.  In school,
We had fat crayons in kindergarten,
learned the ancient art of cursive writing,
learned our way about on a typewriter.
Now, I'm limited in what I can do
because I wasn't born with a computer
up my ass.  there are no basic  classes anymore
Local college official says they're not needed.
People that know don't want to help like
it's some sort of burden on them.  On-line
tutorials are crap, they don't make sense.
What I need is supposed to be so laughably simple
Yet I don't know how to do it.  And end up stuck.
And they wonder why people go 'postal'.



Underground

So, I find this poetry site
On-line 'underground',
That's the claim anyway.
By 'underground' I expect
Something hard hitting
And bold, life in the real.
Maybe some play on words,
Colorful vernacular, shocking
From the gut observations.
Hell, the stuff they got
I could read to granny or
At Sunday school.  It's like
What Ms. Prissy would write
For the ladies' garden club,
Everything as dynamic as
A cool summer breeze.
But they're 'underground',
As 'underground' as an old
Squirrel's nuts. 

"Let’s make a deal, night’s falling…"

 
Jesus took the stars
outta my eyes,
‘n’ traded ‘em
for a blood-crusted nail -
impalin’ my mind
on the same crude cross
          road
where Robert Johnson
made his deal
to save his soul –

and,
ever since

the blues been runnin’ thru my veins,
promisin’ true-blue,
blood-red afro-americana
down to the walked-out soles
of my Jesus-born soul –

but,
          truth be told –

there’s a flea market for souls
on the edge of town
where only strangers
drop their dimes:
with wiggles of rhythm
and waggles of rhyme,
their hearts completely out of time –
one hand clapping
in the silence of my mind.

 
maaan,
I gotta get out of here
before the angels hear
my life’s on sale
for under a dime,

damn!

it’s getting close,
close
to closing time…

 
NOTE: They say that R.J. “sold” his soul to the devil; this is an alternate version of his conversion.

The Water In The Well

We say, "The water in the well tastes a little odd."

"No, no," says the farmer.  "That's the natural taste of the spring water
that feeds the well. You just used to city water."

"Still, the water in the well tastes a little odd."

"No, no. That's just the minerals in the spring water. It's good for the
blood, also good for the rheumatiz. Good stuff for whatever ails ya.
Like natural spa water."

"Still, the water in the well tastes a little odd."

No sale. We passed on buying the farm.

That didn't make Farmer Brown very happy. Now he has to climb
down in the well and get the dead rats out himself.

Dying to Win

People rose to sing the 23rd Psalm
welcoming Bevan to eternal life.
Someone, who wasn’t close to him,
remarked ‘one less dickhead in the world.’
His epitaph, which he had instructed
to be read by the graveside, was
simple; ‘You owe me two thousand
bucks loser!’ I tried not to take it
personally. When he wagered he
would be dead before I left Molly
I laughed. It was gloating when I
texted him to say I was leaving the
family home tomorrow and could I stay
with him for a couple of days? Molly
blames the bet for our break up. She’s
in denial – I would have gone, but
perhaps a bit later. This of course is
the point and why Bevan, the cocky bastard
took a shitload of Valium and brandy.
I found him when I shifted in, with a little
note –Did this last night! Molly didn’t
attend the funeral but I haven’t conceded
yet and I won’t - until the coroner
releases the time of death.

Sharps

I never thought I’d become the kind
of guy who asks the bartender
what NA beers he had.
Not that it mattered.
They all taste like watered down light
beer and that tells you all need
to know.
I generally settle on Sharps or soda
water with a splash of cran and lime
wedge which looks like a cocktail but
sure as hell isn’t.
After a couple of those NA bottles, that
almost look like Amstel Light if you squint,
the barkeep knows what you have and
doesn’t have to ask which saves a lot
of potential embarrassment.
You can keep the label turned
in a way no one can read it and socialize
without the fear of recognition.
Drinking that way almost made me
nostalgic for the good old days I could
keep down a fair amount of scotch
and milk. Imagine ordering Johnny Walker
and milk in a night club.
Invariably some smartass bartender
would ask red or black? and just to be
ornery I’d say black because it costs more
and is a bigger sin to mix with anything
much less milk. Believe me you don’t
get any respect ordering the better brand.
But, hey, it was alcohol and you can dream,
right? Then the Doc told me those days
were over as there was too much acid
in the milk and coating the stomach with
anything was out of the question because
there was nothing left to coat.
So, I had a choice, one he made very clear
to me, you could end up dying on some
stinking gin mill bathroom floor puking
blood and alcohol or I could drink NA beer.
So, here I am, drinking Sharps, humiliated,
But alive. For now. Until I can’t take it anymore.

Stumps

All the great lands
Fielding armies

Century after century
Campaigns won and lost....

But in the final end,
Forests of soldiers

Bloody stumps...
Meeting their Maker.

mandated

 
the more i see people on tv

talk about politics i realize

that not only does abortion

have to stay legal, it should

be fucking mandated

 
thin the herd


we're running out of places

to live and personally, i have

no interest in a nice tent by

the river


plenty of vans down there

already


passing needles on the park

benches


recalling the days where a

bearded dude would play

guitar and we'd all sing

jane says while getting

high


and here comes the summer

and all the storms


a bad batch of god knows

whatever


needles dangling from

dead arms


the underbelly of what the

rich never want their precious

ones to ever know it exists


ignorance is what got us in

this fucking mess to begin

with
-------------------------------------------------------------

The Need

The owl seems oddly
out of place hooting
at this time of the day.

The coffee is growing
cold with time, it needs
to be dumped down the

drain, the mug needs to
be refilled, just as the owl
needs to call it a night.

This pen needs to move,
ink flowing, like a blood
letting-

this poem needs to end
and that story needs to
be written, the birds sing

my train of thought is
derailed once again.

 

Cowboy Poet

My friend – who calls himself a poet even though he doesn’t know what’s meant by terms like ‘stanza’, ‘iambic metre’ and ‘narrative poetry’ – said to me:

“Hell, I’m gonna write and submit a poem so damn suitable that The Beatnik Cowboy will simply have no choice but to publish it! It’s gonna be about Kerouac in the role of a gunslinger riding into town in the Old West, looking for a bed for the night and causing trouble at the local saloon – with Burroughs as the sheriff (I mean, who else but Old Bull Lee?) – and Ginsberg as a rent-boy brothel owner – and the likes of Corso, Snyder and Gysin as wranglers… Maybe I could even do a spin-off Spaghetti Western story about The Ferlinghetti Kid. I tell you, it’s a sure-fire way to get published!”

“I’m afraid it’s the exact opposite,” I replied.