The Worst Poem I Have Ever Wrote
I’d like to know this creature
He’s a funny sort of deal
Like
He wears his clothes inside out
But freaks when people turn him on
And
He lets the water see him naked
But not those of his kind
He likes to kill
He likes to fuck
But when it comes to making love
He’s as sour
As a duck
….
The Greats
It seems that
In the past
To be the greatest living writer
Meant you were one of
“The Greats”
But in this age,
Where the real poets
Playwrights
And prose-men
Have been sucked from the landscape
Like old dust,
Being the greatest living writer
Means nothing more
Than outdoing the schmuck
Who pens the instructions
On airplane
Vomit
Bags
….
Baba Broomstick
I sat with my sister on a big couch
In her big new house,
We sipped green tea from big mugs
While a big screen TV flickered in front of us,
My sister flipped the channels with a tiny remote
“Which show do ya’ wanna watch?” she asked
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something about travel.”
She put on a program about an idiot
Who farts around in other countries,
In this particular episode
He was in India during Kumbha Mela –
The largest gathering of people in the world,
He walked around the filthy streets of Allahabad
Gawking at the meditating Babas,
There were many and they were strange and wild
With powdered bodies and dreadlocks and eyes like onyx stones,
The most interesting of the bunch was a skinny one
With a broomstick in his hand,
He stood bare naked
And his penis hung from his crotch
Like a baby elephant’s trunk,
“What’s your deal?” the host asked him
Without answering
The Baba flipped his broomstick over
And put it to his crotch,
He grabbed his giant penis
And wrapped it around and around
Till it was good and tight,
When he finished
He smiled and released his hands,
The broomstick hung there horizontally,
“Sweet Jesus,” the host said,
The Baba blinked twice and continued,
With his cock still tied
He kipped his legs over the broomstick,
Bent his knees
And went bouncing up and down
Like a basketball,
On sight of this
I threw my head back and roared with laughter
My sister just sat there, puzzled
“What kind of message do you think he’s sending?” she asked
“HAHAHAHA … PROLLY THAT LIFE ALL ADDS UP TO WHAT HE’S DOIN’ NOW!!!”
….
The Alchemist
We sat in the bar
And drank craft beers
And my old buddy Roy
Asked who I was reading,
I dropped a few names
Céline,
Plath,
Bukowski,
Roy sipped his beer
And leaned in,
“Have you read Coelho?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ, not this again.”
“Haha, OK he’s not for everyone. But there’s one book of his you have to read.”
“Lemme guess, ‘The Alchemist’?”
“Yeah! Hans, it’s an excellent book. And true too. I mean, if you follow your dreams, the universe
really does conspire to help you.”
“I’ve had the opposite experience.”
“How do mean?”
“Well … every time I sit down to write, a dog barks or a car beeps or a shithead snores, so I stuff wads of toilet paper in my ears, but before I know it a jackhammer goes off in the next building or a smoke alarm blares overhead, and I’m forced to deal with that bullshit instead of my writing. Then there’s the rent to be paid and the teaching to do, and my students and colleagues and bosses are always trying to rip my time apart like a hundred hands on a bank note, and just to deal with all this I have to blaze trees and pound booze, and this puts me in a spot ‘cuz it burns half my money and gets me into close contact with shitty women who wanna burn the other half, so now I’m outta cash, outta time, outta patience, and the only thing keeping me from swallowing strychnine is the thought of my mother weeping at my funeral, so I keep pushing, and keep working, and keep trying, but my teaching never goes anywhere and my poems, short stories and articles, all come crawling back to me like wounded crickets, and I can’t help but think this whole fucking planet is one big gun barrel pointed straight at my retina!”
Roy thinned his lips
And grinned
“But you write about all that stuff,” he said.
“True …” I replied.
… But Coelho still blows.”
….
Nimrods and Garbage
There’s nothing worse
Than forcing your way
Through a crowded rest stop
Only to find the Men’s Room
Loaded with grizzly characters
Who have taken up all the stalls
And left none for you
THEN!
When you finally get in one,
To find that some asshole
Has pissed his way around the toilet bowl
And another before him
Has left a turd floating on the water
Like a dead frog
THEN!
When you finally get into another stall –
One that’s somewhat clean,
To slip your skivvies down,
Crap massively
And go to wipe
With toilet paper that’s so flimsy
Your fingers literally punch through it
And dig right into
Your shitty asshole,
FUCK!!!
This world is filled with such
Nimrods and garbage
That even the simple pleasure
Of taking a dump
Is ruined by it all
....
Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the
character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the
purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in
your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.
