I don't sell cars. If I did I'd never eat. I don't really sell poetry, either. Never have. I do publish poetry, however, which presents a small dilemma, namely what to do with boxes of books once they arrive from the printer. I give a few away to my friends, family, and fellow artists. I went so far recently as to get a few copies of each of my books out and put them on a bookshelf. It's nice to see a row of books you've written all lined up like that. I recommend it to all writers. Sometimes I pick up my four books like they are cards and pretend i have four of a kind and I just won some substantial pot in a poker game. That also makes me happy. But mostly they just sit in boxes. For me, after I have written , designed, edited, and sent the book to the printer my role in the process has concluded. I just don't have the taste for selling anything, and I don't covet the bank account of anyone who declares themselves a poetry salesman. But cyber space being infinite, and my closet being overflowing, I'd be remiss if i didn't ask at least one time if anyone out there would be interested in buying one of these damn books of poetry I've been writing for almost twenty-five years now.
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$10.00
Bus Station
Please don’t steal my bag.
Please don’t steal my blue bag
With all my poems in it.
Please don’t try to to steal my
Blue bag with all my poems
In it and a bag of pepitas
And the number for my caseworker
Then feign confusion when caught
Because you, too, have a blue bag
That says Downtown Mental Health Center.
Please don’t try to lift my blue
Bag with all my mom’s cancer poems
And the name of my caseworker in it etc...
It’s far too heavy.
The Millenium Falcon
Poetry is the land cruiser
When you wanted
The Millenium Falcon
The A/V girl
When you wanted
The cheerleader
Poetry is a broom closet
At the Ritz
A Swiss Army Knife
In a nuclear showdown
Being given Tinker Toys
And asked to build Paris
Poetry is half
A loaf of moldy
Bread and enough
Peanut butter to
Last the night
Which is to say
It is everything.
Dumbing It Down
I dumbed it down.
I fed it McNuggets
And put it to sleep
With pop tunes.
I made it join
The Republican party.
I drugged it with
Cable television,
I bribed it with
Guilt-free sex
And threatened it
With religion.
I spent a lifetime
Beating it
Into submission and
The ungrateful bastard
Still writes this poem.
Pinata
You were our first lesson
In rage and greed,
Possibly love.
Our smiling guardian
Put the stick
In our small hands,
Blindfolded us,
And whispered
Unspeakable treasures
Awaited us when we
Destroyed you.
Spun around and
Drunken with images
Of unimaginable trinkets
We became whirling dervishes
Of lust and anger,
Whacking and thumping away
At your broken smile
Way past nap time,
Until frustrated with
Our lack of killer instinct,
Our teacher sawed you
In half, spilling
Far less enticing bounty
Than we had dreamed of.
Some rushed forward and
Grabbed and devoured,
Others stood back and
Cried over the carnage.
Either way we all learned
Who we would become that day.
The Streak
The announcer fawns
Over the Iron Man:
“Number 63 has played
In 120 straight
Football games,
An amazing feat
Of endurance.”
I do the math:
Sixteen Sundays a year,
Three hours a pop
For nearly eight years,
360 total hours,
Or maybe five or six
Weeks of my granddaddy’s
Life in the field and
The mill afterhours,
Covering the rent
2,750 straight months,
Playing hurt through three
Heart attacks, seven children
And five disbanded
Pro football leagues.
Now let’s talk about
About a fucking streak.
Linch Mob
Just once I want
To saddle up and
Ride out with
The mob,
My blank face
Hidden behind a
Red kerchief,
Spitting my hate
Through broken teeth
I want to fire
My six shooter guilt free
Into crowds of women
And children.
Just be there in
My overalls with the
Other villagers
I want to hold
My torch to the
Monster’s face
And ask him
If he really thought
He’d get away with it.
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