“What’s the Guy Gonna Write About?”

I was feeling blue, which, when you’re a gingery red,
feels more like a harsh purple I hear.
And it was all due I believe in my fear that

the bottle had magic I need and will now
sound like a weaker (morally tender already) writer of me.
I did what I always do (since last week)

and put on the Bukowski recording where
he says something like
“they’re always asking, you know
what will he write about now without
the jobs and without the desperation
and he was so smug and said even if I end
up in a mansion with all the trimmings

I better still be able to write.”

Last week I saw one of the saddest old men
at a food court in a mall, he had a dirty, blue
Red Sox hat laid before him as me and a friend
sat at our relatively youthful table next to him.

The other pathetic people at the food court at least had
a group to hide in, to guffaw and gum their cheap dentures.
All I got from him was his loneliness, vacuous and stolid.

It was like the whirlpool of poetry that most
just watch while idiots like me prostrate ourselves
in all manner of walked wild, all for laughs and kicks.

And here was this fucker who Just About
smudged me with tears, sitting alone.

(Not even a pad to scribble Secret,
half crazy notes and malformed nudes
of the food court wenches in

How inappropriate that would have been,
If I had…

Can you imagine if I did that?

And with that thought I was saved.
It takes me away from the muzak-neon Epoch.
(which in recall has Carmina Burana as soundtrack).

My friend, a fellow writer,
and I have a dark tradition.
We preface a rant with
“Can you imagine if I Just…”
And just let a rant off, minus

Morality,
Ethics or
Class or
Sensibility.

I would like to think this has some deep
rooted, sociological function.

“Ah yes, the Can You Imagine – it often
centers around a social hazing- a negotiating
if you will, of the social contract/narrative level
of acceptability and Norm displacement is utilized
to come of age in the driest of social morays”

Some bullshit like that.

Really though, it was born of our
constant employment of it
prior to a detailed description of some depraved,
indifferent act.

“Can You Imagine if I just went
Fucking berserk right now in this line up
And started belting out Queen loud as fuck
while some half nun/stripper unveils a Gatling?”

Shit like that will always keep me going.
Even if it’s running form an angry PC crazed mob.
Anything’s better than that food court.

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2 comments

  1. I really enjoy your poetry. I imagine if the beats generation mind-frame and the Clockwork orange had a literary baby, it’s demented cries might sound somewhat like your poetry. It’s a strange compliment, but I assure it is a compliment nonetheless! 😉

    1. I assure YOU that no assurances are required! Huge Beatnik and Burgess fan!

      Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to comment so dearly!

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