Lifestyles of Poet’s and the Poor
I’ve always wanted to be something grand
is this is a sham of a shy man?
To repent from honesty, meekness, availability
To repent from being that principled church-going man women like the idea of after sad years of busted dreams, but never run to first base with let alone homerun.
To pervert goodness into depravity; and taste that savory sin on the other side of The wall.
To live like the poets Dylan Thomas, Charles Bukowski, and Harvey Goldner out of dilapidated rooms, with luxurious brick wall views, above skid row bars; strung out on pills or crack or heroin or crank or getting fat and sloppy with the booze; pimping your days out at the track and slumming with a different hollow eyed hooker each night.
Not sleeping, but phasing out into the squalors of addiction and into that horror of living a money malnourished diet.
Learning first hand that the devil is real and that this prince of allure is holding your hand and you’re singing Kum Bi Your Screwed skipping down that brimstoned path to hell.
Waking each morning to people screaming about being broke or working crappy ass jobs or of a partners stupidity, or the retchy splatty sounds of neighbors infected with the Oly Flu or the din of bums brawling outside your front door.
Waking with a pounding headache chasing painkillers with sour Malt Liquor grimacing after each gulp.
Waking to slap paper into my grandfather’s typewriter, displacing the pulsating pressure clamping into my temples with the taps of those little hammers beating their music into the fibers of the page.
Waking to write another story or article or poem that will never sell on:
Woe is me
This is my life
I am living
It sucks
Let me ram this poem cockwise into you
So that you may see how crappy it is
After I pull it, bloodied, out of your dry stinking rectum
I got the betting on the ponies at the track and boarding house with the brick wall view part right, but not the hardcore addict or the sleeping with the whores.
But I can see the logic of paying for sex.
It’s like basic retail theory: buy low sell high.
Get the maximum value for the least amount of work.
Purchase a physical want without the high cost of somebody screaming at you all the time for being a dumb male or an absent insensitive prick or for saying un-PC things or for not making enough money or for dribbling piss on the seat or for forgetting to put it down altogether or for squeezing the toothpaste tube from the wrong direction or for not being willing or simply not being able to coherently frame up feelings into a interrelated synergy within a reasonable length of time; and this is what Kay and all the others dung me on throughout the years; they’d ask me how I felt and I got back to them weeks later; they weren’t pleased; they never are.
I’m surprised that most men don’t go this route and skip the whole touchy-feely-talky thing altogether.
No, My Dreams In This Life Are About The Bottom Where The Real People Of This World Live.
----12/12/2009
Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.
