Daily Archives: July 8, 2007

Two-Fisted Hating on Poetry

1.
Death’s poor cousin Poetry
comes begging.
“Loan me a line.”

Death says,
“I can’t believe we’re
even related, you shameless
bastard — all the material
available to you if you’ll just work for it
and you gotta pull this.”

Poetry
responds, “It’s not like you can’t
spare it…endless last words
in your ears all the time and
you can’t toss me a bone?”

2,
Moonrise-faced gray cat
in a dark window across the street:
instant poem.

No need now
to meet the neighbor
or get to know the cat at all.

Instead, cut up the moment, butcher
your life for the meat of it, break it down
to parcel and parse, wipe the blood off your hands
onto your lips when you’re done. Such perfect things
come from your perfect lips. Anyone hearing you speak
would think
the cat was real.


Truth I won’t admit

ocvictor has a regular column at Gotpoetry.com that keeps me thinking every time I read and re-read the work.

This caught me today:

… It didn’t much matter to me what happened to my poems. Light them on fire, for all I cared. Sell a few chapbooks to make some spending cash and supplement the retail book-sales job, get the ego boost from the crowd, flirt with girls and take a perverse sort of satisfaction from being outside the poetry establishment. Who cared if I wasn’t getting published in any of the big journals or didn’t have an MFA? I was rock ‘n’ roll, man. I was the fringe of the fringe. It was fun for a while.

I was also lying to myself. Little bit, anyway. Because underneath the bravado, I find I cared very dearly that someone was listening, that someone was reading. Underneath it all, I had some dim, subconscious impulse telling me that the only way these poems mattered is if they reach someone else’s ear.

Good reading. Good point. Crisis inducing for me, as always…

When I was young, I figured I was, if not immortal, then at least consequential; that I would be missed if I was gone. As I’ve aged, I’ve come to believe that isn’t true. I’ll be personally missed for a while, and then I’ll fade as the lives I’ve touched move on and find new things and people to move them.

But a poem may last. I keep hoping for something, anything I’ve written to be among the poems that last. I’m less sure than ever, but I can’t help but try for that.

I want to be remembered, if not known now; I’ve almost given up on that. But if I am remembered, let what lasts be something that transcends me and my name and my miserable life. I’ve stopped caring about Tony Brown; all that seems worth saving from this life is the work Tony Brown did. Even if I end up as “Anonymous” somewhere, in some table of poems, that will be enough.

Read more of Victor’s work here:


How to Succeed as a Failing Writer!

It’s better than success!


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Classic Rock

1.
Outside the tavern
a brokedown cowboy’s giving
bad life lessons
to a high school couple
sitting on the step
after finishing their restaurant shift.

His friend’s drunker than he is
and he calls Cowboy a “whiny bitch.”

He tells the kids, “Don’t listen to him.
He’s wearing a Yankees shirt
which means two things:

one, he’s retahded,
two, he’s a common slut,
three, he’s a weasel — know why
he’s a weasel? Because

he can suck the ass out of a chicken
and keep running.”

Then they go back inside
where the band’s playing
“Strange Brew.” The kids
get up laughing
and walk away hand in hand,
two hoodies heading for their car.

2.
Cowboy
does the airplane slide across the floor,
ends up standing next to a woman
in a slick gray dress who turns her back on him
to face the band, swaying to Janis Joplin.

Cowboy
throws his hands up and goes over to a pole
where he stands with
his head down as if he’d become
one of those silhouettes they use to sell
cigarettes to wannabes.

3.
Turn the radio on
in any city you can name
and it’ll pour out over you
like a big Western storm: Beatles,
Stones, Zep and the Eagles.

That humid sound,
flash flood that it was back then,
carved a channel that led
to tonight, soaking everything
in a bath that still feels
both familiar and fresh.

The whole of your life
may be circling the drain
but one twist of the dial
and you’ll find that water
has bubbled up again,
and what else is there to do
except dive in?

4.
Cowboy’s buddy
is face down on his table
when Cowboy comes alive
as the bass bubbles up
into “Brown Eyed Girl”
and he’s on again,
this time not caring about who’s
on the floor as he floats
out there alone, thrilled
that no one’s noticed his T-shirt
for an hour or so, and no one
thinks he’s anything except
a guy like them,
lost in a song
everyone’s been lost in
at least once in their lives.