A Poem For Disappointed Cynics

The Book In Denny's

When you write fast, you write good

Or else abysmally bad.

In your heart is the only should,

Not down from your mother and dad.

The field where I labored was barren,

Tilled in the depth of my skull.

The book arrived yesterday, only

Nothing provocative. Dull.

This morning I woke up in Denny's

And looked at some pages again.

As good as I wrote in my childhood,

A mad poetaster of 10.

I keep thinking back to my childhood

As though in my life all the truth

I'd ever encounter occurred

Back 60 years in my youth.

The people are noisy in Denny's.

Saturday morning in bars.

No one is thinking of Jesus,

Wars or their vanishing stars.

 

The Ones

People have their reasons.

They add to your disgrace

Acute humiliation

And slap you in the face.

Then they wander off

As though you are not there

To therapy or churches,

Arrogance and care.

 

Charlie's Father

When I see me trying to write poems,

I think of Charlie's father – what an ass! -

Who told the world he had tuberculosis

And therefore lived alone. Who sold his son

A worthless piece of junk, and didn't give him

Any kind of car. Who let his wife

Do all the work (again tuberculosis)

While in his little study he wrote poems,

With vain attention to alliteration.

A withered little stick, he yelled at me

That I was psychopathological -

If that has any meaning – well, it means

No one ever contradicted him.

But I did. When I was young and heedless.

Today I wouldn't contradict a cat.

Plus I found him very easy prey.

He was old, and like a throttled rooster

Could only sit and strangle on his rage.

 

Friendship

What did Mary Kelly do to help me

Or even try? She thought I was a joke

And told me so. She read a poem I'd written

And oddly said that it was inoffensive.

She should read some now. I'm overcoming

Mary Kelly, Jacqui Schiff, the past.

A new day dawns. I'm standing by the sea.

Tina threw a body slam at me.

For years I've known her. Yesterday she said

We're friends. Now I can't even talk to her.

I'm afraid of friendship. Frequently

He says we're friends. I'm less afraid of him.

It's crazy. Why am I afraid of friends?
Disinterred, I dig away the shit

And stand up in my grave. Unless I'm dying.

 

The Art Of People

The art of people. And you knew it well,

As you knew everything. Come teach me, John.

Rise up from your grave and tell me all.

When I left you thought I owed you something.

For the criticisms and contempt.

Like I owe my parents and the shrinks

They sent me to to get me over them!

I'd been loved before. And most of them

Found me adequate the way I was!

I suppose you're basking now in heaven.

Your gods prefer a person in the know.

 

A Poem For Disappointed Cynics

It's hell to be a cynic

Who discovers he was right.

Therapists are quacks.

Cops are looking for a fight.

A man was selling cigarettes.

Policemen took him down,

Broke his neck and killed him.

It's the only game in town.

The only decent person

In the USA is black.

He barely got elected.

We may never get him back.

The Pope is an exception

To the popes that went before.

He's a decent human being.

His religion is a bore.

Carter's still alive.

So far the cynics lose the bet.

And Francis and Obama aren't

Assassinated yet.

 

Written In Peace

All I want to do is pace the floor

And be lonely – that is what I'm for -

Writing verse describing what I feel

In phases artificial, rather real

While listening to music in the gloom

Of the shadows of my empty room.

Am I happy? Yes, I think I am.

I am no one. I don't give a damn.

I never cussed in verse when I was young.

I was proper. Now my song is sung.

When I'm happy, I forget (eschew?)
All the pain my feelings ever knew

If any. Somehow I can rise above

Scuttled ships and unrequited love.

In Defense Of Opera

Imagine sitting 27 hours

Through the first act of Der Meistersinger.

Then you'll have a glimpse of what I feel

Listening to what you think is music.

 

Tears

Unless you like to cry, why cry for love?

It won't bring your truant lover back,

Unless your tears are earnest and you cry

While he's looking. Then he might be touched

To see himself so loved by you, relent,

And you will survive to be a hundred

Together. Or he might feel suffocated,

Trapped and wish you dead.

But to lie there crying in the dark

With perhaps some mellow music playing

Is just an exercise. Like in the movies.

If more people wept than bought a gun

The world would be a safer place to love.