he was
drunk
and more
than a little bit crazy
and
made the mistake
of leaving the live video feed
on
his computer open
and when
he was done reading his poems
all that
was left was this sad
drunk
old man
and the sound
of him walking from room to room
trying
to see where
the magic had gone.
i
made
the mistake
of
complimenting him
on
his poetry.
on
the strength
of
one poem,
he wanted me
to introduce him to
my
publisher.
when
i refused,
when i said
i’m sorry, but
i just don’t do that,
he went crazy on me.
instantly,
i
went from
hit
to shit.
more
than anything
he so desperately
wanted
his fifteen minutes
of
fame.
well...
here you go, buddy...
here
you go.
puke-green
was
his favorite color.
it
was also
his favorite word
(or,
words, if
you wanted to
get technical about it).
anyway,
it was kinda sorta fitting
that he had already turned his
favorite color that Sunday morning
when
they found him
face down under the Penn Street Bridge.
Tony The Lip
was
older than he looked,
was
impressed
by the smell of his own farts,
lied
about everything,
never
held a job for long,
ate
everything,
drank
anything,
and
changed his shorts
no
more
than once a week.
Tony had
3 bad marriages,
4 shack-ups,
and
that one month he
never cared to talk about.
i
always
liked Tony.
you lay in bed and
there’s a train whistle somewhere
off in the distance and
it takes you back
to a place and
a time you
don’t
even care to remember
where it was or
when.
back to a place with dirty sheets
and dust in the corners and
under the bed and you
start thinking about
why and who and
where and
how
and you know it doesn’t really matter
because there will always be trains
and beds and sheets and the sun
coming up as you wait
for another day
that’ll bring you that much closer to
whatever it is that’s out there,
waiting to
finally
do you
in.
in dog obedience class…
for once,
my little Abby
did everything right.
for
once,
she didn’t
bite, jump or pull.
this time
she paid attention
and sat
and stayed
and came
and listened…
just like all the other dogs.
i can’t tell you how much
i hated
that.
he was
drawn
to this bit
of graffiti he saw
written in white paint
on the side of a building.
it was
in an alley,
and it read:
“fuck the world –
and fuck you if you don’t love it.”
later that week,
looking to get the words just right,
he
went back,
and
when he
got there, it was gone –
not
just the words
and
the wall,
but
the whole
damn building.
torn down.
gone.
and, fuck you if you don’t love that.
These poems can be found in John Yamrus’ recent collection: SELECTED POEMS, THE DIRECTOR’S CUT (Concrete Mist Press, 2022), available for purchase here.
In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 35 books (29 volumes of poetry, 2 novels, 3 volumes of non-fiction and a children’s book). He has also had nearly 3,000 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world. A book of his SELECTED POEMS was just released in Albania, translated into that language by Fadil Bajraj, who is best known for his translations of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Pound and others.
A number of Yamrus’s books and poems are taught in college and university courses. His most recent book is SELECTED POEMS: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT (Concrete Mist Press, 542pp).
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