Sufferings
of an Idiot
I ran out of smokes two hours ago.
Now I'm pounding down butts
hoping the little bullets of death
will give birth to a writer
like the one that once sat
in my chair.
The only thing I can think to write about,
just got pissed and left.
'You sit in front of a computer too much,'
she said.
'Writing about what a loser you are
and what a loser you still hope to be.'
'I lived in hell for my art,'
I told her.
'Art?' she said.
'You call stories about
drunks,
junkies,
and child molesters,
art?'
'Someone once told me it was.' I replied.
'They lied!'
With that, she took her
hair dryer and brushes,
her sex, her tantrums, her morning smell,
and stormed out.
I miss her already.
Head Banger
One day my brother and I
were playing in the yard
when out of nowhere
he started banging my head
against the wall.
I told my big sister about it
and she said if it happened again,
to pretend it didn't hurt.
The next day my brother and I
were back outside playing.
When we got near the wall
he started going at it
(my head, that is).
I remembered what my sister said,
so I acted like it didn't hurt.
This made my brother crazy,
so he banged harder.
He kept asking me if it hurt.
Finally, I told him it did.
It still does.
One More Cigarette
Got my smokes,
my ultra-vente
Starbucks
chocolate
brownie
frappucino,
got my damn computer
and all that goes with it,
sittin' here fixin' to pound out
a new poem
'bout somethin' new.
Let's see, now.
Can't write about my drinkin'
and druggin',
Bukowski's got that covered.
Can't write about poverty
and powerlessness,
Angelou beat me to it.
Can't write about flowers,
sunny days
rainy nights,
human souls
windows to said souls
eyes as windows to said souls
any sort of souls at all,
children playing
adults fighting,
adults playing
children fighting,
people fucking
people not fucking
people fucking each other up,
love
death
lack of love
lack of death
and
loneliness.
Can't write about none of it.
All the other poets
got there first.
So I'll finish my Starbucks
goobledy-gop drink,
pound another smoke,
stare at the computer screen
like I do every night,
and wait for that elusive poem
to waft through my window,
fly up my ass
come up through my soul
out my fingertips
onto the keyboard
and
into
history.
It'll come, I know it will.
One more cigarette.
Copyright © 2002 Steven Hoadley