We're Listing

It's that time of year again: fall is falling, winter is wintering, a new year is yearing... Time to pause and reflect. So I'll do that right now...

There! I've paused and reflected. OK, what have we just learned? Nothing. No: we have actually learned that nothing can be learned from just pausing and reflecting.

This brings me to the subject of List Poems. List Poems are poems that are as easy as pausing and reflecting, provided you take the trouble to learn how to write them. We are about to take that trouble.

To write a List Poem you first need a List. Popular Lists to Use, Include: or Opus 99, Bastards to Line Up Against the Wall, Etc., & creatures that God should have recalled, cigarette brands, foreign lands, electronic devices, foods healthier than white rices, New Age jargon, dime-store bargains, people you've seen in People Magazine, skin diseases, genital diseases, gastro-intestinal diseases, cheeses, animals at the zoo, things on your list of things "to do", things you beat, cuts of meat, things that piss you off, guys with names like Nabakov, fictional places, imaginary races, Biblical names and phrases, musicals, novels, and playses, Papal Encyclicals, Democrats, rock stars, Republicans, words that rhyme with "rats", old shows on TV, Friends of Noam Chomsky, discredited ideologies, famous writers and/or their tomes, popular lists used to write pomes, and various kinds of pomes you can do, to name but a few.

To illustrate I will use my Christmas Wish List. This is a good choice because my actual Christmas list has only two entries, namely a place to live, and hot sex. Thus we are naturally led to the next step in writing a List Poem, which is stuffing it. We must pad the List with extra items which may or may not belong (but nobody really cares!) Ask yourself: "do I want this thing to rhyme? alliterate? scan? or do I want it to make sense?" If you have answered as I would you are ready to pad your creation. The trick is to make stuff up.

Finally rearrange the List so that it sounds better.

Now let's see where these steps can lead us.

My Christmas Wish List

Dear Santa - it would surely be more than enough

if you'd only bring me just some of this stuff:

A hygiene center on every block.

A real pillow, please, instead of a rock.

More Sidrans & Seligs to write poems about,

World Peace, an adequate cure for the gout.

More government cheese, less government slease,

less rain, less un-asked-for "feeling of pain".

A mayor who listens to my friends and me

& not just to people who wave mon-ey.

A bed and a roof above my head

(and a source of bread, I shouldn't dread).

A years supply of tolerable beer,

hot sex with someone I like to be near.

For at least one month not to hear anyone say

that the homeless should all just go away.

And while I'm at it Santa, for just one day,

having to hear "Jesus was homeless, too"

is another thing without which I could do

thank you.

Beer, Not Guns

At the recent Urban Rest Stop Panel Discussion, it was asked, "How may we bring the homeless ... spiritually into the general community?" Being homeless myself this is a little out of my jurisdiction. But if you ask "How may we bring the NON-homeless spiritually into the general human community (including the homeless community) ?" I would have an answer. I could call upon all the homeless to take part in the `ADOPT A NIMBY!' program.

The idea of `ADOPT A NIMBY!' is simple but effective. As wayward NIMBYs are identified each becomes eligible for `adoption' by a volunteer homeless sponsor. The sponsor only commits to writing `their' NIMBY at least once a month. Personal visits are encouraged but not required; we at `ADOPT A NIMBY!' understand that not every homeless sponsor can comfortably meet with NIMBYs. But it has been shown that as little as one letter a month from a homeless person enables most NIMBYs to identify spiritually with the homeless, and thus rejoin the human race as a whole.

Due to high demand, certain eligible NIMBYs on our list can not be exclusively adopted. For example, everyone wants a piece of Norm Rice these days.

Speaking of NIMBYism:

Mark Sidran, Seattle's City Attorney of No-Sitting Ordinance notoriety, reportedly now wants 40-ouncers of beer banned from the shelves of some city stores. One morning, as I drank my 1st coffee of the day at the Counter Culture Cafe in Belltown, they were playing a Johnny Cash CD. This is the result:

So You'll Ban My 40-Ouncers, Mark?

(Look for it on Johnny Cash's next album!)

NOTE: I do not personally drink 40-ouncers in public nor do I endorse such
behavior. Like most people I drink 40-ouncers indoors.

So you'll ban my 40-ouncers, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Then you oughta get this into your head -

I know what I'll be doin' instead:

I'll just get me two 22's Mark

and I'll name them each after you.

I'll just buy me two 22's

that's what I'll do.

Before I go on, let me clarify, that that's BEER not GUNS - I don't want to be your next Jason Sprinkle, thank you.

So then you'd ban my 22's, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Well there's something you need to hear, Mark -

I'm not as helpless as I appear

I'll just get me a 6-pack of beer, Mark

that's 6 twelves for 72.

I'll just buy me a 6-pack of beer

that's what I'll do.

So you'd ban my 6-packs of beer, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Well there's something you need to get straight

- and next election'll be too late -

When the homeowners can't buy beer, Mark

they're gonna blame it all on you.

And they'll cheer as they vote you out

that's what they'll do.

Bronze This!

Speaking of people bribing Real Change vendors to vote for Bob Dole -- did any of you out there know that I am a vendor? That's right! I don't just write this junk I PUSH IT ON THE STREETS! And, although my legal residence is an alley, I AM A REGISTERED VOTER!*

So make your bids today! Send cash, check or money order and a note telling me who to vote for, Bill Bob or whoever, to (c) Dr. Wes c/o this rag. The largest bid wins a beautiful framed certificate promising my vote to your candidate. All losing bids accompanied by SASE will be returned, and those not will be kept! I promise!

The Following Is An

Unpaid Poetic Advertisement

We're open daily from nine to six

For accepting all your electoral picks!

No candidate will be considered absurd -

We'll write him/her in! We give you our word!

Hurry! Don't delay! Send your checks in today!

Buy our vote NOW! It's the American Way!

(* I've been asked to explain how this can be. OK, the trick is to tell the truth. "Gasp, no!" Yes! E.g., when registering, if you live in a doorway tell the County which doorway. Then give them your mailing address.)

Recently the StreetLife Gallery was invited to set up a show at the park by the Darth Vader Building at 4th and Lenora. We got permission from the landlord, Martin Selig himself, famous big-time Seattle Developer. Ironically, many of the participating poor and homeless artists had been ejected from the same park in the past, and probably will be so in the future. This, and the knowledge that people who don't look poor are not generally run out of the park, and the consequently doubly offensive statues of poor people sitting on the park's benches, inspired a poem.

The Park by the Darth Vader Building at

4th & Lenora, or Opus 31 1/2, I Hate the Park by the Darth Vader Building, or

Opus 32 1/2, The Printable Version

Pretty park by a shiny glass building!

I WILL stay and eat my fries, why not?

The flies stay, THEY got no pass;

I set my ass down by the bronze bag lady.

Made artistically she tells the likes of me

"Feel free to stay, I'm welcome, you must be, too".

So I DO stay to eat my fries, why NOT?

Then the Man comes to say "This park's not yours,

You THINK you can sit ANYwhere outdoors?

You don't WORK here I don't know your FACE,

I'll tell the COPS to kick you OUTta this place".

Pretty park by a shiny glass building -

Pretty people with pretty power wanting -

To eat pretty lunches for a pretty hour -

OH YES -

I WILL stay and eat my fries - and THAT'S WHY.

Martin Selig's bronze poor people tell me Selig really loves the poor - speechless and immobile.

Chicago

Speaking of Hygiene Center slogans - this gem turned up at the first North American Street Newspaper Conference held in Chicago last month, attributed to activists in Atlanta. It was too precious to pass up:

Pee for free with dignity -

like Jesus did in Galilee!

Yours truly, even though still homeless, attended the conference as a guest of the Real Change and it's director, Timothy "Big Spender" Harris.

The conference was replete with Poetic Moments. Here's another, which shows that I was not the only one struck by the irony of our presence there.

This is a very close rendition of an actual conversation in a Chicago cab. Tim, myself and two other conference participants were present. Our Polish immigrant driver spoke first:

"So, what, you are with big homeless paper meeting?"

All: Yes, we are.

"But you have places to stay, you are going eating?"

Absolutely.

"You are not from here, you come from all around?"

The U.S. and Canada.

"What do you do? You take train? You take Greyhound?"

We came by plane.

"I am KNOWING IT! I am STUPID! I am IDIOT!"

"They all say go America, work hard, you will be making it!"

"I come America, I get taxi, I drive TWELVE HOURS a day"

"NO MONEY! I get off work I want taxi - I can't pay!"

"You - YOU - HOMELESS in AMERICA, you take plane, taxi, stay

hotel!"

"NOW I SEE! I SHOULD HAVE BEEN HOMELESS - I call back to Poland,

that's what I tell!"

Tim: Yes, homelessness been very, VERY good to me...

"But - HOW YOU PAY? YOU HAVE GRANTS? YOU GET WELFARE?"

Me: Well, we're paying YOU today with Food Stamps.

"Yes, YES, OF COURSE! Don't fear, it's OK, I tell no one

anywhere!"

PS: No need to report us - actually, Tim paid cash (and a tip for the entertainment).

Unfinished business regarding July's "Homeless Gourmet" article:

After talking to Mel Jackson, director of the Millionair Club, I now know that napkins are usually provided at meals. They just ran out the day I was there. Clearly, more donations from the public would prevent such shortfalls. Let's get on it, people!

Meanwhile, Anitra, fellow editor, who lets me sleep on her kitchen floor, wants her one dumpster rating retracted. Since the cornflakes,she has served omelettes, avocados with cottage cheese, and salmon ravioli, among other delights. Her food is REALLY QUITE GOOD and actually rates zero dumpsters.

That's ANITRA, who lets me sleep on her kitchen floor. I am not being extorted in any way.

Homeless, Again

Hallelujah! I'm a Bum!

It's official. As reported last month I am a lazy jobless penniless homeless bum, again. Send your donations c/o this rag - send mountains of money - and I will promise to spend it only on beer and cigarettes, while I sponge off the system and camp out nightly, 'cause that's the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

I have already received many sympathetic responses from well-wishers. For example Doug Hogsstutter, of Rat's Tail, WA, who writes:

"Dear Lazy SOB

I used to enjoy the high intellectual caliber of your monthly contribution to the Real Change, but since you were laid off last fall you do nothing but moan and whine. What you really need is a good swift kick to the stratosphere. But instead here's a poem that might `lift your spirits' -

Your intellectuality

Is disappearing constantly

Each day and night

Each word you write

And you already probably

couldn't end this poem for me."

You sure got that right, Doug - but thanks for that inspirational call to excellence. You have obviously been following my progress religiously!

Speaking of excellence, it's about time that I used this space to pay my respects to one of the great poets who inspired and influenced me during the malleable years of my youth. I am referring of course to Percival Dovetonsils, but as I don't have a poem to suitably honor Percy this month someone else will have to do. So let's see, who should it be? I want to be intellectual but I don't want to have to think too much - how about Dylan Thomas?

One flask of Scotch and a half hour alone later,

Camping Out on Fern Hill

An Homage to Dylan Thomas

Now as I am old and stiff upon the clover field

About the lilting dumpsite and happy as the grass is red

The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Also digs a root into my spine

And am I dumb to tell the dingle starry

And am I dumb to tell the synagogue of the ear of corn

When only the moon rages and the citizens lie abed

And have TVs at elbow and feet?

Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head,

And pretend a rock is a pillow?

Casual Sextrains

My First Sextrain

© Dr. Wes Browning

Must your legs be always in the way?

We only have the room for an hour!

Can't you do your reading another time?

What? Now you have to take a shower?

Well, while you do, I'll sit in grime

And write six more scenes of my play.

That was a little experiment of mine. Let's get scientific and experiment together!

Given a list of random words your brain will try to combine them into one idea. For instance, presented with the words onions, tobacco, umbrellas, five, and neon, my brain pictures five Englishmen with bad breath entering a Broadway theater. The cognitive psychologists have proved that this sort of thing happens all the time to college students of all ages who need the money badly enough to answer silly questions for hours. But they're certain it works for everyone else too, because they are psychologists, and that's how psychologists think. This is also a fact from cognitive psychology!

We can exploit this phenomenon to write poems without concentrating! We'll pick words at random from a dictionary, let them operate on our brains as above, and then use one word per line to describe our image poetically. Since I am into sextrains this month I'll pick 6 words for this illustration:

Poem Based on Random Words:

Letter, scratch, deluded, brain, rabbit, spin

or Opus 21, "Where's the Rabbit?"

Got your LETTER in the mail,

I'm reading it now as I SCRATCH.

DELUDED as always, beyond the pale -

Amazing, what your BRAIN can hatch.

You just STEW and seethe and steam and spit -

Here's my suggestion: "SPIN on it!"

It's just as easy as it looks! Here's another one at no additional cost to

you, the reader!:

Poem Based on Random Words:

Job, rent, food, bed, street, reeks

or Opus 22, My 3rd Sextrain

This sextrain is about a JOB not had;

With RENT to be paid - that's really bad:

It's not that it's hard to find any FOOD -

It's not that I'm going to miss my BED -

But the STREET always puts me in a foul mood,

It &#!$-ing REEKS, as I've always said.

Special thanks are due this month to fellow editor and community leader Anitra "alf" Freeman for reminding me of the usefulness of diffusion.

A Muse-ment

Last February I admitted to having an imaginary good friend Cindy, my Muse. Questions have been raised since then, such as "What? An IMAGINARY friend?" Well, why not? After all I am imaginary myself. And (think about it!) you should be, too. Mostly, though, people complain "Why does Cindy sound like such an airhead?" To this I answer "Hey - that's my Muse you're bad-mouthing!" and "If I had called her/him James would you have interpreted her/his directness as cranial ventilation? I think not!"

But I don't have to defend Cindy or any other imaginary person. I can let her do it. Here are 3 portraits of 3 other imaginary women (all homeless) by Cindy, so you may get to know her better:

"Marjorie"

From that dark moment

A floodlight upon

A dead branch in snow

Reveals a Person

Inside and outside

Forever caring...

Shining on the lost.

For one dark moment

She feels forgotten.

Then the light expands,

Embracing her tears.

"*Elizabeth*", by Cindy

Trees outnumber *Elizabeth*

Clouds blossom Streets carpet

Locks harbor Walls garden

Glass pictures Steel poses

Lamps fountain Stones nurture

while

Trees,

still

outnumbering

*Elizabeth*,

surround and defend....

"Ann", By Cindy

Ann plays only the black keys.

The harsh realities of her life

As ex-wife and 5-time-mother

Want another scale than mine

To remind THEM of THEIR ways

Until the day she sings again.

I'd like to sum up with these Thoughts: An unexamined image is a stereotype. An unexamined intuition is a guess. And an unexamined life is a long, expensive, stupor. But if that's the way you like it who am I to argue?

e. e.'s thing

Occasionally I visit the Real Change office and annoy the paid staff. On such a recent mission I happened to learn that our beloved Ozula Sioux is actually ozula sioux. She calls this an "e.e.cummings thing".

That got me wondering - what WAS e.e.'s thing, anyway? (I mean regarding caps). And how would I know? I would have to research the matter scientifically, the way I learned in college. So I got the beer, read two or three of mr.cummings' poems, and at the appropriate moment, about 3 AM, appealed to my Poetic Muse for the Answer.

Well, Answers. I'm sure e.e. must have had days like this:

as

mostpeople are stupidugly

creeps do i want

to be likethem no

do i want

to capitalizelikethem no

do i want

to spacelikethem no

inotlikethem

even do i period no

scroom scroomall

But that's not all. We haven't expressed his profound disgust for modern life, it's artificial complexities, it's unnecessary conventions with their distracting demands upon our attentions. Capitalizers aren't just conformists, they're foolish people who turn their backs on the good life. "besimple" must be his motto.

besimple

besimpledontpunctuatedontspacenocapsnoli

nereturnnospellchexnnnoggobackeditnochew

gumchewfoodfreeyourselffromconventionsco

nveningconcomingcomingwithtogethercoming

togetherwithmostpeoplethenyoucantbeherec

ausetheyretheredontletithappentoyousimpl

But that's not all. We haven't expressed the fact that he was a poet ‹ and what do poets make?

Here I feel I can safely speak with the authority of experience!

poor eddie's lament

or opus nothing - i'm so poor

i'm so poor i only own a half-pair of socks

" " " i have to wipe myself w/. rocks

" " " my bank is by the river

" " " i've had to hock my liver

" " " no woman will give me any time

" " " all i got's words that rhyme

" " " i owe five bucks to my fleas

" " " i can't afford new shift keys

We're Outta Here!

Homeless people are literally leaving Seattle by the busloads. In the past two months nearly four thousand have left by Greyhound, bound mainly for East Coast cities. The departures have been coordinated. They leave daily, each bus carrying away up to fifty homeless men, women, and children.

Some pay their own fare, others have their fares paid for them, generally by national organizations dedicated to homeless causes. Chief among these is the American Homeless Union. Recently the Seattle head of the AHU, Phil M. Hand, explained the ongoing exodus this way: "Basically around December or January we all began to realize that we really weren't wanted here in Seattle. And we're not masochists, OK? I mean, we've been working hard for years at making this city a real haven for our folks, but if Seattle isn't into it, we can live with that."

Further details are sketchy. The rumors among street people (what's left of them) are, as always, incomplete and unreliable. What is certain is that the departures began near the end of January and coincided with a number of setbacks for the homeless in this city. There was the recent reclearing of the "Jungle" along I-5, and the so-called sweep of the Municipal Building encampment.

But worst of all was the resistance by local merchants to plans to expand laundry and shower facilities at a few downtown service-centers. As one Belltown alley resident put it, "I always knew no one wanted me around when I was dirty and smelled like a sewer. But when I saw they didn't want me clean and smelling like a rose, either, I really got the message! It is personal, isn't' it? So right then I spent my welfare check on a ticket to Pittsburgh. I'll be gone by tomorrow."

The repercussions of this mass exodus cannot be understated. Most of Seattle's homeless-advocacy groups have already ceased to function, even though the last busload of homeless isn't expected to depart until mid-April. These groups include SHARE, WHEEL, and Operation Homestead. Several hundred social workers formerly employed by service agencies throughout the city have already been laid off.

But in addition to the expected, there have been some perhaps unexpected consequences of the sudden scarcity of homeless. For example, at City Hall, everyone from Norm Rice to Mark Sidran is complaining about the long waits for cab rides.

It seems that as many as one-third of all Seattle taxi drivers have been homeless and are now driving elsewhere. Dishes are piling up unwashed in even the best local restaurants, houses are going unpainted, and overgrown backyards are remaining so. Non-homeless residents are experiencing more muggings and burglaries than ever, now that gangs don't have easier targets to victimize.

Gay-bashing and race-related violence is on the increase again as "bum-bashing" declines. Dumpsters are overflowing with recyclables throughout the city. Seattle is awash in aluminum cans, refundable bottles, reparable TV sets, and stereos.

Corner rose-vendors have vanished and with them half the street musicians. And many service-industry businesses are discovering that they can't afford to pay the higher wages demanded and required by rent-paying and home-owning citizens. To help with these and other problems, the city has established special consulting hotlines. Anyone concerned may request assistance or further information at 684-8200.

Naturally, the Real Change homeless newspaper will not be unaffected. "Sure, we'll keep operating for a couple of months," said Timothy "Make My Day" Harris. I mean, we've got donations coming in, and we've got our subscribers and our advertisers. But let's face it. People are going to catch on."

"With no vendors and nothing to write about, what are we going to do? Well, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do! Get the hell out of here! That's what!"

Perhaps he'll head for Pittsburg.

Cut and Waste

by © Dr. Wendy Browning

Obsessed with cut and paste techniques, my plan this month was to assemble a poem from alternating lines of prose by Henry Miller and James Joyce. Unfortunately, these two guys almost never make sense together. See for yourself:

If the sewer mains were open you held your nose

-Fretted forlorn, dreamily rose.

Round and round one walks seeking the hub

-Best value in Dub.

So instead we'll talk about pro hygiene center signs. It seems that "no hygiene center" signs are appearing at some businesses downtown and we at the Real Change want to encourage everyone to counter with their own hygiene center signs. In order to help people along with this, I have been asked by the management to offer some samples.

Here are some of my first efforts.

Hygiene - An Idea whose time has come!

A clean street person is an invisible street person.

Help give Seattle's homeless the scrubbing they deserve!

Would a bum by any other name
smell the same?
Not with hygiene centers!

At this point I felt something was missing and sought consultation. My good friend Andy was unavailable, recovering from an operation. So I turned to Tim Harris, who advised, "More pith! Make them rhyme!" So pith it is.

A dirty bum is disgusting to see

With hygiene centers they needn't be.

A hygiene center down the block

Means clean shiny bums `round the clock.

Let the homeless have showers, So they'll all smell like flowers!

Say yes to hygiene centers

they're absolutely right

The homeless need soap and water

to make themselves look bright.

It would be so keen

if the homeless were clean

so please don't be mean

support centers of hygiene.

Finally, an artistic contribution:

Hygiene Haiku, or Opus 19,

My Second Haiku with Content

Morning, a clean bum.

All around hygiene centers -

Cherry blossom time.

My Rosy Man, Or Willy

My Beat Period came and went last month, and now I'm in the throes of an identity crisis. What poet am I? What is my purpose in poetrydom? I need to answer these and other questions similar to these. Meanwhile I can say this much:

I am Assorted Snacks or

Opus 17, Assorted Snacks, I am, I am.

Am I a raven? No ! I'm three. One won't do.

I'm not THAT coyote but this. See the eyes? Blue.

This stream won't be me `til it gets over there-

THERE where it tumbles down that mossy rock

in the shade of THAT log,

THAT one, shaped like my readiest cock.

But wait! No! That can't be me!

There are no STORES around! I must be assorted snacks!

(or at least I must BE where they are able to be found.)

Yes, I think we can all safely agree, I am a composite of edible food stuffs. But this begs the original question: What poet am I? As I discuss the matter this dark morning with my good friend Cindy, she says, "well, let's see. You're a guy. And you've been homeless. What don't you do homeless-guy-poetry? That's what I would do. I mean, you know, if I were a guy. And all that."

So I scope out some Robert Bly and assimilate a bit. I persuade myself, medicinally, that I CAN drum the Archetypal Beat in Sync with the Primordial Guy. And then, and only then, do I let the one-eyed bear between my legs speak:

My Rosy Man, Willy

or Opus 18, Willy, My Rosy Man

I sat by the dumpster, reading,

yesterday's Times in my lap, upon my wildness

She walked past-whom I could have loved

for ten years-walked by, and was gone.

The stray dog paws through the plastic bag

twirling the french fry in his mouth.

How fresh the fries are, the boon of the Burger King.

A light breeze dispels the stench.

I know the woman had fur.

As a horse swings his head,

how easily do my thoughts follow.

This alley covered with stones shelters bones.

That was it, damnit! When I returned

to the Porta-Potty, I was not alone.

My rosy man (or:Willy)

reached on his own and touched my hand.

My, that was moving, wasn't it? Thank you Mr. Bly for that inspiration, and thank you as always Cindy, my Muse, you of the thin straight lips and matching mind. And thanks to my Readers who, reading next month, may learn more about writing "collagesque"!

The Goddess Dances In, Within

Baby Bop,

Burning Bright

Let's begin with an adventure in prose by Steve Mansour that demonstrates that I am not alone. That's right - there are others who share my artistic sensibilities. Steve is, by the way, an artist/writer who sometimes works at the Street Life Gallery at 2nd and Bell, and not an imaginary person I invented in an effort to fill space. If he had been an imaginary person on this occasion his name would have been Cindy.

Steve writes, "... for me, a true artist thinks and draws, draws and thinks; a true artist thinks and draws, then draws some more and thinks, and draws, and then he thinks some more. A true artist dreams, then draws, then dreams again, and draws, then he/she thinks and again draws, and dreams, and dreams of drawing and draws the dreaming, and thinks less." Can you dig it? I can!

Speaking of digging, I was just talking to my good friend Cindy about the huge blank space at the bottom of this page and she said to me, "You know what you should do? You should write something there. That's what I would do. Then you should lie down, © Dr., `cause you're really looking beat." Just then I thought and dreamed and dreamed the thinking and thought yeah! I am going to have my Beat period. My main influences this morning - now that the bars have closed - will be Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Krebs. Yeah. It's coming to me I'm feeling the beat it's crazy man it's everywhere it's in everything DIG it - dig IT - don't let the Bomb get you down let the Beat do it. Yeah. IT.

I'm outta tea. I send Cindy to the store for more. She comes back. I'm ready:

Sixteenth Hymmnn

to/of the Dumbsainted

or Opus 16, My First Beat Poem

Hey Jack!

I AM a Character in the Bleak

inhuman Loneliness

As I sing the intergalactic song of a

species couchless

Yeah: no couch for me tonight

Pad me on a pad - no hipster pad -

The hipsters pad in their cells tonight -

While I pad the streets of my share

of inhuman loneliness

With: Cindy / she-who-is-not-real

And while I pad this poem of bleak couchlessness

With the aid of: Cindy / she-who-is

Jack: I AM a Genius all the time

As long as Cindy blows through and out my mind.

Pile Their Heads . . . HIGH

Pile Their Heads . . . HIGH

I am an editor of the Real Change. There are others as well. I have a headache. This is not a coincidence. So I am impelled to quote Genghis Khan who once said (speaking of editors who insist on "altering" other's columns), "Pile their heads high! Pile their heads higher than the pyramids at Giza! Then we shall drink their beer and eat their chips!"

As I report this I am in NO way being mean and/or politically incorrect. Consistent with being a "differently expressive" person, I am simply falsely quoting Genghis Khan, a homeless role model, in order to convey my personal feelings in an oblique yet wholly appropriate manner.

But what, you ask, has this to do with poetry? Why, EVERYTHING! For headaches are the stuff of life, and the stuff of life is the stuff of beer and chips, and the stuff of beer and stuff is stuffing, and turkeys are involved and excuse me I will begin over.

NOTHING hits the SPOT better when your head THROBS than BLANK VERSE, n'est-ce pas? Ah, the pounding exclamations to compensate for the lack of meter, the odd placement of words to compensate for the lack of rhyme! Ah, the LACK of RHYME ITSELF! HOLD ME BACK!

So anyway, having written blank verse all my life and not known it, I have finally penned a serious work of the genre on purpose, which follows:

Blank Verse on Purpose

or, Opus 8, I Have a Headache

© Dr. Wes Browning

i am NOT DEAD!

YET:

i am CARRION!

SOCIAL WORKERS! LAWYERS! MY EX-WIFE!

MISSIONARIES! REPORTERS! DOCTORS!

FUNGI! CIVIL LIBERTARIANS! CRABS!

OTHER POETS!

ALL want a PIECE of ME!

and NO ONE goes away

HUNGRY!

(finis)

Better than aspirin! Thanks for reading and special thanks this month to J. Feelgood and M. Schmerzgarten for their much enjoyed comments.