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"!

What Could Be Verse?

It has come to my attention, last month, that I have been "laid off" by my "employer." This is good news and bad news. The bad news: i.e., I've been screwed. The good news: as an Artiste, all of Life's Travails are but Grist for my Mill!:

I got Grist in My Teeth!

or Opus 13, My Life Stinks

© Dr. Wes Browning

I cannot contain my elation:

I have an unplanned vacation!

Sure, my life stinks

(And bosses are dinks)

But: due to the fact that I have worked my ass off for the past six years to

earn a living rather than take payment for that permanent mental disability I

am now gratefully fortunate (thanks largely to the Great Depression and its

attendant Administration - I love you Rosy! I really do! I will vote Democrat

forever, just because of you!) that I am going to be able to live like a

jolly starving dog for up to half a year by means of jolly unemployment

compensation.

Here's another easy way to write poems for all you poetry neophytes out there! Say you want to write a poem, but say you're drunk or hungover, or you're bummed out cause you lost your job, or say you're clinically stupid, or all three, or whatever. What should you do? Well, just what any lame artist would do: collage!

Let's see right now I want to write a poem about oh I don't know, oh hell, I'll just write one and see. So I grab my copy of "All the Poems You Were Forced to Read in School So Now You Hate Them and All That They Represent" (by Dead White Poets' Press) - or equivalent - and pick out 3 or 4 at random. Then I "cut'n paste and disregard the waste!" Maybe I kick in a scrap or two from memory and out she comes, another masterpiece!

Un Verset Collagesque

or Opus 14, What Could be Verse?

Copyright Dr. Wes Browning

The gingham dog and the calico cat

side by side on the table sat -

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

(The) Living shall forfeit fair renown,

and, doubly dying, shall go down

Then they'll do the hokey pokey

And turn themselves aroun'!

That what it's all about!

-Thanks to Eugene Field ("The Duel"), Edmund Vance Cooke ("How Did You Die"), Sir Walter Scott ("Love of Country"), and a scrap from memory. And thank you, poetry reader, for reading, and a special big thank you to The Fisch, Marion Sue, for her hot French pointers!