I was supposed to call you
every now and then,
I was supposed to ask you
how you’ve been.
But once you drove far enough away
not to care anymore
I never did.
I still know a song about dinosaurs we wrote
but I don’t know a thing
about you now.
Because you’d shave your head in secret
and say that we were close,
because you called me a contra
after all that time.
We were never supposed to change,
All that talk about honesty,
it came with hard conditions,
and I was never really the plan.
Not a contra.
It’s been a hundred years
but I think you’re fine
that I never called
’cause you called me a contra.
And a hundred years of maybe
becoming a contra
Got a burning question that can only be answered in a snarky rhyme? Ask a poet!
I had to shoot a shitty wedding where I was supposed to get $150 because they “didn’t have any money.” And I felt bad. Well, the bride had horrid tan lines and they said their I Do’s in their house… that was filthy, covered with roaches, and piles and piles of clothes everywhere. Did I mention there were about 30 people in the small-ass house? Needless to say, they paid me half of that, and keep harassing me for the photos even though it’s going to take hours to edit them lines. What do you say?”
– Gilbert in Virginia
A bartender’s job is to shoot the shit,
a photographer’s job is not;
but if they coughed up half the dough for the gig
you owe them the shit that you shot.
I get that they’re cheap and their place was packed-
a sardine can of squalid-
but under the roaches and laundry stacks
they’re grateful you did them a solid.
But don’t go too crazy removing those lines,
after all, you’re a busy man!
It’s not your fault if the bride’s outshined
by a heavy dose of tan.
And next time write up a contract
to help you settle the score-
and to keep your sanity intact,
no more weddings in Jersey Shore!
Comment below with your burning questions to be answered next week!
I wear my John Cena shirt
oh ho hey oh
I got a family to feed
I dig in the mines
and the gym
oh ho hey oh
I got a dream to buy
I vote for the president
oh ho ho hey oh
I got an axe to grind
I write my poems with sweat
at the discount store
I’m the weekend kind
And I don’t waste time on flowers
I don’t eat cake
oh ho ho
Jerky in the bunker
I’m good ’til the world falls down
oh ho ho
I always kick out at two
and good always wins
oh ho ho
oh ho ho
I’ll never give up
oh ho oh ho ho ho
oh ho ho ho
I wanna tell you-
don’t be dissuaded by morning poems.
Don’t read them
and think you don’t got it
and can’t get it.
Things like morning poems don’t mention
the fight you had last night.
They don’t mention hungry cats
stepping on the keyboard,
hungry babies or hungry kids.
Morning poems don’t include your own coffee stomach-
they effortlessly glide over you and all that stuff-
doesn’t it seem like they’re mostly concerned
I read morning poems and I feel useless.
When I look out my window,
I couldn’t point to a hyacinth.
Nothing but trashcans-
my heart is not joyful.
What does a sunrise do,
what does a metaphor do,
I went to a bookstore here in LA,
and here everywhere has tons of chapbooks,
millions of first-edition zines
that never saw a second.
It’s very easy to sell by consignment here-
but nobody is buying.
And a lot of them are filled with morning poems.
Now I’m not a critic, but I’m a person and
I didn’t buy any. I thought-
“What is a poem about
mountains in the spring,
dewdrops and rivers,
lilacs and cattails
ever going to do for me?”
I bought a postcard of Bukowski for 99 cents-
a man who knew he was ugly
and didn’t write any morning poems.
I taped it on the wall to remind me
not to feel useless about morning poems
and to tell you not to, either.
I don’t even know how I got here, I really don’t. It’s like suddenly catching a glimpse of a dragon on the street- you either stare at it with your mouth open and then tell your friends all about it later, or you snatch hold of it by the tail and see where that sucker goes. I rode, or rather, drove it all the way to Hollywood. It looked like a silver Corolla with a bearded fella eating honey-roasted peanuts in the passenger seat. Dragons can look like anything, really.
Nobody made me stop writing and nothing happened. I mean that nothing happened WHEN I stopped writing just as much as nothing happened TO make me stop. People will tell you that life gets in the way, but I’ll be honest: you just turn into different people. Multiple people, all the time. I was once a bartender who didn’t write, and I was a librarian who did. I was a hipster who wrote sonnets and a math teacher who didn’t. I drove across eight states and didn’t write down a single word of it. I didn’t want to.
I always thought there would be some great longing- if you were born to write you couldn’t last a day without feeling the urge, like missing an old friend. That’s not true, and anybody who tells you that thinks way too highly of themselves. I mean, Netflix is a thing for real and so is Texas barbecue and two-for-one drink specials and indie wrestling and waterfalls. Sometimes you want to write and sometimes you don’t.
The thing about Hollywood is that almost everyone here is forcing themselves to write, all the time. Everybody’s on the grind- they charge you $300 a class to tell you the more you write the better you’ll get. Everyone here is shouting. And when they meet you they say, “So what do you do?” and you’re supposed to say what you’re TRYING to do- trying to act or write or produce or hold a boom mic or whatever. I guess I could get a lot of clout if I said, “Published Author” like some so-and-so. But I enjoy to just say I’m a teacher and watch their wheels spinning while they try to guess how the hell I ended up here.
I don’t even know how I got here, I really don’t. It beats being where I was, and there are a lot of interesting things going on at all hours, so I’m not unhappy here. People always need help with things and they’ll let you join in with little experience- I’ve been pulling lights for improv shows and recording sets and voting at screeners and editing comedy sketches. You can always tag along on somebody else’s dream, especially if your own dream is to stay in the shadows.
Or perhaps I’ll keep playing chameleon for a while, save myself the $300, and find a bigger dream. Who knows.
Let’s just assume
that every poem titled “Sometimes”
is up to no good, no snuff.
You wanna talk about a one-time feeling
and make it like it happens
like the wind on its normal course.
I know that “sometimes” equals “this time”, pal.
Just say it:
this time, this one-time
It sucks to be you right now.
And we don’t really care
that it’ll be better tomorrow-
we have sometimes.
We have some time to read
and to feel and to know
and maybe sometimes we’ll feel like you,
but only sometimes.
Sometimes when we’re sitting
with a bottle and a cup
and shit’s real bad,
we’ll crack you open.
And we might think that you’ve
got it figured out for us
but you’ve already moved the hell on.
I guess I know a lot of people
who think change is
one day you got a dog on a leash,
next day it’s a cat and
ain’t it a fun surprise.
I suppose some people figure it’s
funny and crazy and
lol ain’t that the way
when tattoos lose their color and
change says it doesn’t remember
what they mean.
Apparently to me there are those people
who insist it’s all an adventure,
don’t even TAKE your birth control,
God spins the wheel!
And don’t bother with all that poison
But I think there’s a lot of underground here.
It’s so little, the thing that’s wrong.
But it’s a pea, it’s a needle, it’s a lost button-
it’s a second skin scrubbed off
that leaves you pink and raw and motionless-
it’s a magnifying glass for every grain of sand
to scratch and infect your defenseless mind.
And they tell you it’s no big deal
that your favorite book has changed-
changed, CHANGE we welcome with booze
at midnight, CHANGE we spare for the bucket,
CHANGE we accept in exchange for our bills, bills, bills.
But you LOVED LOVED LOVED that book
I guess a lot of people got that second skin,
their dogs turn to cats and they shrug,
they make up new stories about their tattoos
and thank God that they’re really quite sane.
But you’ll be up nights asking God why you aren’t,
why it drives you so crazy
that nothing stays put,
that your old favorite book makes you blue as hell,
and even you can’t be certain why.