Home » Poetry » Day 184 – Everybody’s Anti-Hero Hero

Day 184 – Everybody’s Anti-Hero Hero

“OHMYGOD,” she begs me,
“Do not, for the love of holiness,
write a poem about your gynecologist.”

“What! You mean,” (I’m grinnin’ big,)
“I shouldn’t put in the part about how,
sprawled on a table, I asked her
how it was hangin’ down there?
Because I think that part’s quite good.”

She looks like she could throttle me
and it’s the best part of my day,
and I shrug and say, “ain’t worry ’bout nothin'”
for the hundred-thousandth time.

‘Cause I know I’ll find a way to make it work,
I trust the plucky know I know I know
’cause I’m everybody’s anti-hero hero,
irreverent smirking jerk they hate to love.

She says, “Roark wasn’t real,
he would’ve ended up in jail,
and Caulfield’s just a whiner
in a funny-looking hat.”

And I say, “Darlin’, I know,
and I’m only just a poet,
but who the hell else is gonna write it,
if not me?”

And she says “Why you wanna be
so controversial? Don’t you know
you’ll never get a man that way?”

And I say, “Babe, I think he’ll thank me
to read my clean bill of health
‘fore he ever has to take me on a date.

And further if I can’t express my feelings
and the facts about whatever’s ailin’ me,
ain’t worry ’bout no man,
got no cause to be a hero
’cause that world is not a place I wanna be.”


11 thoughts on “Day 184 – Everybody’s Anti-Hero Hero

  1. I’m a prose and fiction obsessive but find poetry ‘difficult’. Yours however is great, fresh, and fun and ‘easy to read’…so you must be doing something very right to catch my attention…:))

    • I love to hear that! I love proving that poetry can be accessible to everyone, and that it doesn’t have to be the same staunch, boring forms from the classical ages that are evoked in many peoples’ minds when they hear the word “poetry.”
      Thanks for reading, and for the encouragement!

  2. I wrote an essay about a corrective meatotomy I had to fix a constrictive urethral opening once. Hell, while I was healing, I just dropped my pants to show exactly where they cut, and that’s in the essay as well. Nothing wrong with a poem about going to the gyno, not that I can wee. Err, see. Damn typos.

    • It’s not even about that, though- to me, it’s more about my inability to relate to females who insist upon being delicate about everything, I guess to be politically correct or to not gross out/scare off men, I don’t know.

      And not only that, but people have been tossing words like “brave” and “wise” and “inspiring” my way lately and I don’t like it one bit. When that stuff starts my natural inclination is to rebuff it all with a tirade on gynecology or picking my nose or something.

      I suppose it doesn’t help my case for it to actually be good.

      • See, I didn’t say you inspired me to put my blog back online. You force-guilted me back into it. Hope that’s a little more clear.

        If anything, men are impressed by women who aren’t delicate blushing flowers who faint or get offended when someone twatfarts in the checkout line, to put it bluntly. At least, the men I care to associate with are.

        Besides, it’s nice to read refreshing and honest poetry or vignettes from time to time. That’s what hooked me on Shel Silverstein as a child and it’s what I still look for. Poetic value is great but it should also be something that people want to read.

        Though, if you ever write a sestina about the time the doc looked away from you while your pants were around your ankles, called three interns into the room, and said “See? THAT’S what I was talking about! Your textbook doesn’t do that condition justice.” Well… I’d read it.

      • I know that about men, but it’s not them I take issue with. It’s the women who hold that ideal, like they’re for some reason embarrassed to have normal human functions. Most of those women are either single or in unsatisfying (read: dishonest) relationships.
        Also, fun fact: none of this poem is true at all, I was just pondering it a lot. (And the fact that it was mostly considered to be autobiographical I am taking as a testament to the power of my wandering imagination)

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