The Ballad Of The Inbred Puppy

I've always been a big fan of poetry. I know, I know...a statement like that on a website like this is like to being told by your dad that he's a bug-chaser and yes indeedy, you've now got AIDS after using his razor that one day. Here me out. There's something highly personal in another man's written word, something that, when thought out and written down onto pressed paper, he puts a small piece of themselves into the words, perhaps as is the case with truly classic poetry from the likes of Joyce, Poe, and Cummings, the very ink is imbued with their very soul, forever keeping them alive in our minds. My stuff isn't that good. But I've been writing poetry ever since I could pick up a crayon and scrawl it onto my bedroom walls, so while it may not be very good in the classical sense...it's highly personal to me, and to those who wish to enjoy my works, I gladly share it with them. But one thing I can't fucking stand is the pretentious types, the kind that frequent the coffee houses and quaint little hip bars that only seat 12, they who write such horrible and cliched drivel and force it down our throats expecting us to grovel at their feet in awe of their very pretentiousness. God how I hate them...they live and die at the local coffee house, poetry slams, waiting and waiting for their "big break"...because as all writers know, famous publishers are ALWAYS on the prowl in your neighborhood's local fucking coffee shop looking for YOU. Right....

So it was then that I was invited to actually go to one those poetry slams down here in my city. At first I was kinda apprehensive. Who the fuck want's to sit around drinking shitty watered down coffee while some overweight, pasty faced goth-slut stands on the stage in all her bloated glory and recites some shitty poem about her underused and neglected vagina that some 4th grader could have written (probably with better form too). But my friend told me it was at a bar, alcohol was involved I was already out the door on my way. There's nothing like getting shitfaced and listening to some jackass bare his soul to a room full of other jackasses. Maybe it's just me, but train-wrecks fascinate me. So we get there, and I'm immediatly smacked in the face with the smell of body odor and patchouli. Ugh. I downed two shots of Old Crow, ordered a pint of something cold and alcoholic, sat down to listen to the mindless drek being spewed out of these asshole's mouths. Look...I KNOW it takes a lot of balls and commitment to stand up in front of complete strangers and bare your very soul to them, but poetry slams aren't like a talent show for crissakes. Most of the time, everybody in the audience will applaud your shitty works, maybe snap their fingers a bit, all in the effort to boost your ego so that when it's THEIR turn to recite some shitty poetry, you'll do the same in turn. After a while, I became thoroughly drunk and belligerent, at times even loudly heckling some truly horrible pieces of work. Of course, I got stared at and "hushed" loudly but what the fuck were THEY gonna do? Throw me a good ol' fashioned hippy beating? Please. So the inevitable happens, then. My friend, the jackass that he is, signs me up secretly to recite some of my works. My name is called and I'm left sitting there like a Christian waiting to be stoned by a crowd of hebrews.

But the drinks took effect, I swallowed what pride I had left in my pocket and jumped up on the small makeshift stage. So...for your reading pleasure...here is the poem that got me forever banned from any local poetry slam and forever ostracized from the local intellectual types that reside around here.

"*ahem* (taps the mic) Is this thing on or what? Here's what I got memorized, fuckers, so whatever...."

I saw a crippled man today at the supermarket
Two wheel drive electric wheelchair
His breathing tube giving off a slow hiss like a leaky balloon
And one claw like hand molesting the jars of baby food
At first, a sense of pity overcame me

Quickly flushed away by my good friend Apathy
Joined by my drinking buddy Malicious Intent
Giant boulders of sleep crust surrounded his eyes
While a thin line of drool hung off his chapped and dried lips
Our eyes locked in one uncomfortable second
And I cracked up, letting loose a snort of laughter
"Guh.....guh....goooblah..", he grunted back
All the while a look of accusation in his one good eye
So I did what any concerned well adjusted citizen should do
I pushed back all the jars of food so he couldn't reach them
And unplugged his breathing tube
Fucking cripple...

The bar was filled with silence and disgusted looks. You could literally hear crickets going off in the distance, or was that sound of guns being cocked? I couldn't tell. At this point, people were getting up and leaving. The promoter of the show was looking at me with the intent to kill, and several people were whispering things like "I can't believe him..." and "What an asshole..." and even "Jethus Christ...never have I heard such bad poetry.". We were kicked out of the bar shortly afterward, something about causing a public disturbance, I don't know. Oh well, like I said, my poetry just isn't for THEM. It's for ME. So, as I sat in the Waffle House at 4 in the morning, stinking like gin and cigarettes and happily munching on a southern fried steak, my friend posed this question to me. “What then is the nature of poetry , its essential law? What is the highest power we can demand from it, what the supreme music that the human mind, reaching up and in and out to its own widest breadths, deepest depths and topmost summits, can extract from this self-expressive instrument?”

I just looked at him and asked, "Shut up asshole, you gonna eat those cheese fries?"