"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."
Hunter S. Thompson

Murphy Clamrod


Four smokes & seven beers ago
I knew nothing of this man
I know he has a buddy who knows
Someone whos buddy can somehow
Help anyone with anything type

Train cuts though night air
Hammering along tracks laid
Eastbound a long lone train

Scouting around for that any
Type of something useful an
Old book jumps out at me and
Right when I start to read a
Yell breaks my train of mind

He had gone mad.
Lost his last bit left in the bottom of that bottle.
It worked.
A lifetime of alcohol had finally run its course.
He was done.
"Did you know, all but maybe a thirteenth percent of most all missing persons cases is cause persons are made missing by the government of the United States of this country..."
He proclaimed this jabbing a pointed finger toward the ground as if he was blaming that spot in particular for all that is wrong.
"under our noses, tests, they run lots and lots of tests, and some psychophoric test, making you forget you are were one of the missing people and then return you back into reality as suspected lottery winner who’s luck ran out and what not..."
He could somehow sip his beer and take a righteously unhealthy drag from his re-rolled cigarette built from left behind bits of other people’s habits and still not miss a beat with his rants. Stories of a life he once lived, a time that he didn't mention much but when he did they were told as if before a paying crowd, his subjects, all of them and just before a conclusion can be made the tale flips and heads roll.
I asked for another smoke by kissing a lightly separated fore and middle finger and motioned my empty beer can up near my forehead, slightly shaking
it back and forth to indicate that I need a new one.
I have decided to abandon my wait-two-beers-for-a- smoke approach, if I was going to sit though one more of these crazed tales of insider trading amongst American league pitchers causing the sub-prime mortgage fiasco then I would require a distraction such as premeditated lung cancer.
He paused mid-sentence once to ask me "did you hear that?" looked over his right shoulder then returned to face me, talking in an almost different voice, he changed topics then leaned in to tell me that he was bugged, they had put a chip inside him somewhere that knew his thoughts.
I interrupted him there to try to explain that no one no where knew his thoughts.
But, I had heard something.
Something that didn't belong, moving out beyond my view.
I almost for a moment thought maybe the someones were out there and maybe they were coming for him.
He asked me what I did for fun.
I thought about the stuff I did that I thought was fun and thought well that must be the what to what do I do for fun.
"I write."
Writing is fun, I enjoy the way we can attempt with so limited amounts of caricatures and yet limitless possibilities almost being able to convey the way someone feels to someone who knows nothing of them at all, and I try to use it, unconventionally.
"I'm a poet."
I said it to him and before I could finish the words he asked me: what makes me think that I am a poet?
I thought about the stuff that I did that I thought was poetic and thought, well, that must be the poetics to why I think I might be a poet.
And I replied with,
"Because it sounds so much better than broke, drug addicted, alcoholic who writes, yet, still isn't a hundred percent clear on where to put the commas."
He looked at me as if I had forty heads.
"sit down..."
He said as he tapped the top of the milk crate.
"come have a seat right here and let me tell you a story of what you should think about before you use the words
I & AM & POET in the same sentence."

1 comment:

Frankie Metro said...

fuckin' hell i love this piece. this one better go in the book mi amigo