Aashish demands his poetry.
He wants to be more known.
He wishes for more links to be sent to his telephone.
“Write of me!” He thus insists, and that, he thinks, is that,
no doubt, suspecting his command will paint him as a prat.
But still, the boy will get his wish, for who denies his smile?
Who refuses such a face that whines that long a while?
Aashish will get his rhymes in time. They’ll be delivered quick.
But the next poem he receives will come by way of brick.
Do not look up.The sun is a furious orange
glaring vengeance upon you for what you’ve done.
The air is heavy, weighing down your every step.
There are pains everywhere you dare imagine
– so do think.
Do not move.
Do not breathe, if you can avoid it.
Simply do not.
Yesterday was a bad move, all in all,
one best avoided.
One best forgotten.
If you can simply stop,
that would be best.
Just… stop.
The speed of the bartender defies belief
dashing from side to side
customer to customer
bottle to bottle.
She knows where to go
and when
and how.
Would you believe she’s only been here three months?
I know. I’ve watched.
Her grace and familiarity
with the place
is astonishing.
She knows the regulars
and knows how to make regulars.
I’m just in awe of what she does.
Someday, maybe she’ll get my order right.
This is not going the way the day is meant to go
with darkness beating your door back
and clouds frowning down upon you.
You should be deep in your misery
but instead
the walk revived you
brought a service monkey to your shoulder
and totally changed your outlook.
It’s a new day
with none of yesterday’s bull to change the display.
All is good. All is great
and that service monkey
is really cute.
Somewhere behind a wall
there is a boy
who is singing his songs to no one.
To no one
he sings
– just the walls,
behind a wall
where he alone
knows what he does.
He asks for no fans
or Likes or Hits
or what have you.
He sings for the sake of it
to the air
because he cares.
How can you stay silent
in the face of that?
I dream of Napoleon and hope
that Napoleon dreams of me
but suspect that he has other things to do
being an emperor and an exile and dead.
He probably has many people reporting to him
and has limited supplies
now that he is on a secured island
and has been rotting for over two hundred years now
(I hope someone celebrated somehow in Two Thousand and Twenty One!).
I do think it would be nice if the Emperor would think of me
in some capacity, after I went to all the trouble of dreaming about him,
but I’d hate to be a bother.
If you could perhaps put the notion to him?
I’d be ever so appreciative.
Thanks – and if I could ever return the favor,
just let me know!
Currently, the calling of this poet is that of a taskmaster, overseeing my production.
“You can do more than that!” The calling cries,
“Harder. Faster. More. MORE!”
“But art is about feeling. Art is about what comes from inside-”
“Bullshit. If you don’t grease your wheels, how do you know what your capable of?”
The calling has a point. “Get yourself ready for maximum capacity, and then DOUBLE it.”
“Double it?”
“DOUBLE IT!”
The calling of the poet is all up in my shit these days.
I’m doing what I can to please it,
but it ain’t easy.
I met a poet once.
He was Morris Stegosaurus.
He was good.
Fluid, rambly, a slam guy.
I don’t do slams, so I didn’t see him often.
He moved away and,
surprise! Is no longer Morris Stegosaurus.
But he doesn’t seem to be writing, either,
which is a shame.
He was good,
and to lose his talent seems a waste.
I’d ask what the world will do without him
but it seems we’ve been without him for years now,
so I guess the loss is easily handled.
The notebooks
scratched into
at the clubs
in the parks
on the beach
at the wedding
in your room
during the date
while watching plays
are all collected in a row
on a shelf
where you can review them someday.
Will anyone else?
The sword and the shield become rust
followed by the truncheon and the rifle.
Then the tank, and the aeroplane
and the gasmask
(which probably has little metal on it, anyway)
– they all rust away –
useless as passing generations
find more creative ways
to get the job done.
Certain bombs get rusty
while others maintain their standards.
Certain guns last.
Certain kinds of men and women
last through many generations
and do remain standing
to kill
over and over again.
jonberger 