Garbage in the Gutter

Introduction

This is a series of poems I wrote from the gutter, so to speak. Like Bukowski on a bender, I was in a cynical yet whimsical state of mind. This is not an apology, for I cannot help but note that these sentiments, though off-putting to polite society, still hold true, as is so often the case. I am shifting away from this sort of work, but I feel that it came from such a genuine place that it should be published for posterity.

What’s most important is the smiley faces and the fact that, despite my low origins and insouciant wallowing, I do really care; and, yes, these sentiments still hold true, but they point to better truths, those beyond “The Game” and criticisms of the game (which is, after all, the game).

So don't take it personally!

Beyond that, the sum of wisdom in this matter is silence.

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Garbage in the Gutter

I am well acquainted

With how awful life can be,

Having been at one point and another

The garbage in the gutter,

Stepped over by those

Who do not see

Beyond the tip of their nose.

So drop a coin in the slot,

And feed the powers that be.

It won’t better the life of the sot

In his liquor-store-leaning revery,

But you’ll feel better today

As will he, on his way

To another drunken night

Washing away the blight

On the indifferent tide,

A compulsory ride

To his own private hell

Built from the ruin

Of the illusory heaven

We continue to buy and sell.

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The Pelican

Literary art does not pull out the barbed arrow of cultural critique to suture the wound so as to walk among the rabble and pretend it is healed.

It drives the arrow deeper,

Twists until it bleeds out.

This is the source of the highest art.

“Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.” -Kahlil Gibran, Sand & Foam

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IRONY

Like Schrodinger’s Cat

In Pandora’s Box,

Prometheus Bound

Remains Free.

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PLIGHT OF MAN

I run on beer and breakfast,

No care for how long it will last.

After all, I ain’t promised tomorrow,

Already drank my share of sorrow,

Been used and abused as a toy…

Why not brew my own sacred joy?

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FUCK YOU.

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I DON’T OWE YOU SHIT.

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Triangulate your hate elsewhere.

It was always more

Than I was willing to bear.

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And I really care…

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Do you?

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DO YOU REALLY CARE?

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