Hi pretty people. Schmoop here with something completely different…
Suffocation. Drowning in a river of tears that never get shed. Sleeping away the anxiety and the sorrow, instead of facing it. Covering my head to block out the real world. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to hear it. Drinking to stop the pain and the voices, for awhile. Doesn’t always work, but...it will suffice. Stuck in the middle, seeing no path out, walking on eggshells. Taking whatever is given. Even when it’s nothing. It’s what I know. Maybe I want too much, or perhaps..? I ask too little. Oh well… What’s that you say, voice in my head? Do I want another beer? Why yes, yes I do. I’ll bring back the funny next week, and until then… Zoooooves!!
I decided to list some of the things that I like, using the same poetic form that Dad used in that very poem…
I like,
Fernleaf Buckthorns, brash, red geraniums, white Dogwoods anchored in black mulch, and the delicate, pink blooms on Scottish Heather.
I like,
the pre-dawn aria of the mourning dove, the clickity-clack of an archaic timepiece, and the seductive sadness in the voice of Chrissie Hynde.
I like,
footlong chili dogs, cheeseburgers rare, lima beans and scalloped corn, and BLTs heavy on the bacon.
I like,
the warmth and closeness of my son’s embrace, a cool breeze in August, the January thaw, and goosebumps germinated by the heat and moisture of a loved one’s kiss.
I like,
the smell of a backyard cookout, the scent of fresh cut Christmas trees, and the aroma of basil on pizza fresh from the oven.
I like,
poems by Tennyson, Donne, and Dylan Thomas, the honest comedy of Chris Rock, and drinking Wild Irish Rose from a knowing, old, beer glass.
The above comment, is one that Charlene made on my site yesterday when I posted about poetry. I totally understand it.
It’s fine to be funny or even feign humor, because it gives one an out. I do that on a daily basis. I am at heart, a satirist…a court jester…a spinner of humorous yarns.
But…while I do many times, talk about serious subjects, I have to inject humor into it. That way, if people don’t like it, I can always say, “I was just being funny.”
It’s my defense mechanism.
Well my response to Charlene was roughly, “Aw c’mon, post some stuff out. Quit being such a puss.” Okay I didn’t say that, but it was along those lines.
And then I thought…“What about you, Matt-Man? Why don‘t you do it too, ya big pussy?”
So to wit, and heretofore, a sampling of my more “serious” poetry. One of my faves is a four line poem that I wrote years ago…
Summer Acquiesces
‘Neath the purpling, swirling haze of Autumn The languid cry of the last cicada Weaves a dirge with an orphaned cricket As fields lie barren from stream to thicket.
And then I have the following…
Forty Six Cents
Randy, like clockwork scours the dumpster in search of redemption on a Sunday. With the precision of a metallurgist he eyes the metal and says, “This is my last stop.”
With his grocery carts in hand Unknowingly, he pushes them down the road to perdition And with the abandon of a gnarled, urban nomad, he says, “Jackpot.”
Randy avails himself to the man. The man says, “forty six cents per pound.”
To which Randy says, “Can’t you give me a few cents more” “Come back tomorrow” the man he states, "It’ll be fifty three cents a pound then."
To which Randy replies…
"I’d like to wait for the price increase, But today, I gotta eat."
Cheers!! Unexpectedly, I get to work 10-9 again today!! Call me the Beer King, Bitches!!
Ahhhhh, very nicely done, Dad. Let’s see the poetic genes that you passed on to me, shall we?
When I was at Bowling Green State University the campus newspaper did a story on me because I put up all of the poetry I was writing up on my dorm room door. Here’s a couple of examples:
The Sun
The Sun is hot. Hot, Hot, Hot. The Sun is yellow. Yellow, Yellow, Yellow. Well, not exactly yellow.
The Final Spring Break
The car went down the mountain road Down the road it sped. The car went off the mountain pass Everyone was dead.
Unreelquited Love
The tuna swam for miles In search of his one true sole mate He trudged and plodded all the while For a chance to boink and procreate
He met her at the sandbar Her eyes and his did lock But she swished her tail, and turned around And said, “Sorry Charlie, I have a haddock.”
Guess what sports fans? As my Mondays and Tuesdays afford me little time for anything other than work, I am doing a partial meme today.
That’s right. I think this may be only the third one I have done since I started this site in May of 2006. But when one has little time and nothing on his mind, what the hell?
If I were a month I'd be August ‘cause I am always hot and sweaty.
If I were a day I’d be Friday ’cause I am off on Fridays, although some say I always am.
If I were a time of day I’d be 9:15 P.M. I walk in the door, open a beer, and Corky greets me.
If I were a font I’d be well I don’t know, but whichever one it was it would be in boldface.
If I were a sea animal I’d be a sponge. I soak it all up bitches.
If I were a direction I’d be South ‘cause I do like to go south on the ladies.
If I were a piece of furniture I’d be an inflatable bondage sofa.
If I were a liquid I’d be duh…Wild Irish Rose!!
If I were a tree I’d be an evergreen of some type ’cause I’m here for everyone year ’round.
If I were a tool…well, wait…I already am a tool. Next?
If I were a musical instrument I’d be Fender guitar, a Fender painted red, you could play me darlin’ until your fingers bled. (apologies to Mark Knopfler)
If I were a sound I’d be nails on a chalkboard.
If I were a food I’d be a Loosemeat Sandwich.
If I were a body part I’d be the tongue. Mmmmmmmm, love using my tongue.
If I were a song I’d be “I Touch Myself”.
If I were a bird I’d be a pigeon. I do like a good shit.
If I were a door I’d be open.
If I were a poem I’d be one that I wrote in the early 80’s during my New Wave poetry period:
The sky is blue. The grass is green. I am white.
Can I get some snaps of the fingers on that one?
Another eleven hour day today, so I shall see you all on Wednesday.
alone with the constant hum of a dirty fan and the strain that I currently feel.
I try to find comfort through murmured words of self-encouragement.
I seek temporary distraction from the pain in the pages of an old magazine.
I sit in solitude…
alone on a throne of self-pity with my body and soul naked, yet secluded from all.
I seek relief from the agony by contorting both physically and mentally.
And then,
Through my inner strength and with the outburst of a renegade paroxysm, it happens…
From out my ass, I expel the biggest fuckin’ turd to ever exist in me.
Holy Shit people. This son of a bitch was huge!! It was seven feet long if it was a foot, and as wide as beer can....long ways.
I mean…don’t get me wrong…It was great to get rid of this mother of all bowel bombs, but crap…
When I went to wipe away the sphincter sauce, I nearly lost my hand in my ass. I swear to God my porthole was as big around as a Florida grapefruit drunk on Miracle-Gro.
I know this sounds crazy, but when I was done and walked from the bathroom to the living room, I swear to God I could hear my asshole whistling and bellowing like a Kansas tornado.
I haven’t eaten bread or pasta in 20 days, but if this is the result, as soon as Easter comes, I am going to eat a plate of spaghetti and a loaf of garlic bread every damn day so this never happens again…Ever!!
I want to thank you for reading this and in turn, sharing this profound life experience of mine with me.
Enjoy your Monday, all. I will be spending part of mine at work, limping around like a prison cell bitch.
First…I was dissed by a long time friend. I was deleted from her life. NO, not physically, but emotionally.
It’s kinda weird because I usually wouldn't give a rat’s ass, but we had been friends for years, and her casting me aside because “it doesn’t look good” sucks. I know…I am using great English today….Fuck it.
It’s absolute bullshit. If this chick has to “hide” me from her man, that is just silly. On her part and on his. We were friends. For a long damn time.
Does anyone get that? I have lots of friends that I used to go out with. Does Schmoop care? And Schmoop? Hell, she's hosed the entire city. Do I care? NO, she knows I love her.
When do people stop being 14 year olds? Oh, I know…they don’t!!
Holy Cow!!
Anyhoo…My brother Vince, found a copy of my dad’s first book. And from this book, Irish Coffee, I give you a poem titled, “Why”.
Why
Why do you seek to destroy all that I build knowing full well that time alone would serve instead. and once the pillars rot and the castles fall, you would not be burdened with a sense of guilt?
Why do you taunt me with practical things nor realize that all dreams must someday be shattered, and falling to earth awake each man with the thunder of mediocrity?
Could it be that deep inside you cannot watch me suffer the pain of one who strives for stars and struggles, day by sad day, up a ladder without rungs?
