| |
Barbra
Streisand can Shove Her Memories up Her Ass
By
Steven Hoadley
There are times like these
Alone at the keyboard
Nothing more than
A cup of coffee
And a cigarette
To while away the time,
(And you can’t even smoke in the house!)
When you want to write
About certain memories
of the past,
The kinds that one
can never fix
Away
Or
Drink away
Or perhaps
Even die away.
Moments, that if shared,
Would cause others
To stay away
Even though
The events
Are long past.
Scooping water into a spoon
From the gutter
To get that needed liquid
To boil down the tar
God KNOWS what was in that
Gutter water,
or even the heroin
For that matter.
But who cared.
Overdosing in a Taco Bell bathroom
And coming to
As someone pounds on the door
(they needed to pee).
This is not the stuff of poetry,
Not as far as I know.
Bukowski got away with it
Because he’s Bukowski.
I can’t
Because I’m not.
But here it is anyway
In all its hell.
The times when desperation
Was normal
And normal
Was desperation.
At 44 I somehow managed
To stumble through,
Somehow was able
To make it.
But what is it
That I made?
See me! I survived stupidity?
Look at me, I conquered
Hell on earth?
Hardly.
There is no hell on earth
There’s no hell at all
There’s only us,
Today,
Now.
And THAT’S the hard part.
God save me from the gutter water.
Copyright © 2005 Steven Hoadley
|
