Been a bit of a while since I've posted poetry on this site. It seems like I start every post with that statement. This poem was written a few years back. David and I went to this OU reunion party. Lots of people I haven't seen in some time. A few people I didn't know at all. This poem came out of a provocative conversation (or maybe I should call it a diatribe) started by some drunk lawyer. It may be a bit . . . unsettling.
far end of the comfortable bar couch.
Easy for him, life is. The guilty are guilty,
the accused always . . . guilty.
The few who feign innocence . . . definitely guilty.
He recites this philosophy like a well-rehearsed
closing statement. Important points punctuated
by sips of domestic beer and a sturdy shot of Jack.
It's easy for him. He knows it all, seen it all, all of it
as clear as the bottom of a well-drained glass.
The Army cop sitting next to him preaches ‘bout the
hooker with six kids muling three hundred
hits of ecstasy in her (whispered), “vajayjay.”
I spend the time it takes for him to say the word
again, “vajayjay,” to investigate the mystery
of my untied shoe. “Vajayjay.” The third time
forces my eyes to roll upwards toward the ceiling fan
that whirls out of control right above my head.
The others in our small group agree with the MP,
“What a shame, what a shame, those poor, poor children.”
And I’ve heard it all, seen it all before too. The quiet,
sincere tones of the speaker, the appropriately shocked looks
on the faces of the older women listening intently.
The geezers, me and David, share a quick glance
transmitting to each other our telepathic consensus:
“What’a load of bullshit, this is.”
Woodie 1o-o1-13 (rewrites o2-o5-15)
Mule
It's tempting, lying is.
The juiced-up lawyer, head leaning
back, It's tempting, lying is.
far end of the comfortable bar couch.
Easy for him, life is. The guilty are guilty,
the accused always . . . guilty.
The few who feign innocence . . . definitely guilty.
He recites this philosophy like a well-rehearsed
closing statement. Important points punctuated
by sips of domestic beer and a sturdy shot of Jack.
It's easy for him. He knows it all, seen it all, all of it
as clear as the bottom of a well-drained glass.
The Army cop sitting next to him preaches ‘bout the
hooker with six kids muling three hundred
hits of ecstasy in her (whispered), “vajayjay.”
I spend the time it takes for him to say the word
again, “vajayjay,” to investigate the mystery
of my untied shoe. “Vajayjay.” The third time
forces my eyes to roll upwards toward the ceiling fan
that whirls out of control right above my head.
The others in our small group agree with the MP,
“What a shame, what a shame, those poor, poor children.”
And I’ve heard it all, seen it all before too. The quiet,
sincere tones of the speaker, the appropriately shocked looks
on the faces of the older women listening intently.
The geezers, me and David, share a quick glance
transmitting to each other our telepathic consensus:
“What’a load of bullshit, this is.”
Woodie 1o-o1-13 (rewrites o2-o5-15)
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