SELF ANALYSIS

I'm not of an artsy nature
nor am I queer,
yet I play with the poesy.

I'm not institutionally trained
nor formally deceived,
but rather a student of my existence.

I'm lazy with the spellen
and don't dwell on there proper grammar,
I leave that to the secretaries.

I don't bother with the rhyme
or mess with the meter,
I have better things to do
with the ink than scheme rhythm.

I stay clear of the
coffee sipping gatherers
reciting their didactic dogma,
desperately in need of
any accolades they can get,
even if it's only 9 pairs of hands
doing that soft clap thing.

I suffer greatly reading
through the small presses
in search of something good
to inform the editors of;
a courtesy to those who have published me
(So very little to report).

I viciously scribble only when drunk,
smoking cheap cigars in the privacy
of pale walls that capture
my darkened screams,
submitting only when very drunk.

I hustle demented women
off the boulevards,
actually...they hustle me,
with a rat's swagger they saunter up
to my window through the headlights.

I'm alone most of the time
but feel it's not enough,
choosing not to succumb
to their monkey madness.

Sometimes I'm sad to be alive,
caught in this grind.
But when the machine spits out
that next page,
I'm thankful for the chance
to keep on banging upon those keys.

Unloved,
undiscovered,
lost in the words,
sacredly void,
screwed up,
fucked up,
beautifully insane
I spill the red of wine
down my chin,
laughing aloud
through breathy clouds
of a Cuban blend,
with the night resting
upon my shoulders.



TIM BLYFE

He pulls up in his BMW,
cell phone attached to his ear,
honks his horn at a cabby,
makes an ugly face
and flips him the bird.
He picks his nose while yelling
at the valet attendant for opening up
the door, "Fuck off...I'm on the phone!"

He has salt and pepper hair,
likes to shake hands with the mayor,
has a VOTE REPUBLICAN sticker
on his back window,
sits in the front row
at the hockey games,
fondles young blond escorts with big
boobs and dark tans in the middle
of his favorite hotel/restaurant.

The hostess greats him,
"Good afternoon Mr. Blyfe."
With fat fingers poking at that phone
he waddles past her without a word,
over to his usual table,
dead center,
where the high heeled creatures await,
along with his faithful cogs,
who try to emulate his every move,
as well as drop his name
whenever they get the chance to,
"...Blyfe gets a lot of tail."

He waves his hand at the waitress,
leans back in his chair
as his belly plops out over his belt,
scratches his chins,
then starts blabbing into the phone.

She brings his favorite bottle of wine,
pours him a glass, then asks
if there will be anything else.
He pinches her ass while wheezing
garlic stink into her face
and grinning those flushed cheeks
of an ugly drunkard.
She winces, backs up a bit, half smiles,
pauses as the group does its laugh,
then turns to walk off when he yells,
'Get us some GOD DAMN menus!"

You can learn a lot about a person's soul
by the way they treat the help.


- Kent Kruse 2001