Father's Day Poem For Wife In Virginia

He's in Hamm's Tavern,
evil juke box blasting
hard-on hip-hop
as coeds arch their backs.

Rain outside,
greasy chips inside…
nothing poetic
in the old "prep room" tonight.

This tavern once
was a funeral parlor…
where embalmed stiffs lay pink and cold,
hot frat boys now patrol.

He buried Professor Spear
after his service here in 1971…
always upbeat,
his wife would have loved him.

That Biology major,
gardenias in her hair,
wasn't even conceptualized
when Abide With Me droned that morning.

He likes Abide With Me;
funeral home sprays
more than beginning tawny gardenias
and Busta Rhymes.

Professor Spear researched
the spiral after-effect;
ate horseradish on collards;
smiled all the time.

Tomorrow is Father's Day…
Dick Spear had a daughter
who looked like
the waitress at the bar.

He's going home
to Sam the Dog,
cold bean soup and stale bread;
a video about orchids.

No wife, kids…
no wine nor flowers…
Father's Day will be more beer
and a poem in his own "prep room."


Professor E's Didacticism and Summons from the Chair

We should be eating insects
Walking to work
Shooting TV's
Keeping dirty fingernails
And armpits full of exaltolide.

If blood stains
The seat of your tan pants,
So be it.
You're a San Francisco 49er,
Go clip someone.

If your teeth rot out,
Tumble in slow motion
And once again
Stain your fawn spandexes
Let it be.

Get funky sophomores.
Run ragged and edgy.
All this textbook poot
Ain't worth Jack Shit.
You got to run like a Warrior in the dark.

If cold sweats
Make you hot
As a Mongolian gerbil
But not in any way sensual
Roll on, Sister.

If your kids hate you.
Your cell phone shocks your helix,
Your periods are not periodic,
And your back throbs,
Tuff titty cupcake, dear.

It don't matter none.
Fuck technology, airplanes, cars,
The media, medicine, insurance,
Dumb football games
And most of the modern world.


Monty Raines

wore Oxford suits,
Countess Mara ties,
alligator wingtip shoes,
3 inch collar Eagle shirts,

diamond tie tacks,
star sapphire cufflinks,
pastel silk pocket handkerchiefs
and cried all the time.

Monty was General Manager
at my father's store.
They both sold
"Clothes of Distinction."

Insufferably nasty
to most East Memphians,
he insulted them all,
except my father.

He carried a half pint of Jack
in his suit coat pocket
and would wash his hands
thirty times a day.

Adjusting his pants
with only his wrists,
Monty never let his pink fingers
touch the gabardine.

He lived at the YMCA
in downtown Memphis,
would lose his salary and commission
at the West Memphis dog track.

He would gamble and/or
make bet on anything,
everything from the weather
to who sang what on WPS.

An obsessive compulsive
arrogant alcoholic Dandy,
he blew his nose in a rose hanky
to make his crying.

When Monty died
no one sent flowers
or attended the funeral,
except my father.

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