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Getting A Muse On
i. It's a dollar cover charge to get in / But
I am afraid of the water / at
the Deep End
ALIGNRIGHT
ALIGNLEFT
words in a basic pattern
reefer whiskey hot-ass broads
that communicate; a line
make poets of us all
of alphabetic characters
alone in our bedrooms
strung together without structure
screaming against solid walls
on a page
imprisoning the imprisoned
in this age
is what we know
we call it poetry, some say Rhyme
some call it Art
and others Meter (3:4 time)
because that's
usually
a good short name
YOU WOULD HAVE ME
in latin drop the silent "e"
EXPLORE MY ALTERNATIVES
THE PRIVATE SOUNDS i MAKE
(mabel loved me as I loved her
THE SUBSTANTIAL ERECTIONS
but it did no good
OF MY THOUGHTS
she died)
cup my hand
I ressurrect
to my ear
that moment
and listen to the babble
that's the universal citizen
in my dreams
Valley of the Drum Rift in Africa
clip the edges
Mosaic of Gabriel on the Sax
rearrange the flowers
The Midwife Eating a Newborn
and dim the light
After Monet - a sonnet
so we can make poetry together
been there
yeah
done that
ii. I've happiness on my tongue / like a sugar
cube / or like a fat soldier
who
CENTERED
tells the truth about your naked pustules erupting
well-wrought urns of
long-drawn-out melodies we call our whole lives
sanctified for
mystic gurus on mountaintop prisons wanking
the bars with
tin cups of dissipated energy diluted by solitude
on
the corner of BusyBeaver and NoTime
where Sally Straightback says I'll Do Y' Fer
a Quarter Bag
so it's poison I give her (you've read this
tale on the Rue Morgue)
like mercury for syphilis who has a sister
in Poughkeepsie
who dreams all engines are piston poweered
and all vehicles
hydromatic like veins where blood and watered
down sugars
stumble toward stoppage
then it's back to
UNCENTERED
ALIGNLEFT
ALIGN RIGHT
and it's a poem at 2 a.m.
then it's connect-the-dots
when the heart stops
all over again
in a half-alseep someone's
trying to make sense
last gasp
of it
but on Monday (Monday-Monday)
we hear the neighbors through thin walls
there's no rising from the dead
harping and bitching and clawing
there's no hall of fame invite
for each other
only the unechoed
in the darkness
AMEN
panting hard
from some black-clothed dude
The toilet flushes
who pisses and shakes the dew off
around sunrise
just as I do
and I know it is finished
BUT he pays more attention
while I have lost sleep
to his hand movements
over such trivial things.
until a million Sally-alikes
Close your eyes, take more
drugs
sink and drown in the commode
to dream of salvation
though he dreams life after
the alarm clock
he has no fatih
that threatens reality
being neither writer nor poet
must be destroyed
though he drinks bourbon
because I have given up dogma
all this
dogmeat and stuff
I escape
with a signature
iii. Leaning-against-a-lamp-post Tired
po' whyte trash editors
rearrange the letters.
In the belly
button of the whale
they've lived
too long
and love lint
so they forget
that this last stanza
DOES NOT EXIST
and you think
YOU KNOW STUFF
An Hungarian-American born in Chicago, John Horvath Jr.
was educated (PhD) in the American South; He has been a steel
mill mechanic, a soldier, a street poet in Munich, a cab driver,
professor of literature and criticism. Disabled in a parachute
accident, he now lives in Mississippi with his wife, four children,
two dogs, and a cat. Horvath edits PoetryRepairShop - Contemporary
International Poetry (since 1997) and writes poetry, much of
which appears online.
John Horvath Jr.
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