That Killer Instinct

 

—Poetry by John Yamrus, Pennsylvania

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

Emily was

a horror show,
but her legs were the real deal,

and Lenny
knew enough about noir to know
that the only thing Emily needed to pull it off

was
a name
like Gilda
or Veronica.

and
he knew
that a noir woman
is always the promise
of the best sex you’ll ever have,

and
also the reason
you’re going to die.

but,
Lenny
was good with that.

you’re
damned if you do
and damned if you don’t.

and
when it
comes right down to it,

Gilda
or Veronica or Emily
or any other name she chose to have,

would
never really give a damn,

would she?

 

 

 

 

i remember the last time

my mother
combed my hair.

i was standing in
the kitchen with my friend Stephen

(it was always Stephen, never Steve)

and
we were
getting ready
to go back out to play.

i don’t
remember how old i was,

i just remember
being sweaty and dirty

and i’d washed my face
and got a drink

and
i asked
my mother
to comb my hair
and i remember the way
Stephen looked at me when
she held the comb under the water

and ran it thru my hair.

i looked at the floor.
i heard the water running in the sink.

i felt
young and
stupid and ashamed.

the sink was
cold against my skin.

 

 

 

 

he was once

editor
and publisher
of one of the finest
small presses in the world.

he
wrote poetry
with talent, insight and
more than a little
humor.

he had
a magnificent family,

and balls
made
of

tempered steel...

which made it
all the more puzzling

(when covid hit)

to see him
curl up

in
an even
bigger ball and

cry.

 

 

 

he

knew
his poems
weren’t going to change anything

or
move anyone,

but
he kept on writing,

even when
the bills came due,

his
friends gave up

and the
dust on the table
was thick enough for him
to lick his finger and write his name.

 

 

 

 

Shostakovich

had
the goods,

but
his music
lacked a certain killer instinct.

when
i listen to him,
even his most famous compositions,

i’m left
feeling like he was
never quite able to put it away.

if only
he had the
right kind of help.

it’s
too bad
he never got to hear

The Ramones.

 

 

 

 

 

i think

the best
part of the reading—

it was
this thing to mark
the release of an anthology
put out by this neat little art gallery

and many
of the contributors
came to read from the book—

i did my thing
and sat and listened
and smiled and clapped,

but,
i finally
had enough, and
while i was packing up

and
heading
for the door
i knocked a glass
of wine onto my stuff,
soaking my pants and shirt

and the
bag i was holding,
along with the books in the bag,

and i
didn’t know
such a little glass
could hold so much wine,

and i
walked out of there
smelling not only of wine,

but also
failure
and regret

and the
diminishing sound
of one more writer reading
words he found increasingly difficult

to
understand,

appreciate

and
finally
even hear.

 

 

 

 

you lay in bed and

there’s a train whistle somewhere
off in the distance and
it takes you back
to a place and
a time you
don’t
even care to remember
where it was or
when.

back to a place with dirty sheets
and dust in the corners and
under the bed and you
start thinking about
why and who and
where and
how

and you know it doesn’t really matter
because there will always be trains
and beds and sheets and the sun
coming up as you wait
for another day
that’ll bring you that much closer to
whatever it is that’s out there,
waiting to
finally

do you
in.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

—Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing

_____________________

We have a new visitor to the Kitchen today—John Yamrus, who writes: "I live in PA, 40 miles west of Philadelphia, with my wife of 46 years and our dog, both of whom suffer the indignity of letting me write about them. Just before my Selected Poems came out, my book, Five Dogs, was released. It’s about the five we’ve known, loved and shared our lives with."

In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 35 books (29 volumes of poetry, 2 novels, 3 volumes of non-fiction and a children’s book). He has also had nearly 3.000 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world; a number of Yamrus’s books are taught in college and university courses. His latest book is Selected Poems: The Director’s Cut (Concrete Mist Press, 542 pp.). A book of his Selected Poems was just released in Albania, translated into that language by Fadil Bajraj, who is know for his translations of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Pound and others. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!

A Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading will take place in Diamond Springs this afternoon, with Janet Rodriguez and Zheyla Henriksen plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future readings in the NorCal area.

And congratulations to Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas for having the Poem of the Month published in the Mountain Democrat (Placerville, CA); see www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-lavender-fields-forever/?fbclid=IwAR2RjwYKUuxeqGQxihBPOfQkixaZIaklSJ2thMxKX1P6Nq0Q9dqXbnMPq-Y/.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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