Ode to a Night in Ale
(Lines composed a few miles above drunken stupor on revisiting repeated rejection from a company which rejects nobody and finally being accepted only to be told the original company is no more)
My heart aches, and bitter bad stomach reigns
I sense, as though I need a good pharm'cy,
(Or ten more herbs and spices for my pains)
One minute past ten, they close quite early:
'Tis not their choice—murder brings this new lot,
But 'tis said the pharm'cist in happiness
(That same week the light-armed bandits struck)
In some melodious spot
Of Jane Doey was found, so more or less
Singst the tale of wifey's wrath and ill luck.
O, a draught of ale!
Something there is that didn't love my job
That sent me my head swollen o'er riches
And spilt my rage on all ('cept the janitor)
Making gaps where I may no longer pass
Not after I told the boss to stick it
And not just an abstract "stick it"—but more
Specific, like stick it in your rol'dex
Or Farmville, maybe FreeCell, Sol'taire or
Even the Pac-Man game I really hated
Lame is death when sound has to be muted!
Fade far away,
FIVE years have past; well honestly, it's kind
Of five minus four! And again I hear
These seas, roaring from a shell-store
With Made in China labels. —And for once
Do I behold chance for my name in print
(And options: "Garamond" or "Papyrus")
That bound coffee edition would impress
Thoughts to mail optional illustrations;
And "F.U." letters to past professors
The day hath come when I can soar quite high.
Here, under the clouds I used as tissues
These all lie around like middle fingers
Which at this season, smiley bonds of earth
Are going to have to suck, and love it
'Mid groans and corpses. Once again I see
These critics, hardly critics, little know
Of nothings with wild talk: these naysayers,
Green to the very core; and worry laden
Sent up, to scare, from bowels of Google
With search terms "van'ty po'try contests"
I cannot see
Trav'ling through the dark. But I found a dear
Email note—almost at the edge of death
It's best to check junk mail now and again:
That saves emails; thirty days make more dead.
By glow of my laptop-light I stumbled towards bed
And stood in a heap, few words ringing in my head
"Po'try not always understood. Send another."
I'd dragged these words along; for eight long years
I'd thought hard—for autistic vision had
Ev'ryone and their granny—but not me.
Fall'n poet, rejected when others ain't
Doing but suffering. But be ye sure—
To do naught with talent is for the faint
No po'try? Then there was always Nigeria!
Millions of dollars up for the rescue!
Whom shall resist? If all they never need
Is an entry fee—maybe my address,
Bank account or later some small money
Mama always said nothing ever comes free!
Besides me, Earth has nothing fair to show:
Dull are the poor souls who have passed me by
A talent so steeped in immortal'ty:
This talent wast ne'er marked for death
The beauty of it; to a man's mind a threat
Heads, shoulders, knees and toes, temples lie
Open with just one verse, kinda like in
All Steven Segal movies— (men die fast)
Ne'er should I not be in an anth'logy
Mink-spined, feat'ring 800 of the best entry
"Coming Change" worth a dime less than sixty!
Dark fiend I listen; and, wonder if 'tis real
I have been much in love with my glory
Call'd myself healthier than a veggie meal
To hear this news kills then maims me
Now more than ever seems I might die, for
To cease being—to sell their very domain...
While I not yet printed or featured abroad
In such anthology!
...Still wouldst thou say I labored not in vain?
To thee I say thou art truly a sod!