Poetry: Selections from John Yamrus
he was
fully aware
of what Matisse had said
about
how painters
have to begin by first
cutting out their tongues,
which is why
when
the cops
finally broke down the door,
the
first place
they looked
was
the stove.
Tammy looked at him
and said
you’re one
of the good guys...
you don’t
drink more than you should
and
as far as i know
ya ain’t murdered anyone.
Billy
smiled and said
while i've never officially murdered anyone,
there was
that little incident
with the three monkeys,
the goat and the can of lima beans...
but
they never
made the charges stick.
the lima beans, though,
that’s another
story.
since the reading
was
for a group
of aspiring writers,
the host
asked me to
start off by giving the
audience a writing challenge of sorts,
something
to think about
while i was reading.
i thought
that was stupid
and crazy and counter-productive.
it was
bad enough
having to read my poems,
which
i hate doing,
because...
well...
i
just hate it,
but that’s the job.
so i
waited till the end.
and then
i told them
to go home and
look in a mirror and
write about what they saw.
i
told them
how to reach me
and said
i don’t care
how they write it
or what they write;
just write something.
anything.
that was
a week ago,
and i’m still waiting.
some
challenges,
it seems, can’t be met.
i’m
just glad
that i met mine.
she said
put
yourself
in my place...
or put yourself in a corner.
i don’t
give a shit
what you do...
sure,
it’s mean
and bad and evil,
but it gets under your skin,
and it stays there.
so,
just go away!
and
he did.
every man
loves
the smell
of his own farts.
Billings was different.
his
were so bad
he had to get up
and leave the room.
that’s
probably why
he never got married.
it was horrible.
no woman
stayed very long.
even his dog ran away.
twice.
which was
okay with Billings.
he didn’t mind
being alone.
he
liked
the quiet.
it
gave him
time to think.
and listen to his music.
no one
liked his music either.
life,
for Billings,
was almost perfect.
if he
could only
get used to the
smell of his own farts.
Don looked at him
and said
he needed a
good woman to
kick his ass now and then.
he said
it kept him in line.
being
neither good
nor a woman, but still
the best friend Don ever had,
he
beat the
shit out of Don,
finished his drink and
walked
on out the door.
her mouth
was a
ruined white flower.
she
had to
be 80 or more,
but
she stood there,
in the back of the room,
while i
read my poems
to a couple of dozen students
who only
looked tired and bored.
i wasn’t into it
and neither were they,
and all i could see was this mop
of
stringy
grey hair
and
a face that
kept urging me on.
no amount of scrubbing
would
ever remove
the smell of burnt cabbage,
old paint, grease
and regret
from walls which seemed
to be closing in on every side,
which
was okay
with Tommy...
he’d seen worse.
besides,
there was always Janey...
one day
she just might come back.
that thought
was enough to keep him together,
and it made all the difference in the world.
this zine
came
in the mail today
and the look and feel
and tone of it
made me
think of d.a.levy
and the ragged
renegade stuff
he used to put out
and this one
was just like it
with the pages
printed sideways
and the words over-lapping
and it was all
so wonderful and
crazy and
wild
that the
only thing missing
was d.a. levy
himself.
he
knew
it
as sure
as
he
knew
anything
no
summer
is
endless
John Yamrus’s career spans more than 50 years as a working writer. He 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 book of his selected poems was just released in Albania, translated into that language by Fadil Bajraj, who is best known for his translations of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Pound and others. A number of Yamrus’s books and poems are taught in college and university courses. His most recent book is Selected Poems: The Directors (Concrete Mist Press)
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