Poetry: Selections from Ken Kakareka
make something happen
i’ve noticed
that life
goes by
if you don’t
make something
happen.
it doesn’t
think about
you.
i could sit
for days
wallowing out
my window,
watching people
conquer
their ambitions
while it
all just
keeps moving,
leaving you
behind.
unless
you get out
ahead of
it
and make
something
happen,
it’ll
pass you by
like a gust
of wind.
stroke of optimism
i’m just
a dumb guy
from pennsylvania –
unseen.
that’s how
i feel
sometimes.
it’s hard
not to
in today’s
world.
you work
relentlessly
only to be
stomped on,
chewed up,
and spit out.
dour gum,
no fun.
but i keep on
moving,
believing that
it’s key
to not being
completely
squashed.
plummet
alone
at work
in a
vacant building
on friday night
and this
is when
the poetry
creeps in.
no one else
wants to
be here
but i
have to
for the
money.
yellow taxis
and
bustling bones
decorate
the streets
below.
i could jump
into the sea
and join them
but would they
catch me,
or let me
plummet?
if i know
new york
i’d go with…
unworthy
what
do i get
for my
artistic
endeavors
and soulful
outpour?
likes,
no loves,
mostly dislikes
online.
certainly never
loot
or clout –
just wild bouts
of depression.
poetry
is not real
in the real world,
certainly nothing
worthy
of recognition.
but
ridicule,
laugher,
disaster
are all invited
to the
poetry party.
time
i get worried
that i’ll
run out of
time
to write
everything.
sometimes
i think
i’m wasting
my time
on words
but i
realize
there’s not
enough time
to write
everything.
time is
precious,
i think
just about
the most
precious thing
we know.
whiskey blues
so you’re
hungover
on a rainy
monday morn
listening to
vienna
by billy joel
when you
realize
it’s time
to turn over
a new leaf.
you drop
the pen
so long
old friend
and go out
in search
of sunshine.
not sure
what you
might find
if anything
but the
main thing
is
you’re in
pursuit.
private
you
are not
supposed
to be
a writer –
what makes
you think
that you
can have
quirky,
original thoughts?
you
are not
from hollywood
or
new york city.
you
are from
small-town
pennsylvania
where creatives
are not bred –
only
gas station
attendants,
laymen,
and altar boys
turned priests!
you
are not
supposed
to be
a writer –
write this
down
so you
remember
and keep it
to yourself.
altar boy blues
i was in
5th grade –
maybe 7th –
but i’ll say 5th
for the sake of
embarrassment
serving mass
when i could
no longer
hold it.
father was taking
too long
to finish
his sermon.
so i shoved
the book
in his face
as piss streamed
down my leg
onto
the altar.
mass continued
while my
confused parents
and satisfied sister
watched me
scramble red-faced
down the altar
and into
the dressing room
where i
could not get
my pecker out
fast enough
and finished
pissing my pants
in private.
opinions
we all have
opinions
but none
of them
are right.
writing
should be…
marriage is…
abortion…
bukkake!
not sorry
for the
graphic
imagery.
i find it
funny that
bukowski’s name
sounds
so much like
the word.
if you
don’t know
its meaning,
look it up.
that’s my
opinion.
rag doll
i teach
this 6th grade
korean boy
in night class.
bad english,
brilliant innocence.
“i wish
my dad
to stop
smoking,”
he confided.
i see his dad
pacing
in the
parking lot
ripping heaters.
nervous smile,
nervous wreck.
2 kids,
a mortgage,
the hurricane
of life
whirling him
around
like a
rag doll.
kid,
i think.
there are
worse ways
to cope.
Ken Kakareka's latest novel is Summer of Irresponsibility (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). His words have appeared or are on their way in numerous rags including Gargoyle Magazine, The Gorko Gazette, & New Pop Lit.
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