Poetry: Selections from John Yamrus

 for Tony it was

 

all 60s music...

Archie Bell And The Drells...

 

The Stones...

 

Smokey...

 

that 

was all he 

needed to get right.  

 

that, and 

his little dog Tail.  

 

Tail 

didn’t have any.  

He also didn’t have a back leg.   

 

Tony 

didn’t care.  

Neither did Tail.  

 

and they’d 

sit out back, and 

listen to music and drink beer.

 

Tail 

did, too.  

he’d get a 

splash in his bowl 

a couple times a day and 

loved it just as much as Tony did.  

 

for 

Tail and Tony 

it never got any better than that.  

 

it didn’t have to.

 

 

 

Gedda’s was

 

this little 

shot and beer joint 

our parents used to take us to 

 

when 

we were kids. 

me and my sister. 

 

i was 

maybe 5 and 

we’d sit with them 

at the end of the bar and 

Mrs. G would give us nickels 

 

that we’d 

put in the machine 

to get those red pistachios 

 

and 

my father 

showed us how 

to tip the machine 

and turn the crank real slow 

 

to get the most out of it 

 

and 

they’d sit 

and talk and drink 

 

and 

i know 

it had to be 

the afternoon 

because i remember 

the light coming in from the street 

 

and 

it was red 

because of the glass 

 

and 

so were 

our hands 

from the nuts 

 

and 

they were 

probably drunk 

 

when 

we left, 

because it was 1956 

and that was what you did 

 

when 

you had a 

couple of bucks 

 

and 

a day off 

 

and 

no one there 

to watch the kids.

 

 

 

he was seventeen when

 

god 

came down and 

took a giant shit on his head.  

 

after that,

it was Vietnam, 

then booze and drugs 

 

and 

that little 

blue Volkswagen 

he drove for years until 

he fell asleep in it and spilled 

a near full quart of milk on the seat. 

 

the sun 

baked him 

and the milk 

and no matter how 

much he scrubbed and cleaned,

he never really could get rid of the stink.

 

 

 

her breath

 

was like 

dead snakes 

kept too long in a jar.  

 

but 

that wasn’t 

the worst of it.  

 

if she 

had her way, 

she’d take all she could get 

 

and 

have you 

out the door 

before you even 

had a taste of anything 

even close to being sweet.

 

 

 

it snowed like hell that night,

 

and

only two people 

showed up for the reading, 

 

leaving 

me and them 

and a pile of empty 

seats and a table covered 

with stacks of books that would never get sold, 

 

and a 

contempt for it all 

that can never be put into words.  

 

when 

you’re not 

used to Happy, 

 

you 

grab it, 

squeeze it, 

take it home 

and hope that it 

 

never goes away.

 

 

Jake

 

started 

calling his 

old dog Omni...

 

not 

because 

it was all-powerful, 

 

but 

because 

it had started 

rolling in poop 

wherever he found it 

and the stink was unbearable.  

 

other 

than that, 

Pete (now Omni) 

was a good boy who 

stayed out of the street, 

never took a dump on the rug,

 

and 

pretty much did 

whatever he was told.  

 

too bad 

Jake found it 

hard do the same.

 

 

 

so, he says:

 

all you 

had to do 

was take one 

look in his eyes 

 

and 

you knew 

what the problem was; 

 

he 

was living 

way too close to the bone, 

 

and 

it kept 

him up at night. 

 

he knew 

he couldn’t hack it, 

but, what the hell...right?  

 

so, i said 

what happened next?  

 

and 

he looks 

at me and says: 

 

fuck me 

if i’m ever 

tellin’ anyone 

as stupid lookin’ as you! 

 

 

 

 

 

John Yamrus has been a working writer for over 50 years, publishing 35 books, including 29 poetry collections, 2 novels, and 3 volumes of non-fiction. His work has appeared in nearly 3,000 magazines and anthologies worldwide. Recently, The Street and Present Tense were released by Anxiety Press.