Post-Internet Poetry        


THE AMERICAN
POET





“Oh hell, Van Gogh
had a brotherwho gave him
paints whenever he needed them.”

There’s
something about
the sharp pain
In my left temple that makes
writing the an ibuprofen.  

No Van Gogh,
nor T.S. Elliot
but still trying to 
describe what hurts like this. 

It is the poem itself 
words turned images 
that dulls the effects 
of its acetaminophen.

The Japanese tradition of haiku
Appreciates and expresses
the beauty of nature.

The nature of the American poet
Is Bukowski
Not to flourish in a flowery
cadence of metaphors and song. 

No. 

The nature of the American poet
Is preoccupied with the
drunk stagger of industry.  
24/7 711
24/7 around the clock work
Around the clock violence.
The destruction of
our pain with the bartender
who gives free shots in
the solidarity of protest of
24/7 365
year after year
protest against our employers
who feed us nothing but
the rage needed to continue
our drunk stagger towards
the atm of a cash only bar
that isn’t a bar but a
6 hour cocaine driven flee
from the torture
of our next check.

Checkmate. 

The king has fallen to his knees
to pick up boxes of inventory
to check the sound snarling
from the bottom
of his 1996 chevy.
Automobiles ruined us all.

Automobiles ruined detroit
but that ominous foreshadowing
became nostalgic lust for american factories
in our revisionist history
written by the men who never
had to clock out
for a 30 minute break.

Who’s time card was swiped
at saks fifth avenue. 
Whos resent for the smell
of cigarettes proved that
they have never felt the
blue collar mans despair and only  
the blue blazer they claim is
a lucky charm from when
they got their first office job
at their fathers friends
pharmaceutical company.

My first job was at the age of 15.
Feuroset and caffeine
were the prescription
for a hopeful future of
making 100,000 a year.
Antidepressants - almost 
because the drive to work hard
let me truly believe
the American dream was still
on my team.

My father works harder than me.
Our favorite team
the Green Bay Packers. 
A family of cheese heads,
but i'm lactose intolerant.
Aaron rodgers, pass me the ball.  
I only ever get passed the balls  
of  a horny lover
searching for pleasure
when we cant find it together
in our  coffee shop jobs
when at 6 in the morning
we are torn from eachothers arms. 
It must be easy
to be a morning person
when your nights aren’t 7 am
adderall inspired epiphanies.

The American poet
could only write
of the lavish beauty of sunrise
of the profound beauty of nature
if he had a job that paid him
vacation time and salary enough
to see our vast country.
A life scarce as
a friendly neighbor in Boston. 

No. 

The American poet writes with pain
and no workers comp.

He staggers and slurs our pain
of labor never articulating
natural beauty.





                                         









































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