ASSHOLES AND BITCHES NEED NOT APPLY

As I waltz through my life

whiling away hours, weeks,

years & even decades

I never found a shortage

of certain undesirable sorts.

There seems to be 

an asshole lurking

under every rock

& a bitch to be found

around any old corner.

The cretins aren’t coming.

They’re already here

They appear out of the mist

when you least expect them

always willing to lend a hurting hand.

There’s no longer any surprise

in finding someone new

only to learn they are not dependable.

You’re only an afterthought

they never truly care for.

As I get older

I find I have fewer friends

and more casual acquaintances

and that’s very much by design

as I try to keep my life real.

I’d rather be surrounded

by those relatively special few

that I know I can count on

than have thousands of false friends

valued at a dime a dozen.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1068152

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN: Schaefer, George: 9798449725561: Amazon.com: Books

CHOKE THE CHICKEN (AUTO-EROTIC ASPHYXIATION GONE HORRIBLY WRONG)

They found him

in a room in Thailand—

pants down, belt around neck

big smile on his face.

The prostitute in the room

sobbing and swearing

it was an accident.

Auto erotic asphyxiation

gone horribly wrong.

And then there are suicidal tendencies

and people hanging themselves.

But families lose the Ka-ching

if it’s suicide

so now we have lawsuits

claiming deceased loved ones

were really just perverts—

No intent to die

Just intent to cum

Auto erotic asphyxiation 

gone horribly wrong

But maybe we’re taking

our idioms and adages too far.

Maybe we need 

to drop “choke the chicken”

and bring back “spank the monkey”

There will still be

a lot of redness and swelling

but at least you’ll live

to recount your shame.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1071061

THE BATMAN DREAM

I haven’t had

the Batman dream

in quite awhile.

That was always

my favorite recurring dream

in my early adult life.

The basic gist of the dream

is that I would be Batman

with uniform and Bat Cave and all.

Of course,

I wasn’t a very good Batman.

I was more interested

in making time with Catwoman

than preventing crime.

Then people ask the obvious:

Which Catwoman was it?

Was it Julie Newmar or Eartha Kitt

or Lee Merriweather or Michelle Pfieffer

or Anne Hathaway?

I’m truly a whore

because it always rotated 

among the different CatWomen.

All of them (including Haile Berry)

appeared in at least one dream

and truth be told

I’ve yet to select a favorite.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1065749

RUN IN MY PANTY HOSE

It’s fairly well known that a lot of football players used to wear panty hose underneath their uniforms in colder weather.  Joe Namath and the Oakland Raiders were well known offenders. Several magazines felt the need to sensationalize the issue.   It made perfect sense to do so in spite the insecurities and biases of many homophobic football fans.  The sheer nature of the fabric provided warmth without being bulky or obtrusive.  I sometimes wore panty hose under my football uniform when I was young.  It was helpful to performance.  The panty hose barely showed so people generally wouldn’t notice if you were wearing them.  You really only had a small area of the calf between the sock and the shin guards.  Of course, I always dreaded that that would be the precise area where I got a run.  I have hairy legs poking through and causing problems.  You know if a run is visible someone is going to notice.  Alert the social pages, we have a major breech of protocol.  The embarrassment was always hard to live down when it happened.

Try to hide snafu

a run in my panty hose

endless shame we face

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1102833

Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798416456573: Amazon.com: Books

PAKISTAN JOE

I was 16 years old and in all probability working illegally.  I had taken a gig as a busboy at a local diner.  I was working the graveyard shift from midnight to 5:00am on weekends.

After hour gig

bussing tables of the drunks

virgin cherry popped

I befriended the dishwasher.  He told me everyone called him Pakistan Joe.  He assured me I couldn’t pronounce his real name. I only asked once but we were pretty high at the time.  We got high out in his car during breaks.  It was usually my weed.  My weed was usually cheap dirt weed.  I was buying it on a busboy salary.  He did offer me swigs of some rot gut whiskey in return.  He talked about the world, weed, wine and women.  He was always quick to crack a joke about anything and everything.

That rot gut whiskey

burning brightly in my gut

eyes popping open

It was always a good time.  Every 16 year old needs to be exposed to the suburban drunks filtering into an all nite diner for 3:00am breakfast.  It’s really how you learn about life.  They say it causes great harm but I survived and thrived.  I learned since to drink better whiskey and smoke better weed among other things.  Pakistan Joe may not have been the best sensei but there was wisdom gained from the friendship and I pour a shot to his memory tonight.

Old Pakistan Joe

a not forgotten mentor

remembered fondly.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1105106

MENAGE Á TROIS

They were married

to each other

but both were bi

“they informed me.”

They explained their rule

that they could play

as long as they shared

with each other

Seemed enlightened to me

and my curiosity was piqued

if not fully inflamed

We were having some fun

when I notice one with a strap on

and I’m thinking

it’s meant for her wife

She says, “Oh no, sweetie.

This is meant for you.”

I gulp nervously

but we’re already

in too deep.

But I think to myself,

“Hey I’m 55 years old

and having the first menage á trois

of my life.”

Things are not so bad.

I know you’d love for me

to sit down

and tell you all about

but as much

as I’d love to boast

I beg you forgive my reticence

as I’m still a bit too sore

(previously published by Dumpster Fire Press as Voices from the fire.)

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1104410

EGGS, BLOODY MARYS AND JAZZ

There was time to kill

since the next train

was at 5:38AM.

Fortunately, Manhattan

always offered options.

An all night diner

or a 4:00AM bar; 24 hour deli.

A favorite haunt back in the day

was the Jazz Cultural Theatre

on 8th Ave between 28th and 29th ST

They had a residency 

with legendary drummer Art Blakey

on Saturday night (Sunday morning:

from 3:00AM to 7:00AM

A legend for 15 bucks

and you could get drinks or breakfast

and pair it with jazz.

Eggs, Bloody Marys and Jazz

It was a blast.

A couple times

I even missed the 5:38

and had to catch the 6:38

I was young & insane

so it never phased me.

I was living on the edge

but it always seemed 

to provide its own rewards.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1071245