NORTH CITY BUS ARMATURE EMPLOYEES

People need a sense of identity.  This can apply even when the identity is not such a good one.  I worked at numerous shit jobs over the years,  The pay was low and the benefits were poor.  Of course, they were just pass throughs for me,  It was a means to survive for a few months or a year or so.  But the employees often took on a sense of identity even if it was a poor one.  When things went wrong, they would exclaim, “Normal people wouldn’t put up with this shit but we’re North City Bus Armature employees.”  There was a sense of identity even in working a shit job.  People need that sense of belonging and sometimes it comes even when it’s a shit job.  Hey, I can’t be a rock star or an NBA star but I’m a North City Bus Armature employee and that is my sense of identity.

Sense of belonging

we identify poorly

deluding ourselves

into a sense of import

even under great abuse

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1121291

DON’T TAKE LIFE SO SERIOUSLY

Someone

took the time

to offer sage advice

while all

I really wanted

was a quite space

to relieve myself

so I sit

& contemplate the words

Life is serious

It’s really yourself

you shouldn’t take
so damn seriously

I want to live a long life,

create art,

add beauty to the world,

help others

and make the world a better place

so I’m poeticizing

bathroom stall graffiti

cuz I really do think

my shit is all that

and doesn’t stink.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1080162

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

JUNIOR’S SLIPPING GRADES

Hitchhiking

Bristol Pike

thumbing a ride home

drop off at 7-11

to snag large Slurpee

and a pack

of Fleer baseball cards

no longer sure

why I collect

maybe I’ll get a Schmidt

or a Carlton

usually a bust

I get the scrubs

no one will remember

10 months from now

let alone

10 decades from now

but the Slurpee

is purple

and more grape

than I can handle

crossing train tracks

I follow Second Avenue

and slip back home

a new Van Halen album waits

the cradle

will indeed rock today

loud and clear

as Junior’s slipping grades

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1115641

RETURNED THE FAVOR

We had our falling out
and she went on the warpath

I became the villain

in all her tales and pomes

And somehow

the best poem she ever wrote

is about

what an asshole I am

My response  was

to express pride knowing

I inspired her finest poetic moment

I sip my beer

and reflect

30 years later

still her finest work

perverse pride emerges

She probably doesn’t hate me anymore

She probably doesn’t

even think of me anymore

30 years later
still the best poem

she ever wrote

and I do toast a lot

when I drink

I can take twisted pleasure

even being the asshole
twirling my mustache

and howling with laughter

but, of course,

if people come

to love this poem

I suppose

she’ll have finally

returned the favor

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1090198

MEANDERTHAL MAN: Schaefer, George: 9798826122174: Amazon.com: Books

DAY OF RECKONING

Sitting at the Trestle Inn indulging in a Trestlewide.  There’s a candle on the table and a video on the wall.  It’s footage of Nancy Sinatra presumably singing “These Boots Are Made for Walking”  but there’s no audio.  There’s a young lady on stage in the backroom dancing some go-go.  I snap a couple pictures of the dancer that come out blurry.

Young lady dancing

leisurely gyrating hips

enthralling vision

I notice that “Dancing Queen”  is playing on the P.A.  I make no comment on the soundtrack.  In my younger days, people got beat up for listening to Abba.  I figure that a day of reckoning may be upon us.  Perhaps another Trestlewide is in order.  I am greatly enjoying watching the dancer.  It’s an easy decision to make.  We do need to restore some order in the universe.  It’s not like I need another Trestlewide but I want one.  And I’m content listening to the music and watching the dancer.

Pour me another

let the moment continue

perception slipping

slowly draining of clear thought

just one more moment in time

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1107525

SQUANDERED SERENDIPITY: A Second Helping of Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798354488872: Amazon.com: Books

CHEAP MOTEL IN BERKELEY

Waking up in a cheap motel in Berkeley is weird enough.  The Indian food I had for dinner the night before is throwing a hootenanny in my intestines.  That Chicken Masala was heaven going in but there is a price to be paid.   I look about the room and see 5 other people laying about.  There’s someone else sleeping on the bed with me.  We’re both fully clothed.  It doesn’t seem like anything happened.  I couldn’t have been tripping that hard.  Everyone else seems to be sleeping blissfully.  

hair of the dog?

perhaps just quenching thirst

bleary eyes focus

It’s only 6:23 AM.  I didn’t sleep much but I’m jonesing for a beer.  We have plenty of beer in the cooler in the corner of the room.  I grab one and crack it open. It’s a bit early to be drinking but when you’re in a motel room with 5 people that you barely know—well that’s when we start making excuses for ourselves.  This one might even be a good one.  And when you consider the strangeness of it all, it is good to have a beer in hand.  Without the beer, I might not be able to cope with this.  I get up to go to the bathroom.  There are only 3 sets of towels in the bathroom.  I already figure that I’ll be the first one to take a shower to avoid that hassle.

perhaps TV

flick on morning cartoons

wash down the beer

I keep sipping on the beer.  I flick on the TV and there is a Foggy Leghorn cartoon.  No need for channel surfing right now.  The cartoons are actually helping me come to grips with the situation.  So for all the abuse it takes, beer does serve a very real purpose in the world.  It’s just that many people never stop to see it that way.  Someone else will wake up soon.  It will be good to fill a bowl and take a couple tokes.  There is another show tonight.  It promises to be a real doozie.

cartoons turned on

wake and bake surely looming

very near future

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1085390

SQUANDERED SERENDIPITY: A Second Helping of Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798354488872: Amazon.com: Books

UBER VS. TROLLEY

You finish up a poetry reading at a coffee shop in West Philly.  You feel you missed your mark on your performance.  Things were a little off.  Well, those are the breaks that we have to live with.  Voice was weak and hesitant.  You would think the extra strong coffee would cut the lethargy but not tonight.  Best to get home quickly and lick your wounds.  You need to find your way back to the train station to catch the R7 toward Trenton.  Homeward bound you have to consider your options.  Stand and wait for a trolley or order an uber ride.  These decisions weigh the moment.  You will get there and make it home.  That seems to be the only thing you are sure of.

Uber running high

although the optics are cool

I see the trolley

30th Street Station calling

me back from Baltimore Ave.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1069175

LINEBACKER WITH A POET’S SOUL

I was always a defensive player so my mindset was always focused on brutalizing the sissy skill position players.  I had that mindset of a linebacker.  One year, I had a bloody nose that lasted the entire season.  Every practice, every game, the wound would get opened up.  It was awesome.  I would be in the defensive huddle with blood all over my face exhorting the lads to buck up.  My behavior toward quarterbacks was downright uncivil bordering on criminal.  An every day citizen would go to jail for doing the things I did to quarterbacks.  But it was always just a game.  I’m gonna clothesline the tight end and knee the QB in the groin and then go write an inspirational poem about it.

Angry linebacker

harboring a poet’s soul

in spite the carnage

a gladiator in verse

wiping blood and sweat from brow

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/prose/1082291