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

LOOKING FOR GOD IN THE ANACOSTIA RIVER

Fact is sometimes

stranger than fiction.

A case in point

is a recent Dead show

in Washington DC

I was partying up

in the legendary RFK parking lot

getting primed for the show.

I was talking to

a college girl

about the scene

and explaining how

it’s mainly just in fun

only a few of us

ever actually take it too far.

No sooner do I finish

my soliloquy 

than a guy goes running by

screaming at the top of his lungs:

“THERE IS A GOD ABOVE!!!

THERE IS A GOD ABOVE!!!”

and dives into the murky waters

of the Anacostia River.

and I’m standing there stunned

thinking, “Open mouth, Insert foot.”

at this amazing spectacle.

Now, I’ve drank excessively,

done all kinds of substances

both licit and illicit.

I’ve been fucked up drunk,

stoned, obnoxious, dosed,

zoned, dusted, zonked,

blasted, plastered, under the weather,

high, wasted, toasted, roasted, wired,

tripped up, smoked up;

I’ve puked, passed out, 

gotten sick, made others sick,

misbehaved, acted like an ass. . .

But in all the madness & chaos

it never once occurred to me

to look for God at the bottom

of the Anacostia River. 

6-7-95

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1062033

SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS

Have to watch those Saturday morning cartoons with my dog.  MeTV was kind enough to throw on 3 hours of the classics.  It’s become a treatment for a hangover.  After the dog headbutts me into street clothes for an early morning walk, I get back still head throbbing with a hangover.  Cartoons in the bedroom works wonders.

Watching Pink Panther

electrocuted on screen

no plot to follow

and Popeye remains a strange cartoon.  No one can explain to me why anyone wanted Olive Oyl.  But it helps nurse me through the hangover.  Sips of coffee proffered from the mug stashed on the nightstand.  The dog turns away from Tom & Jerry cartoons feeling as though the dog in the show is mistreated and underutilized.  Nobody is all that upset when Tom gets his comeuppance, that’s for damn sure.

Strange image of cat

and mouse and unhinged canine

filtering on screen

Of course, I’m really a Bugs Bunny fan.  Bugs Bunny was one of my boyhood idols.  It’s also great to see Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, Porky Pig, Foghorn Leghorn and even Marvin the Martian maggot.  You wonder what makes those construction workers really think they will get away with building their house over top of Bugs Bunny’s home.  It takes a real fool to think it might work.  The dog does turn back to the TV when Bugs Bunny comes on.  He also seems partial to Foghorn Leghorn.  I gradually stave off the hangover and struggle toward consciousness with my cartoons and copious quantities of coffee.  The dog lays there judging me in my inefficiency and I can say I deserve better

Animated morn

eventually eyes open

a new day rising

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1099823

DEMOCRACY! WHISKEY! SEXY!

America! Democracy! Whiskey! Sexy!
Oh my,

Democracy to elect inept candidates
with the Haliburton Seal of Approval.

Whiskey–We’ll toss down shots of diluted J.D.
to celebrate our newfound freedom.

Sexy–well the whiskey should make it appear that way.

Coda to D.W.S.

Fuck the Democracy!
The whiskey told me so
and I still don’t feel very sexy.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1060741

LEAVES OF GRASS, MY ASS

Leaves of grass, my ass!

 but this is no slam on Whitman

nor a drunken ode to Homer

nor any pretense at literature

nor a meager nod to pop culture

in an animated wonderland.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

because I sang the body electric

though the learned astronomer

coolly advised otherwise

and betrayed the beauty of the stars.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

A year of meteors long promised

yet still remain undelivered

I watch my captain cold & dead

and we swore upon children of Adam;

we cursed the setting sun.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

Although I dreamed in a dream

the skewering of fallen angels

and the resurrection of saints;

the cartoonish folly elicited.

Leaves of grass, my ass!

O eternal love restore me;

lead me down the path of enlightenment

eternal truth is all we seek\

be it in leaves of grass, swinging pendulums

or other images broadcast thru our mind’s eye.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1060838

UNMADE BED

I always get people who worry about what kind of furniture or pieces of furniture, I have or don’t have in my apartment.  They say you need to have a coffee table or the chairs at your kitchen table should match.  I get the alarmed queries about what are people going to think.

I’m usually sitting there thinking, “What people?  Who am I inviting over all of a sudden that I have to worry about impressing?” I live alone with a dog.  There’s 2 people that need to be happy with the place.  One walks on all fours.

Anyone that is already a friend already knows I’m completely insane.  They probably won’t be alarmed.  If they’re offended by what pieces of furniture I have or don’t have, the dog will be happy to show them the door.  He’ll probably hump their leg first and then show them the door but that’s a story for another time.

This is like the people that are obsessed with making the bed.  They get panicked when I tell them that I rarely make my bed. And I have them hysterically shrieking at me, “What if someone comes over and the bed isn’t made?”

First off, I live alone so I pretty much control the flow of traffic through my apartment.  Second of all if you really must know, let me explain what will happen.  If someone comes over on a day that I didn’t make the bed and they find a reason to walk into the bedroom, they will most likely witness an unmade bed.

It probably won’t be the end of the world.  If they need to respect me less for it that is their prerogative.  But Hell, the way I see it, if you aren’t tough enough to handle witnessing an unmade bed, you probably don’t deserve to be my friend in the first place.  It’ll be no great loss if I never see you again.

UNMADE BED | PostPoems