A little doggie named Duder
Growling loudly at intruder
They can give him a snack
So he wouldn’t attack
The intrusion now less ruder
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1101154
AMERICAN ZEN KOANS: Schaefer, George: 9798809062107: Amazon.com: Books
The bell rings
so someone bought the bar a round.
You look up
to politely acknowledge
the kind stranger.
You have another shot
You go with J.D.
The creative juices
are flowing
and you feel inspired
Great—or at least adequate—poetry
might be committed today
but then you realize
there’s no ink left
in the pen you have
You don’t want to draw attention
by requesting a pen.
It’s even worse than cock block
when you feel a poem coming on
and lack the means
to commit it to paper.
The locals in the bar
are chatting up a storm
and craziness is abundant.
Thru the chatter
I find out
that moose barbacoa
is actually a thing here
I want to be writing
as the despair
of the locals
is begging to be exploited
On the radio,
I hear Boy George singing,
“Do you really want to hurt me?”
Apparently,
the answer is yes.
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1110364
The old North Star bar was a true legend. It stood on 27th and Poplar. It was far enough away from Center City to be off the beaten path. They had the main bar on the first floor and a room upstairs to host poetry readings. They had readings every Tuesday and it became a place to go for poets. Gregory Corso and Richard Hell did readings there (although they got to perform on the main stage).
A fun place to jam
pints of Guinness flow freely
poets offer hope
I used to do the readings and order a few beers. I always needed to walk back to Suburban Station after the readings. This usually entailed a quiet but drunken walk back. I needed to cross the Parkway to get back to the train station. I was often running for my life crossing the multi lane thoroughfare. It was always scary. Some people wonder how I’ve managed to keep myself alive through all the madness. Somehow, I have. And now with the North Star Bar gone, I can occasionally walk by and feel a lump in my throat—and in my soul—looking at the empty space.
A piece of my youth
sadly vanquished by evils
gentrification
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1106307
One of those nights
when the moment transcends
any ordinary reason
false gods state their case
the naive among us hoping
the ends justify the means.
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1092949
It’s beastly but beautiful cried the man
Who waltzed thru high school drama with a plan
We mocked the high pitched voice
Who would whisper like Joyce
But eventually we all became fans
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1078899
MISCHIEVOUS PATTERNS: NOT SO FANCY TANSHI VOL. 3: Schaefer, George: 9798829991593: Amazon.com: Books
How unsettling it was to finally realize that Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran. You read the credits and it raises so many questions. Someone points out the amazing coincidence and we all have to pause to say “Hmmm” It clearly confirms Louise Fletcher as an acting legend and national treasure but then confusion reigns supreme. So Nurse Ratched was a Bajoran religious leader and just as bad ass running Bajoran religion as running an mental institution in America.
Mind boggling to think
the implications unclear
ponder the meaning
So we don’t have the same timeline so we have to figure it all out. Did Kai Winn Adami travel back in time to become Nurse Ratched. I always felt that Chief Broom escaping from the Cuckoo’s Nest was vital for the survival of the human race. Randle Patrick McMurphy was a true martyr. You’ll never convince me otherwise. The Bajorans needed Federation interference to survive. Maybe the Bajorans sent Kai Winn back to make sure Chief Broom was motivated to escape. Or maybe reincarnation is the rule of the day and Nurse Ratched several lifetimes later was still a total ruthless badass bullying and dominating innocents. Lack of growth defeats the purpose of reincarnation but who knows?
Ponder mysteries
the universe so complex
the great mysteries
remain ever elusive
will truth ever be revealed
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1108801
I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by blandness
MTV spoken word tour; sewn up vaginas;
dismembered penises, poetry slams
featuring dickless, cuntless verse
spewed by genderless eunuchs
all in the name of advancing pop culture
for lamebrained, gutless pansies
trying to rap out poems
to the underage audiences
running around pretending it’s deep
yeah, Henry Rollins,
16 year olds think you’re deep
but we falsify the nature of the beast
mindless infidels, staggering drunks
The feasts that were promise
were never delivered by corporate—
yes, corporate MTV execs
pathetically trying to be hip
& failing miserably in the effort;
Timid poets pointing a finger at me
while I raise the finger at them;
All the yuppified, glorified culture
Jim Morrison wannabees and white boys
trying to rap like wiggas
without a clue about riddum
and the ever so sensitive—
ever so sensitive political correctness;
worrying about Bill and Hillary
or trying to eliminate sexuality
It’s all a crock of shit to me
Don’t have an alcoholic drink
make it water with a lemon twist
Try to create a giant rubber room
out of this glorious planet
so our Volvo’s and Saabs
can run freely in peaced
hide inside petty rhetoric
allow tv producers to think for us—
can’t actually expect us
to actually think for ourselves
figure out how not to offend
while pretending to be radical poets
those people cutting into my scheme;
but don’t think I don’t know it
only I admit it up front
that it’s 90% art, 10% pretense
or maybe the other way around
I just cling to my insanity
but it slips through my fingers
It, like sand beaches, is eroding
I am falling prey to the plague
but I try not to be defeated
try not to be like everyone else
It is a desperate, lonely plight
but not without its charms
as I keep the candle lit
and burn passionately through the night
determined to escape the fate
of albatrosses & other fallen angels
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1082993
5-7-95
It’s official!
I’ve transitioned
from getting old
to being old.
I was at
a bachelor party
watching a stag film.
Everyone was hootin’
& hollerin’
over the action on the screen.
I was sitting there,
incredulous look (I suspect)
on my face
thinking, “Damn!
That position can’t be comfortable.”
https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1062387
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.
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.
bathroomgraffiti