I’ll have truly earned

the scorn & derision

of the critics

whence I finally

release this dribble

but I won’t walk the plank

of Orizaba

& follow Crane to a death

of either asphyxiation

or shark meal

the pundits will get their say

and the reviews will be severe

but I fear not

the harshness of acidic pens

that tear my heart to shreds

and leave me for dead

the kindness of strangers

has bailed my ass before

& plucked me from the abysss,

fed me, rescued me

and sent me on my way

Surely, some kind soul

will prop me up again.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1075472

AMERICAN ZEN KOANS: Schaefer, George: 9798809062107: Amazon.com: Books

You were pissed off

even though

I hadn’t said

anything wrong

and it began

to dawn on me

that you weren’t 

pissed off at

what I had said

you were pissed off

at something

I hadn’t said.

Problem is,

it’s hard enough

for me to remember

all those things

that I actually said

It’s damn near impossible

to remember

all the things

that I haven’t said.

I just wish

I could find a way

to make you understand.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1072052

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

Mark Twain was wrong

the hand that feeds the dog

can be bitten

all excuses we make

the camera doesn’t lie

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1123863

After Antler wrote

an epic poem

about factory life

it was like a final word

an end to innocence

an end to ignorance

an end to all excuses

we had to confront the bleakness

far beyond any spiritual ennui

proffered by Dickens or Sinclair Lewis

and the false sincerity

of all the Anglo apologists

we drank rank java

from a roach coach

punching in on a time card

gotta make sure

we get clocked in and clocked out

so payroll can add the hours

all the while ignoring

the sweat and tears

the exhausted shell of a being

we run our lathes and presses

we form cardboard boxes

and fill them up with empty promises

and empty delusions

cheap merchandise no one wants or needs

but simply has to have

to fulfill the prophecy of the ad campaign

but after Antler wrote

his factory poems

we should have known better

we should have know that

the corporate overlords

were totally full of shit

but first Reagan and then Trump

deluded enough young folk

and old folk alike

to toss us right back

into George Santayana’s paradox

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1122541

The truck driver

used to saunter in

3:00 am cheerful

but jonesing for coffee

to chase the eggs and bacon

He had multiple refills

and seemed oblivious

to the random drunks

stumbling in

for past closing time munchies

a young couple

feuding over something

or probably nothing

but we’re all condemned

to listen to the hot mess

they call their lives

a baker drops in

for breakfast

consuming fuel

to go make the donuts

too many people

order sunny side up eggs

to divert attention

from the far less

than sunny side up lives

we seem to be living

I take a quick restroom break

I wash my hands

and the busboy washes

the white powder residue

from under his nose

another couple comes in

two more orders sunny side up

but a hesitant drunk wants eggs

as scrambled as his brain

He orders scrapple which

is dear to my heart

the graveyard shift

it does keep you on your toes

however predictable

it always seems to be

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1116616

I could whine

about Ginsberg

or Rupi Kaur

or the general state

of the universe

and it would be

hollow complaint

falling on deaf ears

waiting to dismiss me

waiting to tell me

I’m nothing compared

to Corso or Dunbar

or Dickenson

or any other poet

my run on sentences

paraded publicly

as profound verse

fooling next to no one

but I continue

undeterred

with minimal complaint

I live and let live

They do their thing

and I do mine

I’ll likely be content

when I meet my maker

imperfect, ever brutish

I followed my own muse

Undeterred by critics

I dug into the vortex

entirely at my own pace

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1121280

Eyes

focused

straight ahead

I am seeing

some silver linings

on this road I travel

occasional hints of gold

and thus the euphoric giggle

truly reflects current state of mind

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1090938

I didn’t come from church

I come from Philadelphia

I come for a show

I come to get high

to wreak havoc on the streets

a poet of delusion

a poet of confusion

a reading of Beats

never dying reading

NYC, NY, USA

dying of poetry; drunk

smoke herb hashish stoned

mind pure hope

thought run Whitman-esque

type of truth dream

Beat guys running rampant

going going on and on

I cam from Philly

Nazareth Hospital 1966

July 5 sometime in the morning

now I’m here

not from church

not in school failed

in life in work lover

all other endeavors

other than gaining sympathy

from old ladies

and copping acid at Dead shows

all else is no go

so I come from Philadelphia

streets Whitman walked

home where Poe lived

and drank the bile of death

under Franklin’s sacred vision

tombstone of ether visage

I come from Philadelphia’

once again never bragging

simply stating a fact

for the record

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1117272

In my dream

I hear a sweet melody

and I begin to discern

the lyrics to “Come As You Are.”

I’m compelled

to follow the sounds

and move closer

I Keep thinking

after 25 years

I’m gonna see Kurt again

and I draw closer

and I notice the voice

it doesn’t sound like Kurt

and I continue the pilgrimage

to the sweet song

and I begin to recognize

the visage of the singer

It’s not the face of Kurt Cobain

but Jesus of Nazareth.

He’s gently strumming the strings

of that acoustic guitar

and smiling sweetly

as he sings the song

and I awaken

with a blissful feeling

and the tune still stuck in my head

I feel certain 

it’s gonna be a good day.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1072810