my bad work i did on monday

Monday, an hour before noon
and this is when I begin?
I know I need to read
but I also need to write
writing is the most important
but I want to write about
happy things
balloons
sweets
donuts
ice cream
I want to write
a
list
poem
or maybe a black out poem
I need newspapers
with a good Tombow marker
and go to town
and start redacting
all the good stuff
that should be left in
lots of money
it can’t buy happiness
it sure can rent a lot of it
is it impossible to write
something pretty?
why do we end up
writing about the
miserable
the down trodden
we are supposed to write
something bad
do some work that is
horrible
and sad
and down and depressed
but i don’t want to
i want to write what is
hopeful
and
happy
and full of grace
and love
and yet it all
escapes me
I’m supposed to write something
horrible, something bad
do bad art
that sounds liberating
i like the concept
of bad
art
bad work
it feels like it’s sitting
next to me
starring over my shoulder
bad art
it’s to easy
no not easy enough
just words
that aren’t
poetry
not that it matters
just write the stuff
and leave it behind
and then forget it
this is my goal today
to do what Sol Lewitt
wrote in his letter to
Eva Hesse
i will sum it
abreviate it for you
do bad art
so bad that all
that is left
is nothing but
good
cleanse yourself
of all the bad crap
and just write
i love writing like this
uncaged
roaming like a wild tiger
munching the daises
i feel like i have to
share everything with
my dad and that i
shouldn’t have to
but he wants to know
what i was reading
he wants to read the
letter
but i know he won’t like it
no matter what
then he’ll turn around and
judge me
i told you so
i said
but by then it won’t matter
no matter how hard i try
to justify it for myself
it’s easier just to keep
it all to

my
self

and keep going
instead of trying to
block out
all of the negative words
of judgement
and yes i know we all
can have our opinion
and i can ignore
and take action
about it
about the ignoring
and the snoring
of everyone sleeping
through this
not that any of this matters

i like everything in verse
everything short
to the point
like i always have
and i’m always so
ti red
it’s no wonder i can’t write
well
so bad writing i shall
do
and do it well then
it will stop being
bad art and be
something worthwhile reading
something great
everyone can write bad
if they put enough of effort
into it
even i can and it doesn’t
matter one way or the other
but deep down i wish it
would matter

dad is here now
to check his email
and use my internet
talking about finding
another Starbucks
at the university
he thinks it’s open
to the public
but we could never
find it
because it’s inside
the buildings and
you can’t get inside
we never could
we: my wife and I
but that’s just us
and I’ll see if it’s only
because we don’t
have the credentials
about what is going on around us
and maybe i need to get this
out of my system
i will see if i can get to
any good stuff down the road
in another path
i think dad will be in
for a rude awakening
i think it’s only for the students
but we will see if it is
don’t really care
one way or the other
right now.
it’s good I ate what I
did, i think he is trying
to get some free lunch
and i’ll have to prop
my head up
and pretend i’m writing
again. making up works
no matter how hard i have
to fake this i have to get t
through this.


loud clickity typewriter sound
for my computer keyboard
like a miniature woodpecker
plastic clicks echo the work
louder the clicks
larger the words
hearing more letters
project from the screen


i find i get ideas for
my poems by reading
other poems by
charles bukowski
skipping most of his
potty mouthed foul words
in search of better ones
lost in the crossword
in my keyboard.
maybe i do like my
quiet
keyboard
it is writing in stealth mode
instead of something loud
and obnoxious in the 1980’s
where everyone heard
your word count out loud

quiet keyboard
allows me to be
the spy
i never was
my childhood dream
of being the spy i never was
quietly typing
the words
that will expose
everyone i mention
the crooks who
almost got away


-a poem about spring

yellow limy glowing tree leaves
baby leaves

fresh cool air
low humidity

sounds of birds chirping
cardinals (red wings dot my lawn)

budding flowers; not yet open
smell of sugar

soft quiet rain

*
-spring

low humidity air
filtered by the misty rain
glowing green
baby leaves sprouting
flower buds smell
of sweet sugar cane

red cardinals chirping
bouncing on a branch near by

Published by Brian Sommers

I'm an abstract artist and a jeweler. I've been involved in flight simulation since mid 1980's as my hobby.

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