Poetry

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 46

essay cover chalice

Acid Casualty
(or, Ordering at Skylark)

“Of course. Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I know you’re busy. Yeah, I’m ready to order, Bob; yeah I am. I will have a vodka martini. [Bob immediately spins away to go make the thing.] I would like my martini as if it were overturned by our government in a fit of book-banning rage. That’s to say, show absolute callousness: Shake it till you bruise it. Batter it. Make a goddamn victim of it, Bob. Make it dirty. Filthy. I want it nearly firm, to the point so you can’t see through the thing’s indignation. … Indignation for what? Indignation, Bob—indignation for its imminent role within my condition inside your establishment here where I’ve seen my common manners fail with poignant regularity. … Not even while squinting your eyes do I want to see through the goddamn thing. Make it impassable to the fucking eye. But no Vermouth, nooo sir, Boborino, I shall not take a fucking drop of that – my taste is too coy-sided to be infused by an opening up of anything. [Bob is interrupted in his making of the drink by another customer ordering a beer.] … However, I will ask this: I will ask that you take the Vermouth’s cap off and simply wave it thricely over the drink once it has been poured and calmed – I feel this pomposity legitimates the sneery constitution I will soon be gaining while empleasuring myself with those gulpy sips I will soon be pulling from that triangular glass you’re cubing right there in plain sight of this whole scene’s eyes. [Bob is back at his making of the martini. At the same time, he is describing to the other customer the after taste of the beer he just poured him.] And as for olives: indeed. I will need one. One olive, and one only, Bob. And don’t you dare pierce that salty oval. No, no, no. Spare it, sir; apply no wound. Whip the little devil into the cocktail with such vengefulness that it does not produce so much as a ripple, but does on the other hand produce a sound that resounds as the detonation that commences an Olympic 50 yard dash. … If you shall perfect this concoction for me on this day, Roberto, you will find that my cheap ass will not tip under-accordingly, but rather nearly decently.”

Chalice, dude, take it easy there cowboy. What the hell, man? You don’t drink martinis. Out to get blotto this evening? It’s Tuesday. It’s 5:35. The wife is on her way. … What, out to become the Muppet who ate Manhattan tonight?

“Fuck you, Hoz. Ate Manhattan? Didn’t you just hear me order a Martini? Ate Manhattan? [I know what he just ordered. I was simply using an expression. You know, I meant the island. He’s being an idiot.] … You have no idea where I’m coming from, Hoz. I had a horrific day. Horrific. … I began a poem. … Ugh! … I was knee deep in the fucking shit, sinking like a lead zeppelin into the thick of Mosul inside that cubicle today. Like fucking ‘Nam in that cube. And all those freaks asking me questions and putting things in front of me to work on or file away. Fuck that!”

Um, those freaks are our coworkers; those things are our job. Maybe you should try actually doing our job someday. … Oh, but I get it, Chalice, I get it. Poor, poor, pitiful old tortured soul you. … Oh, by the way, what would you know about serving our country?

“Tortured? Damn straight. That’s what it’s about. I’m not afraid to say it. That’s what it’s always been about: torture. … You got ol’ prized Collins reading at some botanical garden with some mick poet; you got all those ones smiling away on some website for some forthcoming Brooklyn workshop. Poetry’s just so tweet-tweet sweet little birdies in trees, ain’t it? All these poetry readings and poetry slams and little non-profit prizes goo goo gaa gaaing on and on with all their life affirming bull—”

That’s the spirit. That’s how you win hearts – an audience. Get in with the ‘in’ crowd. That’s it. Great American there, Chalice.

“Fuck you, Hoz. I serve my country. I serve my country by not being a school boy. That’s how I serve, and I’ve been serving for decades, dickhead. You can go straight to hell. … What, you think poetry is about touching hearts? … A calling? … Ah-ha! You sort of do, don’t you, douchebag? Thinkin’ poetry’s just so empowering – Poetry! Poetry! Swish-boom-bah! … [Bob puts the drink before Chalice. The drink is as clear as Chicago tap water; inside the glass are three olives squeezed together on a pick.] Like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid, that’s what poetry is—[Chalice takes a gulp of his drink.] Goddamn perfect, Bob! Perfect!—just like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid: ‘Jesus, man! You don’t look for acid! Acid finds you when it thinks you’re ready.’”

[I do a heavy sigh, thinking, It’s sis-boom-bah, idiot.]

Whatever, dude. You drain me. It’d be nice to be liked, appreciated, read. It’d be nice to bring the voice up out of the basement or outside of the cubicle every now and again. That’s all I think.

“Ha! Still petrified of the ol’ ‘cid, I see. … What was it? 1989? Edie Brickell & New Bohemians?”

You shut up now.

[Chalice slugs the martini, and Bob walks by and scoops up his empty glass.]

“HAHAHAHA. I guarantee, Hoz, you are the one person on this whole flat and minefielded planet who can say he was busted for being up in a tree while fried on acid at an Edie Brickell & New Bohemians show. HAHAHAHA—”

Shove it, Chalice.

[Fuck, it’s true. I ate some when Edie Brickell & New Bohemians came to play at our college. I had always been very skeptical of LSD because I had witnessed friends and acquaintances trip out on the shit. Acid always seemed to hunker down and be in there for too long of a time. Whether you wanted to keep on trucking or not, acid seemed to keep on zooming and zooming, rolling on and on for hours and hours. I had long found a sound friend in mushrooms: ‘shrooms could be controlled, manipulated on my end, I could maintain a rather speculative decorum on ‘shrooms, flirt with the gals like a Turtlenecked, Courvoisier sipping scholar, carry on a dialogue with the Reverend Any Major Dude, or at very least be cognitive enough to listen and learn from him about my inherent duality. I’ve always been able to come down from ‘shrooms whenever I’ve wanted to. But for whatever reason, on that particular day I decided to give acid a go, and with a double dose at that. During the concert I was standing next to a tree. When I looked up into the tree it became immediately apparent to me that I should be up there in it. I’d be able to see the band over the something like 200 students who were in attendance out of the private school’s student body of just over a thousand. Once up in there I began to hear loud barking. I looked down and there were two campus police officers standing down there yelling up at me. Their teeth were all I made out: like dogs’ teeth when dogs are growl-snapping at you. I climbed down and the cops chastised me. They walked away, got a few yards away from me, and without any thought I climbed right back up into the tree. Again, barking; again, teeth. But this time when I climbed down I was cuffed, and put in a cell. (I would figure it out about a decade later: it was a liability thing I was violating.) In a jail cell for hours while on acid at the age of 19, 20 – I  tell you what folks, that scene got implanted and has me getting flashbacks till this very day—friends, acid does go zooming on forever. A bit of my character crumbled into 20th Century pre-Gizmobation-splintered selfies in that Five Colleges of Ohio town’s jail cell. I lost my shit. I heard them discuss at one point about getting me to the hospital. I sharted. I don’t have the constitution for that type of deep tissue mind-massage. I’m a wimp. And since the moment of my release from that cell back in ‘88, ‘89 – whenever – I have speculated, and I believe rightly so, that one more hit of acid would make me go all Oar-like on this world. So, that was it for me and lysergic acid diethylamide. One and fucking done.]

“HAHAHAHA—”

Jesus. You’re so tiring, Chalice. Just drop it, please. I’m spent; didn’t get shit done at work today with that fucking shit shooting through the brain all day. We’re going to be in for a shit storm tomorrow. And I don’t need any of your shit here. Not now. I just want a little peace; I need a drink. Fuck poetry; fuck you. I just want a cocktail.

[We fall silent. I catch Sinclearly’s eyes in the back bar’s mirror, and he holds my stare. His stare is condemning, challenging, but I don’t withdraw. I take up the challenge, in fact, and stare right back into his eyes, refusing to be the first to blink. … After a spell, the wife arrives and grabs the stool next to mine, kisses me on the cheek, calls me “My little drunk dialer,” then says, “Hi there, Bob. Wine, please. The pinot.” And I blink.]

… Yeah, Bob. Sorry, man. Just spacing out here. … Anyways, my bank’s arrived. So, hmm? Yeah, I’ll start me out with a Martini, please.

“Uh-oh, the Muppet who ate Manhattan,” Bob says with a wink before turning away from the two of us.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 28

essay cover chalice

Episode 28: An E-Mail to William Logan
Cc: James Comey
Bcc: August Kleinzahler; Garrison Keillor
Subject: Unwanted: Dead or Alive

“I wasn’t very long at Stony Brook when it occurred to me that the English department
had all the charm of a street fight where no one actually landed a punch.”
―Jim Harrison, Off to the Side

Great Day Mr. Logan:

Me again. You may recall my email to you some time ago, regarding my take on a certain somebody’s debut release. I have copied the FBI on this correspondence – my way of assuring you that these transmissions are not from a deranged stalker. I do not pose a danger, merely a threat (wink wink). 

Thank you for recently posting on the great and wide internet machine a link to your brief essay published in last Spring’s The Battersea Review. Funny story: a few hours after reading “The State of Criticism,” I viewed The Battered Bastards of Baseball for the first time. What a sublime combination. But what’s more, throughout the days since then I’ve been frequently harkening back to a spat my main man Hoz and I had some time back (by the by, this is one dude who you should actually try to get to know; he is, after all, trying his damnedest here to scribe my irreverent core into upstanding theory – God bless his sagged heart; Hoz is without doubt the exact kind you’re referring to within “The State of Criticism” when in your requisite aloof / collegiate-funded way, you concede, “These days, with the internet open at all hours, there is more criticism than ever and more poetry than ever. … A few of these critics are rabid, most are rhapsodic; but the usual sins do not attract the rare virtues. On occasion, you will find a reader dogged with purpose, one who scours the poetry carefully, has an idea or two, and who can write a few sentences that don’t make your eyes bleed. … I am glad for them. They are obviously men and women of leisure.”), it was a spat that ended with him duping me into encouraging him to grow a rattail, which the douche can’t even really do because he’s bald as shit. On his way to duping me he touched on something about how by avoiding crawling into the skin of Trash, American poets are occupying a limited, limiting, scope. … His dupe, your concession, the thoroughly American spirit of anti-establishment on display in The Battered Bastards of Baseball—well, I’ve been put in such a state these past days that my inner-delinquent – the exact delinquent to whom I pay homage when shopping at the Targè, searching out t-shirts whose very near futures on Chicago’s South Side (bang bang) promise to be sleeveless—the delinquent in me feels justified. In the past days I have found myself at complete peace with the paranoia that I will most probably always be looked upon as an unwanted voice – an unwanted voice within the one artistic ring into which I have always projected tossing my lifer hat.

I just knew you would want to hear from me. …

American poetry needs to aspire to be as irreverent as a noon-time fight taking place on a gravel parking lot over the fact that one dude deliberately touched one of the chunky breasts of the other dude’s significant other, a significant other who, incidentally, having just entered the second trimester of her unannounced and as of yet unnoticeable pregnancy, at first didn’t mind the passing fondle, however unasked for, and actually thought for a split-second of grabbing the offender and yanking him out the back door and pinning his ass against a Dumpster and forcing his way to the resolve of her thirst (his unit, the weathered burnish of a curved leather stock in want of conditioning – this, her imagination’s accompanying snapshot) while her old man continued to do shots and play pool and stuff singles into the jukebox—continued to ignore her in favor of playing the outlaw and taking trips to the john for a few snorts here and there. But that’s all that lady allowed herself for fantasy – a split-second; a snapshot – because the offender no sooner gave her a wink of an eye than she screamed out bloody hell to dig up the attention of her old man’s vengeance. And right now out on that gravel parking lot (one dude is wearing a Slayer T-shirt, the other dude stepped out back humming the opening verse of an Ozark Mountain Daredevils tune while unbuttoning his flannel), with knuckles and bile and grunts and denim and oily hair all Tasmanian Deviling amidst the whoops and curses of the intoxicated spectators and the occasional approving horn-blow of a passing semi, we readers capture the faint writhe of a psychiatric cultivation bring on a nuanced cleanse to the trap-like lines in that lady’s expression, and we sense her trialed conviction’s just abandoned her for a backbone-swallowed stomaching of where exactly she’s at in all of this; and we readers mouth a “Sweet Jesus” to the nonjudgmental gauge of the words hand-picked to whip her back into the tavern to go cram into the broom closet and force down as much cleanser as she can lay her hands on.

There’s a goddamn scene to get the pulse going. Right there’s some content, some American-born narrative of the plain-ass real-world’s condition. But it’s my guess the majority of the curators of the American poetry world are shuddering right now: OH, but I just hate fights, and drugs, and violence, and psycho-sexual brain thrusts; they’re all just so ugly and nasty. I hold to autumn sunbeams penetrating mountain mist, to frosted moss on fallen limbs just inside the edge of an eve-wanting woods, to the untouchable possibilities surrendered in the quiver of ruby-colored lips behind a sunshower-touched window of a public bus. … Copping Sons of Anarchy for an atmosphere is quite simply not the thing of taste. … But I’m not talking about that crap specifically, Mr. Logan; what I’m trying to get at is the emotion that goes behind the seemingly mindless totality of such a scene. Yes, it’s ugly; sure, it could feasibly be politically incorrect to the Lefty Looseys, morally abhorrent to the Great Right Hope, and way too genuine for the blanked-out snickers of hipster ironics*, but tough titties. 

I’m attempting to purvey an emotion that exudes a poetry that will not reside warmly alongside the careful MFA character of the majority of the poetry that is perpetually touted in our publications of esteem, even when said poetry is being touted as “fresh” or “hip.” I’m trying here to purvey an emotion that exudes a voice that actually stands the chance of removing American poetry from the lingering nonexistence of an American poetry culture whose discernment is rooted in the cause of making poetry less dreadful to the reading public. 

Now, I get it: the American reading public – the intellectually curious and creatively attuned American public – is already a limited population, and those within this population who care an iota about poetry is limited even more. I get it. But I figure the poet doesn’t have to settle with that – well, not if he or she hasn’t made of poetry a “career” that depends upon him or her settling into the “careerism” of a “system.” We can attract more; we don’t have to assimilate to the “system” – the few.

The poet’s got to be a dropout. (Here I must thank you, as I did in my previous email to you, for being a stepping stone in my ever-establishing suspicion that a poem deserves to be more than poetry, and that the poet must risk his or her stake in poetry for the sake of the poem.) The poet must reach out unapologetically towards irreverence, bringing to the poetry world’s set table an offering rendered from the heretofore “sophomoric” endeavor of entertainment. The poet needs to rip the tablecloth from under the table’s setting, and if nothing’s left standing, Oh the fuck well – if he or she manages to pull off the trick, Holy shit. … The poet should not be crafting for the safety of a classroom stuffed full with student debt holders; the poet should be the craft of a nasty-ass fisticuffs between strangers out on a gravel lot, a fisticuffs that just as it’s taken a sudden turn into being a knife and a broken bottle affair is halted by a waitress’s unworldly scream coming from inside the tavern. In this way, the emotion of poetry becomes an expression of spite for the scam that claims poetry is for brainiacs. The conception that a reader needs to be skilled or educated to enjoy poetry is an entrenched false reality; it is as invalidly entrenched in our poetry culture as the word “God” is being stamped on our currency and dangled from our politicians’ tongues. Separation of church and state is a motto to absolutely live by, strive for, in American culture; separation of classroom and poet must become the motto the American poetry culture lives by, strives for. …

You see, Mr. Logan, when brought in and being interrogated by today’s American poetry culture, the unwanted voice makes no excuses: knowing and accepting full well the fact that she or he is the possessor of a Lone Wolf nature, the unwanted voice assumes full accountability for his or her criminality. From behind a one-way mirror the legend-less legacies of American Poetry Awards watch on as under the lamp of a closed-door basement the unwanted voice exhales smoke into the American poetry culture’s face; and staring the interrogator square in the eyes, the unwanted voice, without pause, without stutter or a blink of the eyes, sings like a canary, throwing his or her poem straight under the bus. … After all, that’s where the “system” has been throwing poetry’s potential readership for a long while now.

Cheers,
Chalice Sinclearly

 

*This is the second time I’ve used “hipster ironic” within an episode. My thinking is entirely derived from Christy Wampole. ~J.H.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Bohemian Pupil on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 27

essay cover chalice

Bottle Me Stupid

The genesis of what would prove to become the most of Chalice Sinclearly commenced upon its single-spaced itinerary one evening in a hideaway nestled nicely amidst the lush vegetation encroaching upon, but not quite getting at, the backside of a detached garage. You see, it would be in the safety of this hideaway located on a suburban plot where Chalice Sinclearly and I would split a six pack – our first tilts of the bottle. We stole the beers from a neighbor’s garage-kept fridge. We had for our entire lives till then witnessed this thing of intoxication throughout the neighborhood – we were eager to give it a roll ourselves. Besides, there was a party to be attended that night. Chalice and I had a month earlier entered a public high school from our parochial isolation. We would prove smarter than most in our grade, having the previous decade been taught the hard way how to give unto the cloaked a willing ear. Well, maybe “smarter” isn’t the proper word to use here – perhaps I should say that we proved more “deferential” than most of our publicly educated counterparts when it came to being faced with the disciplining that is knowledge. That being said, however, we did bring with us into the public domain our Catholic penchant for detention: we befriended burnouts with great aplomb.

Sure we were eager to give beer a try, but why were we so eager? Was it because we had watched people in the neighborhood or in our own families drink too much and act goofy and we thought it looked like a fun time? Was it because it was impressed upon us that it was cool to do? I imagine some shrink or a discussion over steaming Styrofoam in some church basement would endeavor to urge us to call to courage the philosopher residing deeper inside somewhere who could more gravely address the whys and the what-ifs surrounding that night (and of course any of the over 12,000 nights since), and perhaps thusly encourage the move to commit our conviction to the supposed upstanding course of sobriety. … Perhaps our decision to drink that long-ago night (and of course any of the over 12,000 nights since) is the product of an uncomplicated reasoning, one that may have something to do with destiny while also having something to do with being finite at the same time. A thing of the blood not the brain. Who the hell knows?

The point is that we became a drinker that night and we have never once felt sorry for it; even during our thirties when the hangovers were especially relentless in their renderings of guilt, we have never once looked back with regret. (We are the lucky one, we understand this. We made it as a drinker into this current age. Quite a few of our imbiber cohorts had to give up the bottle before the revolution of Craft Beer came along, and what that means is that those poor sons of bitches went out into the world of recovery after the insult of a rice infused American macro beer hangover.) You see, Chalice and I made the party, and one seemingly casual moment in that night of our first ever drunk proved to be epic, and tunes Chalice’s vision even to this very day: there in the middle of that party’s backyard milieu I lied flat on my back, isolated, buzzed, staring up to the stars of a suburban October clear sky, holding a bottle of Old Style on my belly, and with a cigarette extended and lightly swaying to and fro from my underage lips – the loud chatter and adolescent live music of the party faded to a elegiac white noise as Chalice’s stare zeroed in on me. … That’s the image right there; that’s Chalice’s first-ever poem right there: the first moment in time when he ever really – and I do mean really – ever looked at “it,” whatever that “it” might be.

Chalice went home that freshman-year night, stripped down to his whitey-tighties and sung a Kenny Rogers song with Kenny Rogers over and over until his mother put a merciful end to the redundant buffoonery of “Through the Years,” unplugging his cassette player and turning off the bedroom light, making sure that for the split second before it went black in his room he fully captured the reprimand emanating from her eyes. Chalice did; he was in trouble, and not just for that next day or next week, but for the rest of our life: Chalice rose from the bed and walked from his bedroom nearly forty-five minutes ago, leaving his wife to her early AM dreams as he headed for this basement desk. And down here, now officially 3 hours and some minutes beyond our 49th year on this planet of unbendable ears, he reaches forward into “it” to finally begin to draft what will eventually, in weeks, months, years, through the patient practice of allowing forgetfulness to play out into self-editorial benedictions, become this, his so long ago first-ever poem:

A puff on the smoke turns the air about
a delinquent countenance into the spectral
nest of an out-of-season firefly – right
here – the first moment to have ever poised
itself in memory’s imagination and awakened
the illuminating bounty of sadness; the first
Moment to have ever dared itself to contain
what is fleeting into a sort of permanence,
to reconcile sadness. This first moment in
life wherein life awakens to the splendorous
dread of what it will mean to leave proof
Of transience behind. Yet, it would be many
imaginations beyond that night before I’d
separate from memory to seat my being be-
fore a real live poem, and absorb worth via
an unwitting commencement upon threat,
the invigorator of the toil of seeking sake.

… Chalice should have grown to be a man with an office, not a cubicle – he should have become a man who hands out business cards, who concentrates on things like Business Development, his golf swing … a man who keeps a kept calendar, who collects cuff links not roach clips … a man who talks shop, not shit. But no, he became this: he became this man before you who treats each session with the bottle not as his last, not as just another, but as his first, his very first: as if sprung by a petty act of breaking and entering, and shaped in the de-selfed-conscious state of a bottle-muscled mind, only to be sacked deep into conscience by a wordless – pure and eloquent – wordless – reprimand. Chalice Sinclearly became this man before you whose ever-slouching shoulders betray the ever-swelling problem child that’s defiantly slung across them.

… He’ll come to title the poem “Proof”. …

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka‘s weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 20

essay cover chalice

“There Is No Title for a Poem that Middle Fingers
Its Balance Between Its Poet and Its Poetry”

Of note’s the guise’s slope
in the compulsory slip Sin-

Clearly clears way for once
clarity’s back’s to the inside

Corner “my way” and “or take
the highway” form when met

At a cease creased into the angle
obliged by structure to be bent-

Free and free of free form:
Dunced by craze to face the in-

Side angle, clarity’s backed back
Out to the one-sided slope noted

To be the guise’s who bemusedly
inside-outs the panoptic slip Sin-

Clearly clears way for once clarity’s 
poise gets hell-bent on getting even.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 16

essay cover chalice

“Advice to Young Poets Who Want to Dropout”

Good. And know: Priceless time is the time spent
Away from poetry. Screw entitlement – the hour
Given to write per day, per week, will strain full
Presence straight up from your moment’s depths.
Grow up. Be a plumber. School is death. Death is
Not a poem. Poetry is never worth dying over. Stay
Clear of hanging with the mid-day poets; under-
Stand absence is the clear compassion. … Grow
Up. Know: School’s not worth even speaking of.
School is too insular for outsiders – reach out
For differences, never for opposites. Be critical
Of parenting if only because parents pass you
To school. Know: Blame invents unreason, where
-As reason tends to invent that which is to blame.
Forgive parents, but never forgive school. Doubt
Passion but deal with it. Befriend plumbers, know:
There is right, there is wrong. Answers tend to be
Right or wrong: Subjectivity exists, only in the pre-
Emptive strikes of the real world. … Stay clear of
Poetry Slams – a crowd such as that is as reactive
As the media are to the manifestos of juvenile mass
Killers. Know: The constriction of time emblazons
The Lone Wolf Poet’s gift. Buy rounds for plumbers.
Be absent in the eyes of poetry writers, be public
In the reading lists of Crime Fiction critics. Barely
Earn your diploma, hang it on a basement wall, dust
It regularly – any prop must be thought to aloud:
“School’s not worth even speaking over.” … We do
Not need mid-day poets rousing student bodies 
To purge from accountability: We need midnight 
Poets to pussy the uncomplicated away from career.
Young poets who hate school: Good. Save our time.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 14

essay cover chalice

Eke of the Jagoff

Under battery-fed candlelight, ahead of these so many more griefy years of withdrawing claim from the other’s conformity, this fatigue cheek-swishes a room temperature wish (as fatigue’s tongue is wont to have done over it when behind self-editorial doors – tests to see how long it can behold taste before needing to come up for air), and without outsider input weighs as an outsider which Tempter of the binary two – yes, two; yes, binary – a groundwork addicted chump-ass will align his word choices with while they come to life on the page before him to – as he is too in this very moment – peer up at the sky and stamp down on the dead—this fatigue cheek-swishes a wish into a warm swallow (air begets aftertaste), and ponders which of the two manipulators of heart-strings-tied detachments Chalice Sinclearly will be fully present for. But even that; and even though Sinclearly repeats himself constantly, fixated as he is on reading his own mid-life bewilderments aloud in this echo-shamed basement we’ll happily label as our “Shelter from the Storm,” and on having himself a skilled sob every few months, going to YouTube to view that one of that one mother duck who cried to police officers to help rescue her ducklings from a sewer, and the cops damn-well did, and them ducklings were so excited to get back to their momma, and they surrounded her with little leaps and quacks, cheering out “Momma, Momma, Momma!” and that mother duck was so overjoyed she touched each offspring on its head with her bill to make certain each was accounted for while also assuring each he or she was once again safe in Momma’s presence—even though all of this, this fatigue will assure you, Chalice Sinclearly is all man. … All man, even though his fellow man is beginning to make him feel more and more like man’s bitch – man’s fibs having become lazier, becoming as they have more bent in towards the other’s cool—hell, Sinclearly believed three things would happen when mankind matured: mankind would stop squirting ketchup onto weenies, would stop rooting for The Friendly Confines, and would begin to recognize that authentic criticism is not composed of the cosmetic questions of our vitality, but of the gutsy questions of our temporality. … Even though his fellow man ekes the jagoff out of him (as a measure of brainy self-defense he now crouch-walks and snaps fingers when coming up to any of our bricks-and-mortar bookshops), this fatigue will assure you, Chalice Sinclearly is all man. … Assured, he’s a special kind of freaking flake, his design a singular phenomenon, never quite way too opposite. But below this fatigue’s gauzy microscope, inside this committed moment down here, he’s being a variant waif of too-mindful angles. … And he can blow me.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 12

essay cover chalice

“In Prospective Distaste for Alt-Lit Culture (An Essay)”
For English Majors circa 1988

Shan’t imbue sulked dispatch of full-sleeved disciplinarians
Such cool let in arm’s length cloys our wits like typo’s trend
Taketh a Google of Zooey’s bath scene: a search all pretend
Lest Sinclearly stamps the blue balls of paper-free librarians

Lest Sinclearly stamps the blue balls of paper-free librarians
Foregone is a time scribes answered to in names not herds
So dispose of ticklish PC as we do of not our own dog’s turds
Achy tugs stalk the tronic broadsheets of gauged sectarians

Achy tugs stalk the tronic broadsheets of gauged sectarians
Whilst the quiet of a poetry sale obscures the poets on sale
Critical thought couches as a reference to Mom’s tat’s tale
Spokes rattle away, poemless, across pot-holed libertarians

Spokes rattle away, poemless, across pot-holed libertarians
Senior publishers run the credit-cardless off 1st Edition Rd.
Ghost Bikes plot evidence of the Lone Wolf’s awakened code
To snarl legible cursive amid the cash of future proletarians

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook