These poems were dashed off in a fit of frustration or simply to complete an assignment. As with all of the other poems, I was about 20 when I wrote them, so don't expect any profound thoughts. For example, the following haikus:
Glass on the table:
Filled with Miller High Life beer;
Empty in seconds.
Destined to lead a
Life of insignificance.
No one knows my name.
The telephone rings,
And rings again. I answer
Too late: you've hung up.
(November 17, 1987)
Tell me that I lie;
Tell me I don't care;
Please, slander my name some more.
I read your letters in the news last week;
Their main point was "Beware!"
You called me misguided;
You called me misled;
You called me a freakin' thief.
If I'm those things, at least I'm alive,
And I'd rather be that than dead.
You sit in your board room,
So cozy and snug;
You're doing a damn good job.
But, look, on the floor -- what is that spot?
Seems I've puked on your bright, shiny rug.
I voiced my opinion;
Was that such a crime?
I simply stated my case.
But you didn't like that; you thought I was wrong;
You like the way things are run just fine.
Next time the scene
Might not be so pretty;
So far you've gotten off light.
The format's been questioned; that's just the first step.
Now we'll elect a whole new committee.
Anarchy! Anarchy! Isn't it great?
No one's serving the station:
It's not serving the school.
So won't you please support this cause?
We accept letters, checks, and cash donations.
(November 8, 1987)
The dark sky looms gloomy and gray;
I look out the window,
Straining to see fine raindrops
against a background of trees and buildings;
Not sure if I see them.
I look at the puddles:
Not seeing the splashes,
the ripples running into each other,
I know I have been a fool.
I only saw spots on the window;
Maybe I saw the texture of the glass
and mistook it for rain.
Always look at the puddles:
They never lie.
(October 26, 1987)
The radio absorbed many hours and hours,
With words of gratitude left unspoken;
I did not find time to smell the flowers;
In death, O wren, please accept this token.
I loved your legs, so tiny and rice-like;
Your body so frail, your spirit so firm.
Feathers open, a fence of picket spikes;
Your feminine tail, free of sleeping worms.
But the spot on your head, your own mourning cap,
Has guided you right into my little trap.
(September 15, 1987)