Selected Poems - 1998 - Tom Miller

Justification

 

 

I hate

hustlers

 

and would never

set a price

on what I was worth

 

no amount of money

can ever buy me

 

ever

 

that’s why I’m poor

 


 

The civic media center and me

 

 

the sign said

closed

 

but there was a boy inside

a volunteer

 

doing something or

another

 

who knows

in the place

with the rainbow flag

 

and posters of

Malcolm X

 

nudist literature and

activist studies

 

he let me in

and said he’d be there an hour

 

enough time to make a bomb

I thought

 

and I said

I would be on the computer

typing another masterpiece

 

and he said

okay

 

and here I am

making the bomb

 

and he’s in the back somewhere

tying his shoes or

sneaking a pinch of smoke

 

who knows

in this place

 

the poetry readings

are on Thursdays

 


 

The fairy

 

 

on a usual Monday

I went out to the club

and there was a new show

 

with whips

women in leather

men acting like dogs

(some act)

 

and the fairy came by

and let me feel her cock

but I knew she was

a real she

 

her white hair

painted eyes

the smile of Puck

 

there was little doubt

she was in charge of things

even as the master Krullen

 

upgraded her white wings

to black

 

if you need a place

she said

you can stay with me

for awhile

… with Krullen’s permission

 

the master nodded

grinning

holding his knife

 

okay

I said

I’m breaking up with my

boyfriend

 

a change might do me good

and a few days later

 

I was a dog too

 


 

the word brightly showing

 

 

I was

like a new star

exploding

 

in Orion's Nebula

amidst

black curtains of

interstellar dust

 

when the applause came

for the worst poem

I had ever written

 

and I thought

lucky for them I

didn’t pull out

the best

 

or

the universe

might have sucked itself

into emptiness

 

leaving me with

nothing to think

or do

 


 

Sunny day

 

 

I had it all

my Ferlinghetti

coffee

a clove cigarette

 

on a beautiful day

the landlord came

and blocked out the sun

 

you left my place

a wreck

he said

 

doors kicked down

holes in the walls

bathroom tile torn up

 

you dirty punk

you’ll pay me

what you owe

 

and you’ll never

rent from me again

you bum

 

then

he moved away

out of the sunlight

 

and I could feel

the wonderful warmth again

 


 

die all people

 

 

I can’t stand them

like fleas and mosquitoes

 

but you can’t just

kill them or

pinch their heads

 

between your fingernails

 

so I hide and write

in the library

or a friend’s house

 

or in the offices of

moon magazine

but the phone will ring

 

or someone will

knock on the door

they will find me

 

get too close

to my ear and

talk about everything

 

I never wanted to know

and how their day was

and

 

what have you been up to lately?

 

so you’re writing, are you?

 


 

The reason

 

 

I ask often

to the air

what is the reason?

 

to the sky

as all men wonder

why am I here?

 

to the dead shade tree

is there more?

 

I ask

 

and nothing comes

but wind and

rain

 

a place for

robins to nest

and for me to sit

 

quietly as

 

no answers

surround me

 


 

The last poem before I go

 

 

after 5

and they are kicking me out of the office

 

I have been a pest

writing my little poems on their fancy computer

 

but the day comes to an end

and people have things to do like television and bed

 

please come again

they say

 

but for now

we have to lock the door

 

and go to our homes

and you must go back too

 

to your bus bench or coffee bar or night club

or street corner or parking lot or stranger’s house—

 

a field of grass beneath a rainbow

with leaves swirling down from trees and butterflies

 

and bluebirds and red spotted ladybugs

and springtime and flowers and bees and

 

the laughter of children playing

in the warmth of the setting sun

 

we have to lock the doors

and kick you out of here

 

and I take my poems out of the printer machine

fold them neatly

 

put them in my pocket for later

 

my wonderful perfect life

and sweet summer songs

 

the smell of apple pie

mother calling me home to supper

 

running through the cat tails

arms outstretched

 

feeling freedom

but there is only the cold night sky

 


Two-time jack

 

 

he came lumbering at us

like a yeti

with his spray bottle

and rag

 

just a quarter

he said

I been waiting

to do this truck

fo a week

 

and he began to wipe

dismissing us and

our permission

but the window was dirty

and Christ--

it was only a quarter

 

so we said

have at it and he did

a fine job

working off the grime

and the insect parts

 

and for the trouble

we paid a dollar

just to be kind

 

and we said our goodbye

got in the truck

and drove a block down the road

to use the automatic teller

and a few minutes later

he came again

 

just a quarter

he said

 

that window sure do look

dirty to me

 

and we said

but you just washed it

 

he looked down at the road

and walked off

 


 

The beggar poem

 

 

he asked for change

and I asked him

 

is this for beer?

 

No sir

he said

 

my wife is in the hospital

and I just need forty-nine cents

for the phone call

 

I have a phone in my car

I said

 

well sir

I need the money for gas

you see

 

and I said

it’s beer

isn’t it?

 

No sir

he insisted

 

I need to feed my children

and my wife’s in the hospital

and I ain’t got no gasoline

 

okay

I said

and gave him a dollar

 

he thanked me

blessed me with god

walked to the all night market

 

and bought a beer

 

and I hoped his wife

and kids

wouldn’t mind waiting

 

a little while longer

 


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