Ed Ochester's Ass
When you hear good poetry, it haunts you.
Not those words, necessarily,
but the notion that every damned thing
you do is worthy of writing down,
like the dark drive home.
I pass the fluorescent sign
"Now Available Vibrating Panty".
I wonder how it would look on
poet Ed Ochester's ass. Pretty good,
from what they say.
I pass my usual turn
because there's no food in the house.
The 24 hour supermarket welcomes me.
I remember craving
inspiration and coming here to look
at all the weird people shopping
'round midnight. I aim
my cart toward the dairy case,
looking around, and I realize
I am the weird people.
But that's alright,
it's easy for me to move
from the viewer to the viewed.
I pass my credit card
through the reader, pay for my purchases,
and drive home. Everything away,
I trudge upstairs and plop into my chair,
staring at my keyboard.
It stares back at me, taunting,
space bar like Hitler's moustache, becuase
the letters are all there. I have to
pull inspiration down from the Gods,
filter it through my experience, and somehow
convince these twenty-six little co-conspirators
that Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.
Something special. Something mine.
Something beautiful,
like Ed Ochester's ass.