Nobodies Poet

You can get this straight
right now as you read
these first few lines.
I am nobody’s poet.
And I have been nobody’s poet
all of my life.

Not anthologized
Not franchised
Not recognized
Not institutionalized.

I don’t have a following,
an entourage or disciples
My prospects are limited.
There is no buzz around me.

I never needed you.
Need or sought your approval
or consent, benediction,
absolution or dispensation.

I have nothing to confess to you.
I am guilty.
Period.
Remorseless as well.
No.
I’m not sorry about any of this.
There is no repentance
to be found in my eyes
or my voice.

So remember
next time you see me
that I am nobody’s poet
and in only that way
could I ever hope to
be yours alone.

Here Come the Old Guys

Here come the old guys
in Day-Glo Tie-Dye tee-shirts
stretched over bowling ball waist lines
and pony tails in braids that dangle from
bald spots sporting Zigzag man beards
and zircon zirconium knock off diamond
stud earrings…with their gleaming vintage
Harley parked outside of the bar knocking down
a fifth Jack & Coke and lecturing the Bartender
about how the fagots, fruits, gooks, spooks and spicks
are ruining the country.

Here come the old guys driving mint condition
61 Comets, 64 Chevy Impalas, or 67 cherry red
Thunderbird convertibles, (with the top down of course)
wearing navy officer hats, chain smoking Viceroys
singing along to the Beatles or Beach Boys
blaring on their under the dash board mounted cassette tape players.
Coolers of cracked ice and Pabst Blue Ribbons
in the trunk passing you on the highway doing 75
like a bat of hell going somewhere in one big
Goddamn hurry.

Here come the old guys
pushing the shopping cart in the super-market
looking like a fifty year old boy scout
in Glen Plaid shorts, Pink Dockers’ golf shirt.
Hairy fat stubby legs with white athletic socks
stretched up to his knobby knee caps in Nikes
with his scowling wife either strutting five feet
in front of him or dragging her pouting ass
dejectedly to the rear towards the check out line
to witness him berate some scared teenager
check out clerk for not bagging their groceries properly.

Here come the old guys
looking trim, fit and ten years younger than they really are.
Dignified graying at the temples.
Got all his hair and great looking teeth.
Divorced twice.
Has new girlfriend his daughter’s age.

Plays golf, tennis and ratchet ball.
Plenty of time for all this now.
Retired five years ago with one hell of a pension package.
Loaded with smoking investments,
stock options, condo in Key West,
Cabin for skiing in Vermont.
Looking good, feeling good, world by the ass.
Only one problem.
Nobody he knows cares
or wants to know him anymore since
he was such a ruthless miserable son of a bitch
at work and home getting to where he is today
which is next to you, a total stranger in a coffee
shop striking up an uninvited conversation to
tell you all about this.

Yup.
That’s right.
Here come the old guys
telling too many long, endless pointless stories
about their world that has vanished.
All their dead pals.
Their triple by pass operations.

How tough they once were…when they were your age
How tough life was…when they were your age
How many women they had screwed
Just how much money, drugs, booze
they consumed and blew through.
All the ass-kicking they took and dished out.

Here come the old guys
sacred to death
desperately holding on to that last
fucking shred of youth…
if you could call it that
before as a reward for not
dropping dead in the parking lot all ready
they survive to become…

really, really old guys.

Vincent Quatroche has writing for over thirty years. His fifth collection of poetry, prose and short stories entitled The Terrible Now will be available during the Summer of 2009 through Xlibris Press. A persistently cryptic and annoying presence on the poetry circuit in the Northeast region of the United States attempts to silence him have been unsuccessful. In addition, Quatroche works in the spoken word/sonic landscape media and has released numerous projects on tape/CD in the last two decades. A new CD entitled Singing Mr. Cedric has a fall release date scheduled later in the year. Of course Quatroche doesn’t make a living doing any of things, relying on being employed as a career education at area colleges and correctional facilities, where his students (and inmates) find him equally persistent, cryptic and annoying.