Excerpts from:
A POETRY HOUSE
Built With Four-By-Fours
An Ongoing Collection
of Pseudo-Immortal Short Poems
Chapter 2
The World Is A Safer Place
When I'm Too Stoned To Speak
Mel C. Thompson
A Slacker Poet from Concord
In Search of Undeserved World Fame
Copyright © 2008 Mel C. Thompson
The following are limited selections from Chapter Two.
Contact the author for free PDFs and/or free chapbooks of full text.
No One Talked Behind My Back
Very few people whispered insults
Behind my back, but rather brazenly
Issued all insults fearlessly to my face,
Since they astutely knew me to be
Incapable of true revenge or lasting
Hatred. Such are the advantages of
Being born with a true capacity for
Thoroughgoing selfish evil. Poor
Desk clerks, little children, and
Unarmed, homeless madmen, clearly
Single me out as a risk-free abuse
Candidate. And I rarely disappoint.
Only the rich are vulnerable to me
Now that there are no assets left to
Take and no consequences of a fall,
Since the bottom is but an inch away.
Pleasant Hill, 11-2-2007.
The Moods of Great Statesmen
He woke up today and realized
Not even Peets coffee would work.
He’d built up a tolerance to drugs
That could be swallowed, inhaled,
Intravenously administered or
Squeezed from an eye dropper.
He fell back onto the torture of
Distasteful people. It was a dull
Choice, and not at all original,
But then neither are the junkies
Hounding us for money all day
And all night in Union Square.
His boots and his whip were
Strictly metaphorical. The suit
And the tie were kinky enough.
We have a fetish. You will obey.
Pleasant Hill, 11-2-2007.
A Quiet Political Conversion
Vermont Lumberjack sat down
to his pancakes and maple syrup.
He took a sip of black coffee and
A bite of his pancakes when
Something seemed peculiar. “Honey,”
He called, “the syrup tastes wrong.
It smells a little like Socialism.”
“Don’t worry,” his wife called out
From the bedroom. “There’s just
A little Bernie Sanders in there.”
“But honey,” he objected. “You know
I don’t like government programs.”
“It’s okay, dear,” she replied. “He’s one
Of us. He’s all organic and natural.”
Vermont Lumberjack scowled a bit,
Then decided Socialism tasted okay.
Pleasant Hill, 11-20-2007.
Why He Went Home To Massachusetts To Die
Because death in his small home town
Was as common as a mailman or a dog
That won’t stop barking. It’s tough.
That’s all. There’s no fixing hard fate.
In California they kept trying to cure
Him, kept psychoanalyzing his past,
Could never accept rock solid matter.
They kept redecorating his pain,
Thought of agony only in mythic
Symbols, would not stop sending him
To Shamans. In New England, death
Was as honorable any other job.
In The East, real Winter comes
And really kills real people. Tombs
Are older there, and graveyards grayer.
His end met no condescension at home.
Pleasant Hill, 12-24-2007.
Religions of My Ex-Girlfriends
We’re dressing up as tribal chiefs
To see if we can sell some tickets.
This plush hotel conference room
Will serve as our swank Jerusalem.
Santa-Monica-California vibrates
Like a vortex of prime prophecy.
The Ascended Masters materialize
To shop on Rodeo and El Paseo.
Your doctor’s diagnosis is grim.
Pay us to call him a liar. Can you
Feel the cosmo-plasmic-electro
Pulse washing away the mundane?
Disease is for losers. And you,
You’re too special for dull death.
We gladly accept all credit cards.
Bankruptcy lawyers are hovering.
Pleasant Hill, 1-27-2008.
More Praise For My Critics
A former friend called me
A verbal terrorist. My passion
For inaccuracy marks me
For a spectacular oblivion.
I pray that posthumous star
At Hollywood and Highland
Boosts my afterlife ratings.
I got an office on K Street
And hired top-gun lobbyists,
And still had to beg for sex.
Later I just begged for drugs.
Love was never as consistent
As my good friends Lunesta
And Valium. My ex wives
Feel the world is a safer place
When I’m too stoned to speak.
Pleasant Hill, 1-31-2008.
The Ultimate Drug Warning Label
You! Mr. & Mrs. Random Patient:
Be aware that you are biochemically
Circumventing the law of entropy.
And Entropy is pretty pissed off!
The current plan for all formations
Is the utter disintegration of all
Formations. Your struggle has not
Gone unnoticed. Microbes are
Working overtime to mutate faster.
Everything is overpopulating to
Squeeze you off the planet somehow.
Sir! Madam! You are not wanted.
Buddha stares down from billions
Of layers of extinctions and marvels:
“The poor suckers are still holding on.”
Our doctors keep writing prescriptions.
Pleasant Hill, 1-31-2008.
San Fernando Valley Prayer Chant
The Victory Boulevard of Emptiness.
The Ventura Boulevard of Emptiness.
The Sepulveda Boulevard of Emptiness.
The Van Nuys Boulevard of Emptiness.
If only all of you could be with me,
So we could not feel anything together.
We have not loved each other so deeply.
We should take nuptial vows at once.
We could have Los Angeles sex together.
The married man’s sex of Absolute Emptiness.
The adulterer’s sex of Absolute Emptiness.
The prostitute’s sex of Absolute Emptiness.
Honestly, I’m making a farce documentary.
I guarantee fame, wealth and unhappiness.
Pay it all back on your Cosmic Credit Card.
(Note: Interest accrues over multiple lifetimes.)
Pleasant Hill, 2-7-2008.
Pre-Interview Briefing Notes
Raw myth is the only acceptable paradigm.
Our operations will employ only cult logic.
Credible evidence will be summarily dismissed
Along with desperate men of lonely reason.
Oh, to be the teflon poet of sexual power,
Never having to stoop to the level of proof.
Surely we will elect poorly made replicas
Of spouses chosen from sheer neediness.
Everything about us must remain vague.
Our childhoods were acting schools we
Misinterpreted as intellectual boot camps.
We arrive with a stack full of thick books
Just when the stripper has mounted the stage.
Such was our fatally flawed sense of timing.
The baboons in the editor’s office howl,
Gleefully knowing they have the last word.
Pleasant Hill, 2-20-2008.
Follow Your Bliss. Maybe not?
The bad-art revolution has not reached
Our Capitol. It awaits a Hegelian dialectic
Motion. “First,” our leaders say, “Bad
Journalism must have it’s sway. In
Good time, Comrades, we march.”
We toil with our digital cameras,
JPEG-ing our friends and relatives.
Gentlemen, start your computers!
We have poorly produced MP3s
To force into the beloved mailboxes
Of allies whose love now fades rapidly.
Says a misanthropic friend, “No one
Is into the Zen of cutting hair or waiting
Tables anymore. They must all have screen-
Plays and novels they’re writing on the side.”
Simple businessmen are becoming a novelty.
Pleasant Hill, 2-28-2008.
A Party Hack’s Cynical Parting Shot
Let’s party hardy in my Beijing penthouse
Before the shit really hits the fan. Mao
Is tossing in his little glass case. And the
Tea leaves are hurling out ominous omens.
Our crypto-Capitalist masquerade ball
Is just wrapping up. Let’s make love
While the neon lights are still up and
Running. My lear jet is cleared for take-
Off. I never read that tiny red book.
I got reeducated with every regime
Change. The words of Li Po and Chiang
Kai-shek are all a jumble to me
Now. I never had any Confucist street-
Cred, and no respectable Taoist would
Have me. We’re scheduled to land
In Geneva. Riot gear is for suckers.
Pleasant Hill, 3-20-2008.
The Gods And Ancestors Retract Their Creation
I cannot offer love, only slogans. My children,
Once wrapped in my warm embrace, are now
Political tools, battlefront fodder. God knows,
You pay a high price, spending time with these
Midgets with no language skills. I picked
The parenting game mistakenly. My true
Calling was that of mindless executioner.
I’ve got to promote my life story. But my
Marketing skills are found sorely wanting.
I’ll fake some dramatic conversion and hire
A writer’s workshop leader to assist with
This rather clumsy narrative. My estate
Remains a touchy issue. I long to give it all to
Any arm-candy willing to flatter me. But there
Remain these unsightly progeny. I’ll feign
insanity on my deathbed and rewrite my will.
Pleasant Hill, 3-22-2008.
More Notes On Meaningless Deaths
Sayeth the Tiananmen Multinationals: Step
In front of the tank again and we’ll roll you,
Squish you into a blood and marrow pancake.
If we bring home the bacon, our spouses
Will applaud your death. Make no mistake —
The Liberalism of our lovers ends at the
Door of a four-star bistro. Fuck with their
Four-Oh-Won-Kays and hippies go ballistic.
There’s a Cadillac SUV parked behind me.
It belongs to a former Democratic Central
Committee Chair who could not get laid.
Biochemistry is the combination Ace and
Joker card supreme. Working the homeless
Kitchen volunteer line one day — doing PR
For Blue Cross the next day. Hired guns
Become guns long before we hire them.
Pleasant Hill, 3-22-2008.