Bad Poetry

I used to joke that "open mike poetry night" were the four scariest words in the English language, but one night many years ago, I learned it's no joke. A friend had invited me to an OMPN at a local church hall, and as incredible as it seems now, I didn't run directly to the Peace Bridge and hurl my body into the cold, raging waters of the Niagara River. I went. I remember sitting in the church basement, holding a styrofoam cup of flat soda and trying to get comfortable. I'm not a fan of poetry in general and bad poetry in particular, but the people seemed sincere and even I had to admit their poems were mercifully brief. Then "she" took the podium. She opened up a worn notebook, adjusted her glasses, took a deep breath, and launched into "January" the single most heinous poem I've ever heard, read or seen. You might think I'm being dramatic, but trust me: this poem was a stinker. It hit every trite cliche, every worn turn of phrase, every dimestore psychological insight in the book. But even worse was the dull, affectless monotone she read in. As she droned on, I was afraid of falling asleep and dropping my soda. Or clawing my face off. Both were very real possibilities. Eventually she reached the end of "January" and the crowd applauded. "Finally!" I thought, looking around the room to see who the next reader might be. But no. She turned a page in that worn notebook, took another deep breath, and launched into "February". I don't think it's exaggeration to say my life flashed before my eyes.

Years later the Real Dream Cabaret was working on a Cabaret Hell show to be performed at the opening of the brand new Burchfield Penney Art Center. I wrote a very long, very deliberately bad poem for my Cabaret Hell act, and I had a couple of ringers in the audience to heckle me a few minutes in. Tonight when I was clearing out some computer files I found the first draft of that poem. Enjoy. Or don't.

Monday

Monday rolls in like a 1973 Ford Pinto

And rides like it hasn’t had a tuneup

Since before my soul turned inky black and began to reek

With the stench of conformity

With the stench of acceptance

With the stench of acquiescence

Or perhaps it’s the stench of off-brand instant coffee

Waiting for the boiling water that will finally justify its existence

A garishly labeled plastic jar of powder

Ground and pulverized like my inky black soul

Seeping through my fingers and onto the kitchen floor

For the dog to sniff before losing interest and walking away

To lick itself in places we think obscene

Monday drops by unannounced

And overstays its welcome

Puts muddy feet on the expensive upholstery of my dreams

Leaving a mark no Oxy-Clean will ever remove

And no Sham-Wow will ever dry

Monday feels like salt and vinegar potato chips on a fresh paper cut

Take your search for comfort to some other day

Lazy Sunday perhaps, or Industrious Thursday

You’ll find no comfort here

For Monday is a harsh mistress

Her steely gaze and icy grip promise little and deliver nothing

Monday tastes like desperation

Yet the lonely gorge themselves at her banquet table of despair

Then ask to be excused so they can purge in the restroom

And return for yet another course

It’s all you can eat, baby

But the tray of roasted garlic mashed potatoes

Is always

Empty

Monday is the teacher of hard truths

And we her unwilling pupils

It’s 8 a.m. and Monday comes roaring into town

Sounding like the mother of all snooze alarms

She’ll sell you another ten minutes

But you’ll only be ten minutes closer to losing your mind

Monday makes awkward banter on slow-moving elevators

And whispers tales of weekend conquest in the breakroom

Sexual or otherwise

And it’s almost always otherwise