Vignette City 39.

*** ‘Vignette City’ is an ongoing project of daily writing and urban photography ***

Towing my tin
fishing boat up
Grand Avenue
in ambush rain

heading north
then east:
to Hagg Lake,
rainbow trout.

Wet brakes and windshield smear.
My little boat
fills up with water
at a red light.

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Loosely.

I wrote some poems today. I have not written any poems in a long time.

Let me remind you that I use this word “poems” pretty loosely and with no concern whatsoever for quality.

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On Tom Waits.

On Tom Waits

By James Bezerra

Implacable American lovechild

Bukowski and Dylan

and gravel

lonesome;

growly ash

and noise gourmet

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On Smoking.

On Smoking

By James Bezerra

As with many things

it helps

if

while doing it

you are beautiful

and young.

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On Procrastination.

On Procrastination

By James Bezerra

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

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On Writing.

On Writing

By James Bezerra

A most

difficult way

to choose
to starve.

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On Hope.

On Hope

By James Bezerra

It can’t hurt.

Much.

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On Sloths.

On Sloths

By James Bezerra

Sloths are quick

swimmers.

This is not

a poem,

but a delightful
fact.

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On Applying Karma as a Luxury Tax.

On Applying Karma as a Luxury Tax

By James Bezerra

Yachts

may not

carry

lifeboats.

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A Very Boring, But Largely Accurate Poem.

A Very Boring, But Largely Accurate Poem

By James Bezerra

I am sick

and waiting for

rice to boil.

My life

this second inspires

uninspired poetry.

It is raining

and that affects my mood

not at all.

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An Odd Rainy Wonderland.

An Odd Rainy Wonderland

By James Bezerra

This odd and

rainy wonderland

of

sudden sidewalk

tent cities,

of

oddly expensive milk,

gas station attendants,

of

old pretty peaked homes

glimmering wet all day,

of

dense and ubiquitous forests

of tattoos on white skin

of

this place I feel

as I feel about Millennials:

envious, hopeful

quietly doubtful.

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I Think My Cat is Depressed.

I Think My Cat is Depressed

By James Bezerra

My cat

spends all day

sleeping.

My cat

experiences violent, rapturous

mood swings.

My cat

does not want

to talk about it.

My cat

glares at me,

claws back at my affections.

My cat

may be depressed.

Or is just a cat.

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Meat is Murder! Or something.

New poems below!

I think I was in a weird mood yesterday when I was scratching these out in the margins of my notebook while I was supposed to be paying attention to other things.

I really wasn’t day dreaming about meat or anything weird.

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Please Enjoy My Inadequacy.

I mentioned before that I had been reading a Bukowski collection and that had me thinking over the last couple weeks that I should write a similarly dirty collection of recollections of my misspent youth.

Granted, I’ve never been as bad of a guy as Bukowski, but I’m also not nearly as talented of a poet. In fact, if you know two things about me, it's these:

1. He’s awesome,
2. except for his poetry.

That being said, I thought it might be a fun project to exorcise some of my demons by putting together a little collection. I have no idea what I would ultimately do with that collection. Edit it, I guess, and try to make it suck less. Anyway, below are some of the poems I have dashed off in the margins of my notebook over the past couple weeks. I have not quite figured out yet what the collection would feel like, so these are sort of exploratory writing attempts on my part.

It can not possibly be stressed enough that these are all EXTREMELY FIRST DRAFT in their “quality”. But what’s the point of having a writing blog if all you’re doing is posting finished stuff? Writing is an embarrassing process and I’m sharing that embarrassment with you, dear reader. Please enjoy my inadequacy.

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Zathandra.

Zathandra
by james bezerra

Bakersfield stripper

zebra-print tattoo

3/8th through

vet school.

When they call her,

they call her Zathandra

to the stage.

It’s her D&D name,

she whispered to me.

Used to play

with her

little brother

dead

in Iraq now.

Moisturizer skin scent never

quite covers

the Marlboros.

When she bites my

earlobe in the booth,

it isn’t playful.

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Jesus, If.

Jesus, If

by james bezerra

Jesus, if

he came back or

ever existed,

would roll

on in in

Salvation Army red leather

jacket, three bullet holes

in the back.

We’d order a round,

laugh about Romans,

do shots

through his hand holes.

He’d think

we’re bonding

and we

would be,

but him with us

not

us with him.

Last call

and we’d all

stumble quickly away,

drunk ducks in the night

giggling soggily.

Stick him with

the tab.

The prostitutes and tax collectors

he’s used to

ain’t got nothen’

on us.

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Sulfides.

Sulfides
by james bezerra

Red wine makes

my back hurt

now.

Sulfides?

No way that’s healthy.

Never learned

not to want

not to finish

the bottle, or

drink slow enough

to taste.

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Ease of Use.

Ease of Use

by james bezerra

Easier

to get a drink now

in this bar,

since all

the stabbings.

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Lucas Who.

Lucas Who

by james bezerra

Lucas, who

used to

drive strippers

to motels,

loom huge

outside room,

who measured

beer intake

in 12-packs,

long haul

trucker father

never talked

about.

Lucas, who

compound fractured

a leg

from a

fall couldn’t

remember it

because whiskey.

Lucas, who

drunk wanted

to slash

cop tires.

Lucas, who

hasn’t been

heard from

in years.

His mother’s

house is

empty too.

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