I currently have a lot of stuff happening in my existence. How did all this stuff happen? Yes, I know everyone has stuff happening because stuff happening is that little thing called life. I should be grateful that I'm not sitting in the middle of a vast emptiness waiting for the stuff to happen. Instead, I get to wander through a vast green forest of stuff happening.
What stuff is happening? Well, I can tell you what is not happening. I am not pregnant. I am not moving house. I didn't sell a blockbuster screenplay, and I am not dating Tom Cruise (or some other random famous person). But I digress.
With all this stuff happening, I realized that this would be a perfect time to do something I've wanted to do for awhile. I possess a blue file folder thick with paper and labeled ‘Poetry Crap'. Recently inspired by Film & TV Rights, I figured maybe someday I'd throw a few of them up on the robot wall to see what sticks.
Someday is today.
Now, I don't want to get too ahead of myself, but June might just become poetry month on the Sunshine Jen network. I know April is official poetry month, but I've always been a little slow with these things.
I have actually read some of the Poetry Crap aloud in rooms filled with strangers in the East Village (NY) and Venice (CA). The Vibrator poem was always a crowd pleaser. Some of the poems aren't really poems. They're more like songs. And yes, I like to rhyme.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy a little bit of Bar Napkin Poetry. . .
Bar Napkin Poetry
I've written poetry on bar napkins When I was a drunken seer Then the bartender tossed them in the trash bin So much for that career.
I can always remember what I said when I was drunk But damn if I can remember what I wrote It probably stunk worse than a skunk And sunk faster than a cardboard boat
It probably was about sex The kind of stuff you don't talk about sober Like where to bite on people's necks Or how to make a woman slobber.
I don't write on napkins anymore But don't worry now, it's fine The paper quality's gotten poor And it's hard to make a line.
At the bar a guy writes in a spiral bound book He's writing what is being said I tell him that he's just a crook Stealing words that flood my head.
He says he is a writer of plays I bump into a lot of ‘em these days It's an art form that never pays And has its own peculiar ways.
He asks me where my work's been done. Nah, I'm too busy having fun My productions total none. I am too much in the sun.
He didn't really get it And I seemed too much the ditz To have any sort of wit To write producible shit.
Oh well, getting back to the napkins Which is what this poem's about They were sturdy little things That held my sins, my truths, my doubts.
They are gone forever But it all seems right that way They belong to those late nights and never Should see day.