Raegan Butcher's Blog - Posts Tagged "poetry"

Haven't really written too much poetry in the past few years. Been concentrating on improving my prose. But I do have at least a hundred or so new poems and someday I will put them out.

working on getting books out on kindle within the next few weeks/months. revised and revisited versions of all three of my poetry books and maybe a new book of poems too.

repugnant

my true heart
is filled with
sympathy
empathy
love and compassion
and it is only when
i supress these qualities
in an attempt to appear
tough and masculine
that i become
truly repugnant

Sin city

Las Vegas
made me sad
to see the people streaming past
the homeless veteran in his wheelchair
ignoring him like he wasn’t there
intent on tossing their money
into the void of the casinos
i gave him five dollars
he looked like a young Tab Hunter
and his voice was very soft and gentle
when he said, “Thank you sir.”
i tried to imagine what his life must be like
and i wondered where he would sleep at night
it made me want to cry
it made me want to grab
those thoughtless people passing by
and shake them and tell them
that what they are doing is a sin
and even though
i am now far from Las Vegas
that delicate handsome face
and calm tender voice
saying, "Thank you sir."
will haunt me
for a long time to come
probably forever

mowing the lawn

the woman who lives in the trailer
across from me has two kids
boys, very young
they are too young to be left alone
they are alone
they are watching me mow the lawn
one of them stands no more
than three feet from me
oblivious of the roaring machine
he is fucked up: a cut on his chin
dripping blood onto his little naked pot-belly
with an open (dazed-chimp) mouth adding saliva
he is covered head to toe in dirt
and his diapers are full of shit
his little brother, too young to walk
is eating the dog’s food out of the filthy dog bowl
i go inside my place and shut the door
wondering why people have children if they aren’t
going to take care of them
i peek out the window and see both of them sitting
in the dirt near the dog house
two doomed babies

sometimes there’s just nothing
rain outside the window
too much coffee in your gut
time ticking away but somehow too slow
you have thoughts but they’re not profound
you have worries and they’re average worries
but terrifying too
—how are you going to make it?
you need a car
a place to sleep
food to eat
you need
all the things that everyone else needs
and none of it is cheap
but you don’t know how
to do anything
and you feel
ashamed to be selling your books
as if you’ve joined the ranks
of all the other merchants
the greedy hustlers

just another salesman

I write simply
to put a smile upon
my own face.
The rest doesn't
matter.

the anti-bukowski

i was a terrible drunk:
sloppy, sad, mean, stupid, violent
and downright weird/crazy/dangerous
in short
unpleasant in the extreme
the exact opposite of my sober self:
a swell and charming fellow
i can’t recommend the demon rum to anyone
sorry kids
as Leonard Cohen would say, “far be it from me to intrude upon the pleasures of the young”
but if you’re looking for glorification of bar fights and beer drunks
you won’t find it here

the accoutrements of beauty

i lay on her bed
listening to Radiohead
while she puts on her make-up
she has bottles and creams
and eyebrow pencils
various gels, perfumes and oils
the accoutrements of beauty
i’ve ruined her skirt
and i haven’t written anything
in weeks
but my vasectomy scars
are almost healed
and last night
i was so deep
inside her
she told me
she could feel me
all the way
up to the bottom
of her ribcage
oh, yeah

poetry can wait

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