It is the fear of death that drives
me to squeeze the ink out of this pen;
otherwise, I would not be here
writing in a crowded coffee shop.
(It is very unusual for a man to die
in a coffee shop.)
I’ve been coming here to write
as often as I can.
The waitress knows my name.
Sipping coffee,
in the face of death
I bravely shiver.
(This poem was written in 2014. I performed it in front of people a couple of times and got into trouble.)
Bonanza’s Never Spoken Stanza
The pretty lady in the poem farted.
It was funny because
You do not always come across a lady farting in poetry.
In fact, as the poet writes, he thinks twice
Whether he should or should not take the risk
to include her butt – her sexy ass – in this big, lousy mess.
“Do it!” The rapist at the bar shouts.
“This one’s unique.”
And the poet nods.
(Lately, every girl I know claims
to have been raped by somebody.
It’s trending.)
As I dance with funny-smelling noodles,
Singing ‘The Slaughter of the Poodles’
These particular events are taking place
In a parallel universe,
In a Chinese restaurant called Little China
Located in Downtown Beirut.
All sorts of people who can afford
a Tuesday night dinner
go to Mono.
Dumb teens in tight jeans and high heels
around a round table
discuss matters of great importance:
cocktail parties, good careers, and dicks doused in gold.
“Boys want tits but men want ass.”
“Never kiss a guy who can’t dance.”
The polo shirt society members sit in one corner.
One of them will have the waitress for dessert.
“That sexy thing is something, isn’t she?”
“My biceps need the protein, baby.”
Now, the poet stands up swiftly
(by the way, his name’s Bonanza)
and jumps on the dining table
to recite the lousy stanza.
“Listen, ladies and boys,
to the sounds of the future.
Listen to the tap-dancing thumbs on touch screens,
to the smart phones and smart bombs and ATM machines.
Get your noses out of your telephones and listen.
Listen, because I speak what I see and—”
That is when the poet slips and falls from the table.
As his butt hits the floor,
the once bamboozled crowd starts laughing.
Some hands start clapping,
but it’s no round of applause.
Mega-pixel pictures of the crying poet,
who has Sweet & Sour sauce in his hair
and soy sauce on his pants,
are taken
while the rapist rapes the pretty girl
who farted earlier in this poem.
(Circa 2013. Though I had the temptation/desire to edit it, I decided to keep it as is. This poem is Inspired by The Rime of the Ancient Mariner By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. If I am not mistaken, I read it in class when I first wrote it. I don’t remember much else… Anyway, it’s been collecting dust for many years now, and there’s no reason for me not to share it. Note that some lines in the third part of this poem are taken from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. )
On Water I Stood
It comes to thee at night
When thou least expect a fright.
Like a spider’s web it grows,
Whilst thy body’s paralyzed!
From beneath the seven seas,
It brings forth nine mysteries;
One of which becomes a dream
To be dreamt this night of sin.
Here the music rests in peace.
‘Tis where the saddest silence speaks!
Come! Let it tell thee what it should
‘Tis all for the better good!
Now, the muses came to thee –
‘Tis thy turn to make a speech.
“Tell us, please, what the mariner sees
And we shall tell thee what it means.”
***
Here is my spirit in the mariner’s psych.
The mariner’s asleep; the winds are alright.
Thus I float in an ocean of dreams
And, so far, I have seen what I see.
But suddenly an albatross,
A dead bird I came across
Then a monster from underwater
Warned me to go no further –
“Why?” Said I. “Dost thou,” said he
“Wish to see the devil’s burning eyes?”
“No!” Cried I, “But why, tell me,
Does the devil so dwell here?”
The sea-monster gave no answer
And like it came, it disappeared.
So I quickened pace, walked on water,
And left it all behind me.
On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.
***
‘Tis said that the ancient mariner passes,
Like night, from land to land, he passes
And till his ghastly tale is told
This heart within him burns with cold.
But suddenly an albatross
A good omen he came across
Yet, once again, with his cross-bow
He shot the albatross!
“Why?” Said I. And the mariner laughed.
“Time’s a circle, can’t you tell?”
“No!” Cried I, “but why, tell me,
Didst thou make the same mistake?”
The ancient mariner had to answer
And so he came a little closer
And to my heart with a silent whisper
He spoke… his final treasure!
On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.
***
I dreamt that I woke up from a dream
But in the dream of a dream I still
Hear the mariner scream: –
“Keep thy books for ever open, for we all deserve to live!
Even though we live to make – and tell! –
The same mistakes again.”
Bored Absurdist 