Old Fogey That I Am

Old Fogey That I Am:
On Fleeing Fuel Coffeehouse

I forgot

tonight is the night
angry young men
shout obscenities
and call it poetry.

Old fogey that I am....

I just came here to read
and stoke my reflux on some caffeine
and blow some dollars
in the crack machine.

Old fogey that I am....

Grew up in another century
when "damn" was enough
to get your mouth washed out

And schools kids
got in trouble
for chewing gum
not
for shooting up their classmates
in the hallways.

Old fogey that I am....

When I was eighteen
home from college
and a tire blew out

My preacher dad
shouted
"Fucking sonovabitch!"

And we three kids
suddenly silent
figured
the millenium
must have come

Even though
the driver
didn't disappear.

When I was eight
on Christmas visits in Ohio
and a travel photo
was backwards
in the slide projector

My preacher gran'dad
could chill the air
with his elegant
nineteenth century
swear word:
"Pshaw!"

Old fogey that I am....

I don't do swearing
with much poetry.

Most of what I know
I learned
working behind the wall:

"Mother-fuckin' asshole!"
"Asswipe!"
"Douchebag!"

Tame stuff.

But what does an old fogey
sissy-boy like me
use
for cursing poetry?

"Cocksucker!"?

I sat with a straight buddy once
looking for a label mean enough
to slap his sort with.

"Het!"
No reaction.

"Breeder!"
He laughed.

"Cuntlapper!"
"Yes, please," he grinned.

Oh, well....

So, where was I?

Old fogey that I am
I've forgotten
what my point was.

Oh, yes....

Anger.
Angry young men.
Poetry.

Need to remember, I guess....

That God wears
this awareness too.

That
back in another century
I
was an angry young man.

Trying out my anger

Tasting the relish
of resentment.

Flashing my adolescent blade
at the gatekeepers
of treasures
they'd made me think
I
wanted
too.

Cursing an older generation:

"Fascist pigs!"
"Fuckin' rednecks!"
"Suits!"

Not knowing
that such people
were the angry young men
of my preacher daddy's day.

Of my gran'dad's era.

Of the second week
of creation.

Old fogey that I am....

I enjoy
the relish
with which these young men
shout.

Trying out their riffs

Scatting
across the microphone
to a room
of connoisseurs.

So,
rant on.

Just don't forget:

The warrior is most powerful
who need not
draw
his sword.

'Cause after that
it's all
downhill

to
brainstem
reflex

wordless instinct

grunts and blood.

DNA
using you
to kill
weaker
DNA.

No intelligent choice.

Just a tool
hacking out space
for a larger
nest.

Your dick
just a way
for an egg
to make
another
egg.

I'll take my books and go now.

Thank you.

—8/19/03