[lit-ideas] Re: SUNDAY POEM

  • From: wokshevs@xxxxxx
  • To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, Mike Geary <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 27 Jul 2008 15:04:09 -0230

OK, my turn ...

(In a *Cheap Detective*, Peter Falk voice:)

Listen shweedhard, I'm talkin'. I got dis problem, shee. No, I don't mean dat
problem, keep yer mits to yerself. This broad who got shweet on me awhile back,
shee, she just kicked the bucket an' I'm shtuck with her only sole possession
de world: a white 1987 Brougham Cadillac. And it's a V-8 kid, just like you. I
can't handle eider one o' you. Perfect condition on the outside. Der ain't no
rust in Arizona. Ledder seats are in very good condition. Real wood panelling
on the dashboard, know what I mean? Gorgeous ta look at, jus' like yours, but
don't get any ideas. Back seats you'd love to bring your boyfriends to. No
liquor cabinet, but you can't have everyt'ing can you. 

Question is, how do I go about getting rid of the beast? Boys downtown say you
know the ins and outs of somethin' called "e-bay." All I know about bays, is
dat's where we trow the bodies of Ratso's boys. But dis bay is somewhere 'round

"Online."  Never hoid of anyplace round here called dat. So, c'mon, cough it up.
I want a few grand for it an' you're shtandin' in my way. And don't lie to me
shweedhard, or you'll be in the bay, the kind I knows sometin' about, 
know what I mean?  I wanna solve this, before the Frenchie guy or the Chinese
guy who never says his damn prepositions hears about dis.  I'm countin' on ya.
By da way, tell da butler, he needs more shtamps.

Walter O.
Sam Spade Chair of Forensic Literature
Arizona State University
Glendale, AZ

Quoting Mike Geary <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>:

> I wrote: "I ain't easy being me" as the title.  I meant to write "It ain't
> easy being me".  But I kind of like "I ain't easy being me" --  which could
> be closer to the truth.  But I don't want to go there.
> Mike Geary
> Memphis 
>   ----- Original Message ----- 
>   From: Mike Geary 
>   To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx 
>   Sent: Sunday, July 27, 2008 1:36 AM
>   Subject: [lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM
>   My cat looked quizzically at me
>   as if to ask if I've lost hold
>   of my senses.  Of course I haven't.
>   I've never had control of my senses.  
>   Never will.  I threw my tuna salad sandwich at her.
>   Control's the last thing I want.  
>   Jesus God what a prison!
>   To be the keeper of the keys.
>   You go be police, judge, jury, jailer 
>   -- that's for slaves.  I'm a free man,
>   I shouted at her, but she seemed
>   more interested in my tuna salad sandwich
>   than in my philosophy.
>   "I will brook no preacher, priest, professsor nor any other
> prestidigitator
>   to ever lock me into a cell of magical, metaphysical meanings.
>   If something makes sense to you,
>   Then I abjure it. 
>   It's as simple as that,"
>   I shouted and slammed my fist on the table as punctuation.
>   My cat finished the tuna fish salad sandwich
>   then looked quizzically at me
>   as if to ask if I've lost hold of my senses.
>   "What do you want from me," I screamed.
>   She mewed.  Which most people would have taken
>   as a polite: "Thank you, sir, for that fine tuna fish salad sandwich."
>   But I knew what she meant, oh, yes, I did, make no mistake about that --
>   "I want your soul" she was saying -- just like everyone else,
>   so I threw my glass of milk at her.
>   She enjoyed that as well, her tongue 
>   moving ever so carefully among the shards of my very last glass.
>   Mike Geary
>   Memphis

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