Humbug

got a phone call from
the Regina Times Herald
canvasing suckers for annual subscription’s
$19.99 for crap i refuse to be subjected to
i listened to the sales spiel for ten minutes
without interrupting, it helps
me enjoy the rejection they don’t see coming
“i understand the importance
of printed media, i said, but no
thank you.”
“oh? well have a merry christmas.”

got me thinking:
this Holiday Season
give the gift of empathy
and go Fuck Yourself
you’re going to do it anyway
with Turkey Dinner, Ham
Cholesterol, Egg Nog, Candy Canes,
Gingerbread Men (or ‘persons’ for the politically
neutered) finger-food dessert squares, cookies
fructose and sodium

i’ll hang my hat, pull up the covers
and sleep peacefully
while the rest of you bellyache and complain
about well-meant intentions
oh,
did you convince yourself it was going to be
different this year

where in the Hell’d you get that idea?

personal resolution for New Year: write
NO FLYERS
on mailbox

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.

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Our Deep Sleep, a response to Charles Bukowski

it’s the same story
that it ever was
Endorphins, chasing the rush,
pursuance of perfection
in your time Mr. B
shop-a-holics didn’t have a support group
or a name
with which to identify their addictions
but we’ve known it since the 60’s
Capitalism under Democracy
was the Commercial wet dream
what
imaginations
do you expect them to have
the writers of books, movie scripts,
the novelists,
typists, poets
when they no longer have to think
for themselves
when they no longer have to imagine a thing
into being
Corporate Scumbags invent markets specifically
for those that don’t know what
they want
and now Social Media exposes the fragility
of that Validation Matrix
but they’re hooked, clicking the Orgasm button
growing dumb
waiting for the internet to produce
the next shiny, bouncing ball
you knew it all along
didn’t you
the answer to the riddle
if you give them the answer to a question
they weren’t prepared to ask
they’d just deny it

and claim posthumously that you were a visionary
ahead of your time
much maligned, much imitated regardless
while they wait
for the next shiny, perfect wit
to destroy

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.

keep living, lace your shoes, start again

i have seen glacier snow
in the high Spring Sun, glow a metallic
sheet reflecting the overweening ray
from where i stood
at a wide green place in the lower valley

Navigated a nettle forest, sap, welts,
farm-hand blisters, climbed many trees
spooked 4am chickens hunkered in foggy roost
for breakfast eggs, hen-pecked hands
and unimpressed Father public school

cut my feet at Barkley Sound, crusty upturned rocks
looking for Sandperch, contemplated clouds, tree-forts
and Mother’s worm-fed sunflower garden
jeered at the aquarium Otters in Stanley Park
from triumphant boyhood
and mounted the derelict ships at Royston

found WB Yeats at age 13, read with awe His priceless thoughts
listened to 20th Century scientists theorize ice-cap melt
flooding a disproportionate Earth, watched CNN’s Desert Storm
news coverage,`91, feeling the emotional-distance of Bombs
dropped from the sky

climbed Mt Seymour misunderstanding Grandfather’s mind
only to recollect that moment of misspent quiet again, & again
in adulthood’s packing boxes of jilted young lays
flushed with passionate impossible reason
to the Midnight sidewalks illuminated with squad-cars
miranda rights, and accusations of Social Disturbance

received a virgin Hand Job at HWY 1 Family Restaurant
laughed to the Exit door as young Christian husband
made loud declamations for sanctity to spare
scrupulous wife and un-soiled children,
protesting to manager for our permanent expulsion

dry-humped (one time) on Moose Jaw Casino floor
in front of the black jack tables, hard-on frustrated
between a pair of round denim ass-cheeks
Blow Job in City Park 3 am, titillated at the danger
of burglarizing parked cars for cigarette money
and still politely refused many a rational proposition

stared with drunk eyes at the Northern Lights
to stumble the Winter streets looking for home
praying, No cops
finding none and destination, thanking God
huddled over toilet bowl

climbed the tenement fire escape of drug house
and sat with prison-hardened Men in paranoia
for 2 grams of grass and lonely never-again sympathies
ran from small town Law for no reason other
than to rile their chase, and rode the City Bus
all night New Year’s Eve reading poetry to strangers

read Ken Follett, Tom Clancy, and Lee Child
in search of a mentor
only to discover their sexless affairs with money
returning again, years later, to Military Fiction with Vonnegut
renewing my faith in Literature

sat delighted with Asimov
‘s dreams of a robotic possibility future
and looked at the plain world with clear eyes, dumbfounded
by the nobility of ignorance
turned off the television set for the last time, 2011
after Fox’s repeated Trade Center footage

retreated (again) to Drugs, Pussy, 6am hangovers
work-boots, and cigarette stained fingers fumbling in the dark
feeling the immortality of a woman’s mouth wet with last-nite’s sex
excited by masculine Morning arousal
only to be worn-down by the eventual monotony of living
bachelorhood and angry masturbation

decided finally that Time is a concept, mutually shared
but individually explored
existence is spiritual by design
Death is Certain, God is a plausible excuse for intention,
and, Right/ Wrong are perceptions of choice

I remind myself
there are no secrets
just
keep living, lace my shoes, start again

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.

alright, December

alright, December
you’ve arrived
finally
chronologically, as every year
but this year with weather
curious
for a Canadian winter
had me gibbering out paranoia’s
to cashier who eyed me
skeptically
what did i say “blah, blah
global warming” (?) fuck
like i subscribe to
Mayan calendars c/o Von Däniken
the torn jeans
and cigarette burns in sweater
likely filled-in
the requisite exposition
regardless
no-body seems to bother
with unseasonal good weather
staring out coffee shop windows
walking dogs in the street
glib crazies all
my friends talk about winning the lottery
with the same distant look and glazed eyes
like i missed a therapy seminar
nevermind
that i haven’t re-filled my prescription
in more than a decade

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.

Acceptance

my left sock is longer
than my right sock
but they`re both
black
there`s a hole in my shirt
and i`ve accomplished a beard
though
i`ve really just quit shaving
my face

there’s dirty laundry
in the hallway
lonely shelves in the fridge
i’m out of TP
writing this naked
disheveled
and in need of a shower
masturbation is a 4 syllable
word
i think
therefore i am
Dylan Thomas a lush
E.A. Poe had demons
with angel voices in his head
like Baudelaire before him
Bukowski treated objects like women
Oscar Wilde imprisoned
for the crime of being human
and i’m pretty sure Hemingway
wrote that long-ass book
because of
love-sickness and a sexless
bachelor pad

a lion hunter
dead of self-
inflicted gunshot wound

… pussy
what was it that Yeats said

that animals live their lives
without fear of death, or
wondering should their souls find
a hereafter
unlike the Human animal
who fears his own kind
as he fears himself
and the environs he inhabits
man-made inventions all

Death a concept unique to man
i
tip my glass to thee
and crack with
laughter

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.

Progress

it was a while ago now
they all used to drink those vodka
coolers
ladies, i mean
some men too
but we can’t call them ladies now
what with sexism and all that
women then
though they may now deny it
with their Age and graduated sense
of Style & circumstance
but Sarah J Parker is definitely a Lady
probably because of her portrayal
in that then-famous NY tv program
as a cosmo-
politan Towny

Vodka Coolers
every one. nobody drinks them anymore
they’re passé
i learned that word in a Starbucks
with context
but i was only there for their little Lemon
cake squares
because i’m not cosmopolitan enough
and all the stewardesses are gone. they
still have flight attendants
without the sex appeal
and no more of that atta-girl Susan
respect spanking either. it’s degrading
diminishing, a sexual overtone in a male environment
they’re not Ladies anymore
except for that Sarah J P
she probably gets respect spanked for
team effort

© Emerys Watchel, 2017 All rights reserved.