The Wares

A Prose Poem

I really love the poets that just don’t give a fuck.
You, know? The Bukowskis, the Ginsbergs, the Carrols,
and the Baudelaires and on. I’m over here
Thank you very much.
The ones who fucked their pens, the ones who clarified expense,
and gave faith to insanity. Punk rock.

I was told by a teacher one time that the best artists are crazy, mad,
hysterical. I wonder, if he too, was a best artist, because he was mad
and crazy and hysterical. I think maybe he was. This man did not give a fuck.
He swore in class like there was some sort of contest, fuck shit damn bitch,
came into class higher than the American flag just outside the entrance,
and argued god with religious students, and showed us video clips
of the war, and then he would curse the president in front of his supporter’s
children…

One day, during my lunch break, I went to his room to finish some
work that I had been lagging on (I was one of those students).
He was at his desk scribbling something down,
and after a few minutes I had something to ask him about the pyramid
index, but apparently he left to go outside for a couple of minutes, and
on his desk I saw one of the best hand written poems I have ever seen,
and I read it. It was one of the best poems I have ever read.

When he came back, I was already at my desk and when he sat down,
he looked down at his notebook for a moment then closed it.
Lunch ended and I had forgotten the question.

A year later, I see him get out of his car at a gas station. He’s blasting
The Dead Kennedy’s and driving a decommissioned ambulance.
He pays for gas inside and walks out with a blunt wrap, original swisher
sweet. I said “Hey Mr. Ware, how goes it?”

He said, “I saw you read my poem you little shit.”

And then he took off, playing “Too Drunk to Fuck.”

And that was the last time that I saw him,
speeding down the road in his ambulance.

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