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sunshine jen: Bar Napkin Poetry
I currently have a lot of stuff happening in my existence. How did all this stuff happen? Yes, I know everyone has stuff happening because stuff happening is that little thing called life. I should be grateful that I'm not sitting in the middle of a vast emptiness waiting for the stuff to happen. Instead, I get to wander through a vast green forest of stuff happening.
What stuff is happening? Well, I can tell you what is not happening. I am not pregnant. I am not moving house. I didn't sell a blockbuster screenplay, and I am not dating Tom Cruise (or some other random famous person). But I digress.
With all this stuff happening, I realized that this would be a perfect time to do something I've wanted to do for awhile. I possess a blue file folder thick with paper and labeled 'Poetry Crap'. Recently inspired by Film & TV Rights, I figured maybe someday I'd throw a few of them up on the robot wall to see what sticks.
Someday is today.
Now, I don't want to get too ahead of myself, but June might just become poetry month on the Sunshine Jen network. I know April is official poetry month, but I've always been a little slow with these things.
I have actually read some of the Poetry Crap aloud in rooms filled with strangers in the East Village (NY) and Venice (CA). The Vibrator poem was always a crowd pleaser. Some of the poems aren't really poems. They're more like songs. And yes, I like to rhyme.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy a little bit of Bar Napkin Poetry. . .
Bar Napkin Poetry
I've written poetry on bar napkins
When I was a drunken seer
Then the bartender tossed them in the trash bin
So much for that career.
I can always remember what I said when I was drunk
But damn if I can remember what I wrote
It probably stunk worse than a skunk
And sunk faster than a cardboard boat
It probably was about sex
The kind of stuff you don't talk about sober
Like where to bite on people's necks
Or how to make a woman slobber.
I don't write on napkins anymore
But don't worry now, it's fine
The paper quality's gotten poor
And it's hard to make a line.
At the bar a guy writes in a spiral bound book
He's writing what is being said
I tell him that he's just a crook
Stealing words that flood my head.
He says he is a writer of plays
I bump into a lot of 'em these days
It's an art form that never pays
And has its own peculiar ways.
He asks me where my work's been done.
Nah, I'm too busy having fun
My productions total none.
I am too much in the sun.
He didn't really get it
And I seemed too much the ditz
To have any sort of wit
To write producible shit.
Oh well, getting back to the napkins
Which is what this poem's about
They were sturdy little things
That held my sins, my truths, my doubts.
They are gone forever
But it all seems right that way
They belong to those late nights and never
Should see day.
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