Five Poems by John Yamrus

 

he was seventeen when  

 

god  

came down and  

took a giant shit on his head.   

 

after that, 

it was Vietnam,  

then booze and drugs  

 

and  

that little  

blue Volkswagen  

he drove for years until  

he fell asleep in it and spilled  

a near full quart of milk on the seat.  

 

the sun  

baked him  

and the milk  

and no matter how  

much he scrubbed and cleaned, 

he never really could get rid of the stink.

Gedda’s was  

 

this little  

shot and beer joint  

our parents used to take us to  

 

when  

we were kids.  

me and my sister.  

 

i was  

maybe 5 and  

we’d sit with them  

at the end of the bar and  

Mrs. G would give us nickels  

 

that we’d  

put in the machine  

to get those red pistachios  

 

and  

my father  

showed us how  

to tip the machine  

and turn the crank real slow  

 

to get the most out of it  

 

and  

they’d sit  

and talk and drink  

 

and  

i know  

it had to be  

the afternoon  

because i remember  

the light coming in from the street  

 

and  

it was red  

because of the glass  

 

and  

so were  

our hands  

from the nuts  

 

and  

they were  

probably drunk  

 

when  

we left  

because it was 1956  

and that was what you did  

 

when  

you had a  

couple of bucks  

 

and  

a day off  

 

and  

no one there  

to watch the kids.

for Tony it was 

 

all 60s music... 

Archie Bell And The Drells... 

 

The Stones... 

 

Smokey... 

 

that  

was all he  

needed to get right.   

 

that, and  

his little dog Tail.   

 

Tail  

didn’t have any.   

He also didn’t have a back leg.    

 

Tony  

didn’t care.   

Neither did Tail.   

 

And they’d  

sit out back, and  

listen to music and drink beer. 

 

Tail  

did, too.   

he’d get a  

splash in his bowl  

a couple times a day and  

loved it just as much as Tony did.   

 

For  

Tail and Tony  

it never got any better than that.   

 

It didn’t have to. 

 

so, he says:  

 

all you  

had to do  

was take one  

look in his eyes  

 

and  

you knew  

what the problem was;  

 

he  

was living  

way too close to the bone,  

 

and  

it kept  

him up at night.  

 

he knew  

he couldn’t hack it,  

but, what the hell...right?   

 

so, i said  

what happened next?   

 

and  

he looks  

at me and says:  

 

fuck me  

if i'm ever  

tellin’ anyone  

as stupid lookin’ as you!  

 

her breath 

 

was like  

dead snakes  

kept too long in a jar.   

 

but  

that wasn’t  

the worst of it.   

 

if she  

had her way,  

she’d take all she could get  

 

and  

have you  

out the door  

before you even  

had a taste of anything  

even close to being sweet. 

 

John Yamrus - In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 40 books. He has also had more than 3,500 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world. A number of his books and poems are taught in college and university courses. He is widely considered to be a master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry. His two most recent books are the memoir THE STREET and a volume of poetry called PRESENT TENSE. In addition, 3 of his books have been published in translation.