Eight Poems by John Yamrus

talking about god

 

wasn’t

one of the

things on Ernie’s list.

 

i mean,

i want to believe,

i really do, but what’s the point, right?

 

and

he’d stand there,

on the beach, arms crossed,

 

looking at us,

 

waiting

for someone

to come along,

take his picture and

declare that everything

everywhere was all right,

and was never gonna change,

for now and for ever and ever, amen.

he smelled

 

like

rotten fruit,

but he was interesting,

 

and

she never

knew what he

was gonna do next

 

and

that was more

than a little bit cool.

 

her dad

always told her

to add up the good

and the bad about a person,

 

and Tony

was good with the kid

and he never drank that much

 

or

ever

raised a hand

and when she did the math,

 

the

smell

was no big deal.

after

 

the

second

or third shot,

 

Charley

liked quote

Tom Waits by saying:

 

you know

there ain’t no heaven,

there’s just god when he’s drunk.

 

but,

by the 8^th or 9^th

he’d just lay there in his chair,

 

knowing

sure as shit

there ain’t no heaven,

 

and

there ain’t no god,

there’s just Charley when he’s drunk.

all old men

 

begin

at the beginning.

 

his

was no more

different or special

 

than

any other,

 

but,

it was his

 

and

he carried it

with him for the rest of his days.

everything

 

they knew

about Billy D –

no, not that Billy Dee –

 

but,

Billy Dewalt,

the Billy who lived

out on Old Cabin Road –

 

everything

they knew about him

 

was true,

 

except

for maybe

his story about

that pork pie hat of his

 

and

where it came from. 

 

nobody

in their right mind

believed he got it from Lester Young,

 

because

Lester died in 1959

 

and

that hat

couldn’t be

more than a couple years old,

 

and

it didn’t

really matter

where he got it, or when,

 

because

he sure did

look good in it, didn’t he?

for Benny,

 

the

things he saw

were never just shadows

or ghosts, they were bigger than that,

 

so, he called them shadow ghosts,

 

and

the ones he saw

gave him no moral second chances.

 

it

was awful.

 

some nights,

he’d sit there in that chair,

and stare at them, and they’d stare back,

 

almost

daring him

to do something.

 

but,

he was powerless.

and, more than anything else,

 

he

knew that

suffering is endless

and will always last forever.

she put one hand

 

on

top of

the other

and pulled

the skin smooth

 

and

looked at me

 

and said:

 

i used to be young once...

i used to be

young.

she thought

 

of

the cold,

dark river and

she thought of the boy

 

who

jumped

or was pushed

and she thought of

the clouds and the sun

 

and

the sky,

 

all

of which

would never change

 

no

matter what.

     

John Yamrus - One of the most prolific writers of poetry on the scene today, John Yamrus is widely considered to be a master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry. The relaxed style of his writing can be seen as a continuation of the oral tradition of literature associated with Allen Ginsberg and The Beats, and his poems are best appreciated when read aloud.

The unlikely pairing of often dark subjects, combined with humor and irreverence has become something of a trademark of his work.

His nearly 50 published books, which include not only poetry, but also novels, memoirs and a children’s book, are beginning to appear in translation, and he is a frequent guest on podcasts and television programs.

His acclaimed memoir, THE STREET, is a look back at his early years, growing up less than wealthy, in a Pennsylvania coal town in the late 1950s.