Alexandre Nodopaka

Veteran Poet - 1,892 Points (1940 / Russia)

And So I Start The Day - Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

"I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego.
My own and everybody else's.
I'm sick of everybody that wants
to get somewhere, do something
distinguished and all, be somebody
interesting. It's disgusting." J. D. Salinger

I f$#king can't believe
it's 322PM
on a frickin Sunday.

I simply wallowed
in bed
until noon
and if it weren't
for my Rx regimen
I would've floundered
the rest of the day
with the frickin news
on the TV
in the background.

I mean it's about
the assassination
of Jamal Khashoggi.
From what I understand
it's the 3rd murder
with two Arabian jerks
in the US.

Basically Trump
declared
open hunting season
on political detractors
in preparation
for his own
similar activities
here in the US.
In which case
I feel it's OK
to have him
or any of his relatives
and goons
put down.

I'll spit virtually
just because of the distance
on their graves.

What really woke me
is sitting at the PC
and reading
my inspirational
if not motivational emails.

This one spells
"All that happens to us,
including our humiliations,
our misfortunes,
our embarrassments,
all is given to us
as raw material,
as clay,
so that we may shape
our art."

So I mold it
and mold it
until
it gets under my nails
if not my skin.

And I say, Shit!
I've been doing this
all my life and
I'm getting
nearly 79 in January.

And that's a lot
of frickin years
if you know what I mean.

And like Hemingway said
Forget your personal tragedies
Good writers always
come back.
Always.

Then for some reason
Toni Morrison
popped in my mind
with her
"There is no time for despair,
no place for self-pity,
no need for silence,
no room for fear.
We speak, we write,
we do language.

So I'm tossing this idea
to instead of writing
and being alone
in that tedious
and lonely hobby
is to go to the beach.

I like it when it's overcast
and kind of dark
and the ocean
is turbulent
like it's supposed to be now.
And watch in black and white
the seagull guano splatters
with their intricate
white
impressionistic designs

It's October you know.

Yeah sometimes
under the fog is so heavy
and so quietly silent
and smooth
like the back
of a sexy chick
and here goes my hand
following the wave
of her spine
going up and down
from her neck
downward
counting her vertebrae
and now it rises
on her back cheek
and cups
her butt
smooth as butter.

I better wake up!

Topic(s) of this poem: archiving

Form: Free Verse


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Poem Submitted: Monday, October 15, 2018

Poem Edited: Monday, October 15, 2018


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