John Yamrus is widely recognized as master of minimalism and
the neo-noir in modern poetry. In a career spanning more than 50
years as a working writer, he has had nearly 4,000 poems published
in books, magazines and anthologies around the world. His writing is
often taught in college and university courses. Three of his more than
40 books have been published in translation.
Jesus called
my
Margie home
late August of ’87
and
i been
alone ever since,
but,
that don’t
mean i been lonely.
no, sir.
a
man
what has
half a mind
got plenty to do.
besides,
there’s old Smokey-dog.
best
dog i ever had.
in
some ways
he’s even better than Margie,
and
in some
ways he’s not.
you can’t
stare
at a painting of
a naked lady for too long,
without
people thinking
you’ve been staring at it
for
too long.
mostly,
he drank beer
and smoked weed,
but,
every
now and then
he played the blues.
it
was the 60s
and the old blues guys
were having a revival of sorts,
and
Bill played
songs by really
obscure guys like Yank Rachell
and Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee.
when
i first met Bill
he was fresh in from New York,
where
he tried to
make a name
as a musician, but
the only thing he ever got
was
beat up,
and a real
love for the blues.
i remember the time
Bill got drunk,
and passed out in his car.
he
spilled a
quart of milk
on the seat, and
he slept all day in the sun
and
the milk
turned bad
and stank for a month.
and
Bill was
one of those
guys who came to mind
when you heard that old song
that
called someone
a walking contradiction,
partly truth and partly fiction...
except old Bill
(who was probably all of 26)
was all fiction, but he was a good guy,
right
up to the end,
when he locked his car
and took his guitar out into the park
and
hung himself
from a big old tree.
i wrote a poem
about him
once,
a
long
time ago.
i’m writing
another for him now.
