John C. Erianne

More male disfunction, this time from John Erianne in New Jersey. John is

editor of Devil Blossoms and the online 'zine The Doomed City. He can be

reached at j.erianne@worldnet.att.net.

GOING POSTAL

A rainy Saturday

afternoon watching

John Woo movies

until my nose bleeds

and I am thinking

about going postal.

I think about it all

the time-- whenever

I see a co-worker or

my neighbor mowing

the lawn without a

shirt. I think

wouldn't Mr. So-and-

So look simply smashing

underneath my back tire.

Whenever some crazy with

gun starts shooting, we ask,

"Why?" fall back on political

correctness, and strike a pose

like a t.v. ad.

Hell, whenever I watch

the evening news, I

think Pol Pot was right,

just that his focus

was too narrow.

Diseases kill too slowly

and the nuclear bomb has never

lived up to its full potential.

Perhaps, we should all go postal

at least once a year, a free-for-all

festival of inhumanity without

moral restraint.

Think about it...

AK's for everybody!

and the drinks are on the house...

YOU'VE GOT TO WONDER ABOUT SOME PEOPLE

At break time Jesse

tells me about this

Jasmine St. Claire

breaking the gang-bang

record and how he would've

liked to have been one of the

guys.

Three-hundred, wasn't it?

And wasn't the last guy a

sweepstakes winner?

Imagine that, I say.

Yeah, but I wouldn't

want to be that last guy,

he replied.

I smile at this, one of those

uncontrollable, evil smirks

I'm known for:

I mean, you've got to wonder

about some people. Me?

I wouldn't want to be the

Janitor.

YET ANOTHER POEM ABOUT POETRY

The tweed suits have said that we

mustn't write poems about poetry

and it's true that I've written far too

many of them.

And maybe it's because my poetic

license has no pedigree and I don't

really give a shit about winning a Pushcart

or Pulitzer that I've allowed myself such

freedom, so here is yet another one

for the endless miles of traffic and all the roads not taken

for the bicycle cops in the park, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick

maker, all the lawyers, doctors, reporters,

O.J, and Johnny Cochrane on Court TV,

all the moguls, drug dealers and thieves.

for the U.S. v. Microsoft.

for Elián Gonzáles and Fidel Castro and all the Haitians who

still haven't had their day in court.

for Israel, Palestine, Bosnia and Northern Ireland

for the revolutionaries, reactionaries, and terrorists and anyone

else who has more guns than sense.

for the Republicans, the Democrats and the Disco Queens of Europe.

for the guy next door and his wife who used to blow men in bars for a beer.

for the communist, fascist, and rapist, anarchist, abortionist, lobbyist,

and white supremacist, absurdist, atheist and Buddhist, the contortionist or

any other "ist" you can think of.

for Mumia Abu-Jamal and Leonard Peltier.

for all the poets in or out of jail, living or dead in unmarked graves,

voices that haunt us still.

for anyone and everyone, but mostly for me,

because although I don't write Shakespearean sonnets, when

I get my groove on I am the shotgun blast,

the unholy streak of lightning in the sky,

the grinning face at your window,

and the stick of dynamite in your ear.

and if Shakespeare were alive today, he wouldn't be writing poems about

poetry,

he'd be out in Hollywood giving rim-jobs to film producers and

script-doctoring Esterhaus,

and I'd be right here,

right where I've always been

still lighting your goddamn

fuse.

John C. Erianne