Chris Stoller

Chris Stoller (cstolle@indiana.edu) who submitted the following (which falls into the all-important drunken rant catagory) is "a schmuck at Indiana University majoring in journalism and education. They might just let him graduate in May. Even if he has to beg. He's published poems here and there but probably no one really cares where."

GREED AND PRIDE

drunks are coherent

hearing only what I say

remembering an argument,

not creating one

as the alcohol waifs

like each candle i light.

the phone rings

i'm dizzy with thoughts

weak with my words

as if in a flashback

thinking of suicides

as well as every mother fucker

i've had to deal with.

all these asinine people

never know about me

as i sit here alone

listening to lou reed

a man i'd like to meet

i'm going to see ralph nader

he's a hero of mine.

as i look at myself

i wonder what hero i'll be

with a cigar in my mouth

surrounded by celebrities

in publicity photos

to promote this and that.

i wonder if i could be a legend

eating peanut butter sandwiches,

drinking generic orange soda pop.

i may consider it all shit

but i know someday it might change

have to have that option

have to have that umbrella

to guide the rain away from my eyes.

i look out the window

to see clouds in immobile shapes

swallowed up by shadows.

the headlights in my eyes

the memories in my soul

when i saw an accident in chicago

or the time we returned from florida,

my sister's best friend was killed

i heard she cried at the wake.

but some men know existence

some men know how to smile

while the prim and proper fall

orchestras playing melodies in their heads

it is the only music they know.

denying the rights of victims

fighters of all the wars

looking at me, the general,

as we hold a coup

on the democracy of the u.s.

so lennon got his revolution

so did lenin

but stalin and chapman reaped the rewards

they took all the acclaim

they telephoned all their friends to boast

the neglected was dead

these legends were dead

the greedy bastards took lives

lives that the devil held in his hands

but only for a moment

before mohammed reincarnated them

into two unknown flowers.

i knelt down at gideon's tomb

he called me, i cried

man, i cried for hours

then the virgin mary disrobed

i kissed her breasts

sweet as wine, sweet as love

took out my golden ax

to carved her name in an apple tree

she left me for another guy

damn, the bitch, and joseph was his name.

but i walked on in my dreams

making love to starlets and idols

but my true desire was kathy ireland

she had my son in 1991

unbeknownst to the media world.

i see my son every month or so

support him with my money

the cash i make as a writer

making people laugh and think.

god, if i just had the answer

to whatever i wanted to know

i could say fuck it all

make myself life dictator of earth

fuck any girl i wanted

but what good is that

when we hold dictionaries in church

while eating bananas on cold days.

the prophet cursed me with his cross

told me to get my laundry from the dryer

just wasting electricity

he was gone with the flick of a knuckle

but the blood was rich in flavor.

the miracle was reversed

the ku klux klan burned the house down

ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

god pissed in the bushes

rejected moses' commandments

neighbors in the sky

had his wife suck down his semen

i had to gaze, i had to stare.

my eyes glazed with a woman's vagina

my cock erect and waiting her every move

my trouble my only fright

my fears were my chants

inhibitions, my captains and soldiers

i made love to a woman tonight

love in the sense of hate.

we watched the sun set

from the fountain

the trees swaying so our eyes could see

but i'm not a meter, telling time

i'm not the foliage on those trees

i'm not the smoke that fills my hallways.

in my mind, there are the sinners,

the keepers of the orchards

somewhere in the middle is me

with every girl i've ever known,

every guy i've ever known

walking right behind me

or right in front of me.

tombstones for ghosts

the graveyard a heaven

for heroes and legends

who is buried here,

who has yet to die

where will the needle point next

which dial will call up your name.

hey there, blue eyes, seep away

like the water in the gutter

the feces, the deeds, the jitters

hitting every decibel, every grate

a special twang i enjoy.

this is dedicated to the masses

in particular a few dozen

see if your name is here

but alas, it is not, my prayer ended

just as i was struck by a thought

that if i become famous

i'd have to act like a role model

but i've got little understanding of that

for all i have is greed and pride.

Christopher Stoller