someone said “Tom don’t refer
to movie characters, rock music
address living persons
in your ‘poetry’
be more discreet, more circumspect
a little more vague”
so I got depressed criticism wounded
then had the good sense to think
what the hell?
that
ain’t me
others invoke The Muse, I invoke Jim Beam
others address Calliope, I address Neil Young
others allude to Shakespeare, I allude to Mark Twain
my approach not oblique
straight-up, neat, undiluted
with me it is necessary
“to call a spade a goddamn shovel”
I discomfit you?
you don’t like it?
I don’t like strawberry slush margaritas
or pretentious poetry read like a lecture
sand stuck in your brain, I’m sand in your gut
don’t make obscure what I want to express
don’t mean to be blunt in fact sharp is better,
some deftly dance avoiding exposure
clutching jabbing seeking favor from judges
I pummel the gut then a hook to the temple
I can’t and ain’t doing what they do
coming to box, I come to brawl
you want classics, go read them
you want esoteric, go elsewhere
you want to knock me, fuck you;
precursors? dealt with their time
I must deal with mine
some wrestled great issues,
I wrestle with Tom
and this is my mat
Thomas
O’Dore lives in Lafayette, Indiana, is nearly retired
from the dead vocation of draftsman and is now turning to the dead avocation of poetry: two deceased areas in which he is largely autodidactic. He enjoys good whiskey
and bad poetry to excess. This is his
first publication.