Kick
the Sonnet Habit Before It's Too Late
Jo Anne, the girl who lived next door to me,
before she overdosed on heroin,
instructed me in formal poetry.
Pentameter is where you must begin.
That's what she claimed. Iambic? I inquired.
I hate that shit and rhythm leaves me numb.
There's nothing to it. Patience is required,
she laughed. To get it right, just think da dum.
Envision Satan whacking off in Hell.
Ka-thunk! Ka-thunk! Ka-thunk! Ka-thunk! Ka-thunk!
Feel the beat and get to know it well.
The rhythm's easier if you get drunk.
The meter's clearer coming down off smack.
I'll demonstrate, she said. I'll be right back.
Bait
I've always hated this old photograph:
my dad so proud, so confident, alive.
He hoists a stringer—Brookies lured with worms.
The purest way to go, he always claimed;
but I insisted sportsmen fish with flies.
To spite the bastard, I learned how to tie
my own from scratch and taught myself to cast.
I even caught a few trout now and then.
And when my balls had grown to twice their size,
I asked my dad to come along with me.
He laughed and spat at my new graphite rod.
"The only thing you'll catch with that is shit,
you dope," he scoffed. "Pollution's killed them all,
at least the ones that got away from me."
"Up yours, old man!" I said. He wouldn't bite.
Instead he watched me deftly hook an oak,
then pissed a perfect arc into the brook.
Copyright © 2002 Richard Jordan