SELECTED POETRY
by Dan Provost

'11:50 A.M. DRUNK'
by Dan Provost

It gives quite a chill to your reluctant old bones when walking into the local dive -- seeing the disengaged accepted locked in on the Price is Right television program.

You are part of this

The sad stares on a stained Bob Barker

Debating on bids in the showcase showdown.

It is now 11:53
The world works, takes lunch,

Whines…complain about the boss.

You blend in here
Not there.

Where you are.
The present.

Morning buzz—glaring consolation being a surviving drunk near afternoon.
Barker’s beauties wave goodbye…
The show is over.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'COUNTER TRANSFERENCE'
by Dan Provost

A brother is killed while
playing basketball

A mother sells her kids
for crack.

A son sees his father
shoot up in a bathroom

These are tales that
Jose would relate to
me after he would try to
cut himself with a knife.

He explained that he is sad and wishes things were different.

I just hope his future tense stories are more comforting,

And as he stares at the stitches that hold his wrist together,

I know that he will die soon.

Part of me will die with him.
I’ll just carry the visions of his pain longer…

While living.

Apparently.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'WELCOME TO WORCESTER PARADISE'
by Dan Provost

Those who have not been stained by the sinister side of Worcester meet every Sunday morning at the White Hen Pantry for a cup of coffee and discussions of outcast

warmth and sympathy.

They all live in a hi-rise studio apartment building above the store, a place that is also occupied by festive losers, regarded whores, and chambermaids to the Heroin queen…

Some come alone, others help those who need assistance.
The woman in the wheelchair, the skinny man with the penny-loafers and square knot tie,
a woman who lost her son in a drunk driving accident—and emotionally has never recovered.

One older lady tells of her anticipation of seeing her son over the holidays.
“I haven’t seen my Joey in ten years” she tells the group, tears welling within tired, stormy eyes.

A heavy-set woman discusses her battle with diabetes—“I’ve felt pretty good this week, not much pain”, as she shifts her walker upright in order to get another doughnut.

The guy with the circa 1940 clothes on, who is terrorized daily by the thugs who run amuck up and down Main Street, listens intently to every story that is told, not saying a word.

He is accepted here, and for him that’s enough.

As I walk into the store to buy a paper, I receive stares from all of them…
Those who never got a break,
Those who never have peace in their lives,
Those who will probably will die soon—victims of unfounded hatred or unwanted loneliness.

My own existence has been one of chosen isolation; I have decided to live this way.

But not these people, they are prisoners of tranquil want, casualties of a city whose young inhabitants have left them fearful of living.

The loners, the frail, the weak—huddled in their one sacred place on an early Sunday.

I did not return their glances, but looked down at the floor as I received my change and made my way to the exit.

I had the desire to cry, but instead I took the elevator and entered my abode of death—hoping that when it’s my turn to kick, they will find me with a scowl on my face and a dagger in my mouth—enough to stifle the eternal scream we all must echo someday.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'NON-POPULATION'
by Dan Provost

To die among the weeds which are
flailing in the wind on summer’s second hot day.

Body, weather beaten and decaying—no opportunity of conversation with the corpse.

What was his favourite book?
What were his feelings on politics?
Or a simple what’s your name?

Sometimes, they find the living among the weeds also…

And nobody asks them anything either…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'HEY WHORE'
by Dan Provost

Hey Whore,

I’m tired and wet from the
pissing rain that’s fallen
for three days now.

Hey Whore,
My member’s stiff…
Show me mercy in your
world of price full passion.

A freebie for old time’s sake…

Hey Whore,
Enter inside with caution…
No rubbers for the Aids-infected
plague which makes sex death-like…

Hey Whore,
Build me a raft
and let’s float away.

Hey Whore,

Kill me,

Gently…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'SHIT CITY'
by Dan Provost

I’m just trying to see a glimpse of the sun while entrapped in a raging storm of blackness and instability.

A trek through nature, seeing the beauty of trees, animals, and feeling the soft wind blowing on my jagged face,

never cures the ails of a secretion of pain that churns through my stomach as I face another day in shit city.

Sometimes, drunkenness takes the pain out of being too observant.

But A.A. tells me sobriety leads to wanted candour with oneself—and an inner peace that will influence my outlook on the existence of man.

Twists and turns, turns and twists around a barren bend of inner jargon and reasons to survive a game I did not choose to take part in.

Words seem forced, action spells doom, while arranging every excuse not to lie down in your final deathbed.

I will choose?

I will choose?

No — I will not choose anything today, but I crave any opportunity to be unscarred…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'SELF ANALYSIS #437'
by Dan Provost

I sit in my office and wait for violence while
others draw straws to see if the weather is too
cold outside to start their engines.

No need to thank me, I am a child of concrete
and steel…the last of the Bengal Tigers
who jump out of the jungle and attack
helpless soldiers who search for mangos
like Chef did in Apocalypse Now.

I am a stranger to myself, afraid of death
but clinging to the morbid idea every day.

I am not Coleridge, or Poe, or even Bukowski;
just a poor administrator who can’t figure it out.

Walking along stained workplace carpets, seeking
a hand in guidance but wanting to wait it out and meet
at the bar instead…

I am what you think, what you want to know…but
are afraid to say.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'NOT LENNON’S IMAGINE'
by Dan Provost

Imagine the death of a man

One man.
Fighting for his last breath before he succumbs to finality.

Imagine a sight
The last sight
of one in a car-wreck or
a cancer patient, or
someone who’s just
had it and holds a gun
to his temple.

Imagine hands
Not a poet or carpenter’s hands.
Only hands that are wanting,
Praying
Hoping
Wanting answers but receiving nothing.

We wait and wait and wait while the moments ticks away.
Every second that cannot be recaptured — every second forgotten while man is
wrapped up in his playground creation.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'GOOD CATHOLIC GIRLS'
by Dan Provost

The good Catholic girls refuse to say
the word “Fuck,” but on Saturday night
while the Lord isn’t looking they’ll be
boozing and humping their little asses
off — believing that divine intervention
will stop them from getting pregnant.

Then on Sunday Morning…After a
Breakfast of Diet Coke and Bayer
Aspirin, they will go off to church with their
good Catholic parents to repent for the
sins that they committed last night.

On Monday, the good Catholic girls
will be off to the good Catholic School,
Draping their sweaters over silky shoulders
that were exposed in Frankie’s Buick
Truck last Saturday night — their uniforms
of checkered skirts and embroidered
blouses hide succulent nipples and dripping
privates all ready to be licked after Father
Smith finishes the Lord’s Prayer and
takes attendance.

Friday afternoon will be spent in combative
heat as the weekend approaches again…

The Buick.
The Panting.
The Sex.

Good Catholic girls enter into seedy
Adult-hood early these days…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'DREAMING BEFORE SUICIDE'
by Dan Provost

I am dreaming from the groin,
waiting for a sexual dynamo
to take me in her arms and
destroy me.

I was hoping to jump
on a train and ride
to Alaska with the hobos,
pretending I’m Jack Kerouac.

I was wishing that Ronnie Van Zant
would come back to life and ram
his words down the pencil-pushers
throat.

I exist second by second, influenced by lyrics and poems from
those whom preceded me.

Cherished women that refused to conform to society’s norm.

Eventually, I will fall into a six-foot hole, with
only my words and skeletal smile remaining,

never to be remembered—only adding to a gruesome landscape.

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'ODE TO THE WORKING STIFF'
by Dan Provost

When it seems that I have confronted
the final outcry of creative mankind that
dared to raise it’s beautiful head and
stare at me—I always end up falling into a rock pile
of Jaded Mailmen and Nabisco Wheat Thin
Grocery Clerks

Conceding that commonness is an
exact science of death…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'COLLEGE ADMINISTRATOR BLUES'
by Dan Provost

Hank Williams Junior once sang about musicians that “have no scars
or no feel.”

The same applies to most College Professors.

Their life is filled with standard textbooks, faculty mixers,
complaints about tenure and giggles after one glass of wine.

I have to deal with many of these ass-holes daily—be privy to
pompous conversations that have absolutely no significance in my
life.

They’re like cheerleaders in a crap game, an abstainer in a crack
house.

Condescending in twenty-dollar loafers.

So I guess cracking a joke about a dumb blond in Wichita is not a
typical topic discussed among educators.

Oh well, I thought it was funny…

© Dan Provost
Reproduced with permission

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'SLEEPING IN THE PARK'
by Dan Provost

This poem was originally published in Babel magazine

Nothing else matters
but the clothes on your back and
a chance to sense that somewhere…someone
is enjoying the same sunrise as you are…

I write these words at a frantic pace so I
do not give myself an opportunity to think…All
around me is unified panic—stares that foreshadow
a blinding rage that builds and builds…until murmurs
of death become screams from the precipice.

Then I slowly dust off the remains of last night’s
escape and look toward the east,

Same sun…same life…different demise.

© Dan Provost

Reproduced with permission

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PLACES WHERE DAN’S POETRY HAS APPEARED OR WILL APPEAR:

Spent Meat; Zygote in My Coffee; James River Poetry Review; Open Wide; Naked Knuckle; Underground Voices; Half Drunk Muse; Spinning The Wheel of Dharma; 24th Street Irregular Press (Poems for All); 3-Cup Morning; Mobius; Poetic Page; Purr; Entropic Desires; Some Words; Niederngasse: Get Underground; The Swamp; The Stump; Silent Fusion; Kung Fu; Voodoo Lounge (Warm Angel Whiskey); Paper Cut

And many other small poetry print mags and e-zines that went out of business a long time ago.

Spent Angel Press published Dan's first e-chapbook, “The Fat Girl on Belmont Street”. He also entered his second unpublished chapbook “Chronic Observation While Drinking Rat Milk”, in Nerve Cowboy’s annual chapbook contest.

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LINKS TO SOME OF DAN'S POETRY

’How About War Studies?’; ’Thinking of Bukowski’ + 5 poems; ’Barstool Opinion’; ’Strange Editing’; ’Thoughts While Shaving’; ’Being Exact at your Craft’; ’Vicious Circle’; ’A Final Word About Kurt’; ’I Fear Death’; ’My Foe Swen’; ’ A Balding Guy and a Young Girl at a Concert’ + 4; ‘Man Child Blues’; ‘Downtown Worcester’; ‘The 21st Century Wretch’; ‘Following the Cigar Store All Stars in Boston’; ‘You – The Poet’; ‘This is the Way Some Get Famous’; ‘Short and Sweet’......

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12 POETS DAN WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A BEER WITH

1. RC EDRINGTON: Lives it, then puts it on the page - more

2. JJ CAMPBELL: His words attack your guts, liver and many other body parts - more

3. DEBBIE KIRK: As Ronnie Van Zant said after Steve Gaines joined Lynyrd Skynyrd; “I expect we’ll all be in (her) shadow someday." Her poems make you feel - more

4. JUSTIN BARRETT: He says what he has to say, then hightails it out of there—then you go back and tell yourself “yea I get where he’s coming from”. Great writer - more

5. E. WILLIAM MARTIN: I admire his take on a wide variety of subjects - more

6. 6. GARY SNYDER: To me, he was the best Beat poet of them all - more

7. LYN LIFSHIN: Whether she’s writing about beauty or Barbie — she’s one of the best this county has produced - more

8. JANET BUCK: Skilled poet with her imagery and style…I wonder if she drinks beer? - more

9. JAMES QUINTON: Does a great job in setting the scene in his poems - more

10. BRIAN FUGETT: Not only is Zygote a great website, he writes some of the funniest shit I’ve read - more

11. JOHN SWEET: John Sweet-I must have been drunk when I excluded him the first time. John is a great poet who has a way with the pen and the sometimes subtle sometimes punch in the gut cynicism. He's one of my favourites - more

12. THOMAS PYNCHON: After reading 'The Crying of Lot 49,' I am now hooked - more

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