Stereotypical Me

Who to invite
to a personal
gathering of minds.
A mixing of words.
A mincing of tongues.
Verbal chess played
over beer, chips, and poker.
(hey, it’s my party)
Throwing away noun-pawns.
Sacrificing verb-bishops
Keeping the Queens hidden:
the awaiting string of adjectives.
But who to invite?
A post-modern beatnik?
Existential beret.
Pretentious goatee.
Black knit turtle neck,
and nihilistic gaze.
Damning the Man,
whomever she is.
A faith-flowing Catholic?
The Good Book in on hand,
collection plate in the other.
Salvation paid in weekly installments.
A gentle Buddhist monk?
Not really there.
(but who is?)
Laughing because
he knows nothing.
(After all, Coyote met
the bodhisattva
on the way to the desert)
A crack-addict bum
just lookin’ for a hit?
Talking of blow-jobs
and hand jobs
and minimum wage.
A $40 billion computer whiz?
Teaching how to tweak your hard drive,
and increase your mega-herz,
so you can download porn
from the Internet faster.
A militant black preacher
from the south side of Chicago?
Emphatically shouting gospel
from the Bible.
Dr. King.
And Dr. Seuss.
A President of the United States of America?
Talking of blow-jobs
and hand-jobs
and minimum wage.
A Mid-West farmer?
Leathery skin,
stained overalls,
and $2.5 million in the bank.
(only spending 50 cents a week on labor.
Why not open the boarder
so we can all be rich?)
Should I invite myself?
Seen as a GenX kid
with no morals,
goals,
manners,
or fashion sense.
With a crude,
although eloquently blunt
in its terse perversity,
vocabulary.
An affinity for
tattoos and alcohol,
cigarettes and sex.
They won’t know
the sensitive poet
who cries at the retreat
of the last breath of sunlight.
The newly-wed,
anxiously awaiting the arrival
of his first child.
They won’t know me,
and I don’t know them.
Fuck it,
the party’s over.

All poetry is written by Stephen Lindsay.

Please do not use or copy any of Stephen's poetry without his permission. Thank You!