barstool poetry
IT'S BEEN OVER 15 YEARS SINCE I TOOK OUT MY PEN, CAME UP WITH SOME INANE, nonsensical title for a poem that I wrote on a cocktail napkin at the S.F. Saloon in West LA before sliding said napkin and pen over to my friend Jon, with the admonition to "write a poem to fit that title."
A decade and a half later, Barstool Poetry is the idea that won't die.
In 1997 it inadvertantly got me a $50,000 advance from Bantam Books to go barhopping around America for 100 days. A few years ago it led to my one and only feature story published in Maxim, after I pitched Barstool Poetry as "the greatest idea ever invented for meeting women in bars."
And now—11 years after embarking on my Great American Pub Crawl for the Great American Memoir I've yet to finish—there's a good possibility I might be getting paid to barhop around America yet again for 3 months. Producing and starring in an internet "reality show" called, you guessed it, Barstool Poetry. And the same agent who sold my Barstool Poetry-inspired book idea in 1997 thinks he can sell another book for me, this one a collection of Barstool Poetry gathered during this year's 3-month late-summer road trip to the bars of America.
What's most amazing to me is that all these projects were initiated by other people telling me I should do something with the idea. I haven't been banging down doors, hustling all over LA trying to get folks interested in Barstool Poetry and all its possibilities. These things have either fallen in my lap or been gently forced upon me.
Which is why it's starting to feel like Fate.
With this renewed interest in Barstool Poetry lately, I decided to bust out my flimsy box of Barstool Poetry materials, including the 300+ barstool poems I collected throughout the '90s. It's been such an interesting experience reading over these things that I've decided to self-publish the first collection of poems. The working title—Barstool Poetry: The Early Years. The selection will feature nothing but the barstool poems I wrote, inspired and/or gathered up throughout 1990s SoCal in places like Manhattan Beach, Venice, West LA, Hollywood.
Going through my piles of weathered napkins I came across more than a few that I found funny, poignant, bitter, crude, wise, absurd—but rarely boring. Here's a brief cross section of 13 that I found interesting. Remember, the first step in Barstool Poetry is coming up with a title to pass on to a friend or stranger. Watch where these minds stray when presented with a challenging title. Cheers!
girdle neck sweater
chicken neck
goose neck
turtle neck soup,
choke the geek
that can't get the scoop.
but he who wears the
girdle neck sweater
walks on water like a stray
duck feather.
another delicate balance
the need to
impress
should never
digress
that certain insecurity
gives love a purity
that does not fade
however oft i'm laid.
total, unquestioning, and
blind love
is a slavery
of sorts
YET
to feel constantly judged
is an emaciating nudge
toward resentment.
but what do i know...
it is a balance
i have not struck
not that it's luck...
just an indefinable...
the heart insufficient
the heart is not
insufficient
everything you need
is there—
look for it!
a barfly's last fling
long hair, short hair
nails painted pretty
hats to cover bald spots
isn't it a pity?
halter tops and lacy bras
capped teeth, sheer red g-strings
what a drag, we'll be dead one day
the last great empty fling
why does every other girl look like heidi fleiss?
becuz this is thee 90's
and all men look like ito
or o.j.
or jordan
or madonna
or clinton
or bush
or beaver
or leave it
i quit!
everyone's famous!
even jeffrey maier.
wet spot's on my side again
ink spots
age spots
hot spots
g-spots
for a week
the spots
were angry
with me for
befriending
the lines
foul lines
poverty lines
pickup lines
straight lines
but the lines
took a turn
for
the worse
and became
a curve
and once again
my heart
belongs
to those solid circles
i've got the
wet spots
on my side
again
illustrious dirt
i've heard it
you know
in the dark corners
of the bar
potential
wasted
collar blue
opportunity lost
is it really
you?
but i wear it
the grime
as my sweat
streaks it definite
my stance resolute
i've abandoned my breeding
i'm a workinghorse brute
i knew those nose hairs were for something
o' what a tangled web
they weave
the spiders have their
tricks
but what have we,
us human freaks
to snare the
chicky-chicks?
we've got the hairs
to keep the snot
from oozing
on the lips
inferior are we
to the insect world
with our nose hairs
and smelly pits
alien comedians
what is this—
an audience
or a plan 9
zon neuron
artificial audience enhancer?
those alien comedians
weren't too funny
but, boy, those fuckers
could party
song of the 'bago
supermodels discuss their diets
while deep in bosnia
kids die in riots
they paint their nails
and read their elle
while from the rear
there comes a smell
the rotting implants
will rot in hell
for soon enough
they'll face the truth
when long legs become
long in the tooth
interaction
playing trained games
as if it
were of their own
free will,
unaware
of their role in the
perpetuation of the
societal machine,
using rehashed lines
as if they were
of their own
imagination and making
the main goal being
propogation
of the species
and all of it
original and new
in the
mind of the beholder
not to be decried,
cynicized,
or even recognized.
please!
just accepted as yet another
cycle of the spiral
downward.
i am one chic fuckin' wannabe cigar trend-sucker
maybe if
i suck
on this
nobody will notice
what i know
2 b true
i'm as fake as
tommy lee's wife's
t*ts
but
not as cute
in a bikini
the wet spot
i was movin' quick
well on the fly
ducked in a bar
"hey 'keep—i'm dry"
it came up fast
a j.d. beer back
i had to drink hard
no time for slack
over in the corner
i saw a dim-lit stool
but the bum adjacent
was breathing in drool.
the 'keep flagged me
said "how 'bout a shot?"
but i was making my way
for another wet spot.
songs unknown
my heart
is bankrupt
to the possibilities
of us
black and buried
beyond recognition
it's not your fault
our fate's been sealed
by a parade of imperfection
is it me or them
i ask myself
on a pillow of irrelevance
humming my songs
of solitude
to an audience
of one
again