John-Ward Leighton

READ ALL THE POETRY

WWOZ on the sound track
and we will be using the American pronunciation
for the Z don’t cha see,
read everything in the Paris Review
and the poetry was just too too much
but not much you could use in the clutch
and I thought you gotta lighten up dude
cause all that crepe hanging is getting real old
and the karma is getting far too tattered and gray
so it’s time to have some joy to brighten up the day.

WWOZ telling all the places with live music
in NOLA
it goes on for fifteen minutes
and in Vancouver, no fun city,
they could do the announcements for live music
in thirty seconds
and swear by God and shades of Dickens
in this city you can still raise chickens
but as far as live music would have it
I’d have to say
we are kinda chicken shit.
It’s kinda like we are stunned by the scenery
and all the verdant greenery
so the only answer
to the no fun cancer
is an entertainment strip
or so they thunk
where you can puke and brawl in the streets
while getting stoned and drunk.

I know there are poets, photographers,
musicians, dancers, singers and those
that sculpt are out there in the voids
beyond the reach of the corporate fascist radio
and open mouth media tabloids
and the buskers playing music
are wanted late in the street
to draw customers
for the fuck me bars
shoe stores and chain ho’s rag shops
‘tis where the dollar finally stops
cause no one would pay them
to play inside,
so far.

Thunder storms in NOLA
be careful on the water
you could get oiled or boiled
courtesy of good old BP
I wonder why none of these slimy limey moneyed bastards
are not hanging from the nearest yardarm?
If a poor man steals a loaf of bread
there is always some cop who will shoot him dead
but the dipshits who planned and executed the latest oil spill fiasco
will get their bonus from the grateful status co.
Cause the greatest truth of all
is
when in Wall Street USA
never steal anything small.

This started as a poem and turned into a rant
I had promised to stop bitching
but now appears that I can’t.
My favourite other city
is in for yet another pointless tragedy
a crime scene of the grossly stupid and greedy.
I say let the oil execs rue the day.
“Hang the guilty bastards
or better yet boil them in oil ala creole.
Show them we are not their slaves
then let us know where they are buried
so we can go and laugh and piss on their graves.”

This would be the real New Orleans deal
and that’s without telling you
how I really feel.

So off to my book shelf
and a Bukowsky poem or two for myself
time to laugh at his naked notoriety
and lighten up
and listen to WWOZ
music from the Crescent City
and don’t forget to
read all the poetry.