"clerk" poems
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.
38.5k
I saw the Maori Jesus
Walking on Wellington Harbour.
He wore blue dungarees,
His beard and hair were long.
His breath smelled of mussels and paraoa.
When he smiled it looked like the dawn.
When he broke wind the little fishes trembled.
When he frowned the ground shook.
When he laughed everybody got drunk.
The Maori Jesus came on shore
And picked out his twelve disciples.
One cleaned toilets in the railway station;
His hands were scrubbed red to get the **** out of the pores.
One was a call-girl who turned it up for nothing.
One was a housewife who had forgotten the Pill
And stuck her TV set in the ******* can.
One was a little office clerk
Who'd tried to set fire to the Government Buldings.
Yes, and there were several others;
One was a sad old quean;
One was an alcoholic priest
Going slowly mad in a respectable parish.
The Maori Jesus said, 'Man,
From now on the sun will shine.'
He did no miracles;
He played the guitar sitting on the ground.
The first day he was arrested
For having no lawful means of support.
The second day he was beaten up by the cops
For telling a dee his house was not in order.
The third day he was charged with being a Maori
And given a month in Mt Crawford.
The fourth day he was sent to Porirua
For telling a ***** the sun would stop rising.
The fifth day lasted seven years
While he worked in the Asylum laundry
Never out of the steam.
The sixth day he told the head doctor,
'I am the Light in the Void;
I am who I am.'
The seventh day he was lobotomised;
The brain of God was cut in half.
On the eighth day the sun did not rise.
It did not rise the day after.
God was neither alive nor dead.
The darkness of the Void,
Mountainous, mile-deep, civilised darkness
Sat on the earth from then till now.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again.
I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome *** with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her
and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them.
She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply
because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them.
She is crying about the state of women.
I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod.
"How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been ***** or molested?
What does that say about the men that I know?
**** is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs
It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar."
The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now,
"I only wanted an apology,
an acknowledgement of what occurred."
Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles,
how do we change any of it?
I tell her I am going to write a poem.
She says no one wants to hear a **** poem.
And I know she's right.
Have you ever seen a stampede of horses?
Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath?
Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough?
"I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and
closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the
store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies-
anything but a woman.
In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years.
That's when you've lost.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
the other day we were in a
bookstore in the mall
and my woman said, "look, there's
Bob!"
"I don't know him," I said.
"we had dinner with him
not too long ago," she said.
"all right," I said, "let's get
out of here."
Bob was a clerk in the store
and his back was to us.
my woman yelled, "hello, Bob!"
Bob turned and smiled, waved.
my woman waved back.
I nodded at Bob, a very
delicate blushing fellow.
(Bob, that is.)
outside my woman asked, "don't you remember him?"
"no."
"he came over with Ella. re- member Ella?"
"no."
my woman remembers everything.
I don't understand it, although
I suppose it's polite
to remember names and faces
I just can't do it
I don't want to carry all those
Bobs and Ellas and Jacks and Marions
and Darlenes around in my mind. eating and
drinking with them is difficult en- ough.
to attempt to recall them at will
is an affront to my well-
being.
that they remember me is
bad enough.
6.2k
My humanity's in jeopardy every single day
Do I have the right clothes?
Do I have the right nose?
Did I say what I should say?
I'm constantly worried and in such a hurry
Did I make my own meal?
Did I work or did I steal?
Should I open up or conceal?
I'm always tired from pent up desire
I'm listening to the hum
From the people and their guns
Trying to ruin all my fun
I'm being told that love won't grow old
But it's stifled and stopped
These floating heads talk
About it around the clock
I'm just weary from always being cheery
I want to be alone
Not chained to a phone
Or hearing the public groan
If I'm 21 now then I'm too dumb anyhow
To fall in love or work
I'm just a coffee clerk
Spit on my college shirt
My self-worth isn't tied to this earth
It's tied to a wire
That leaves cities on fire
I can't get any higher
I feel like a little boy playing with little toys
Why do I have a voice,
If I don't have a choice?
Am I just radioactive noise?
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
(for Cyril Connolly)
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
4.8k
You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.
We waltz through the wreckage,
the crown and her guest.
Your hem lined in ashes,
the last of what’s left.
The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise, tomorrow
and feed him with wine.
The clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.
You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.
You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 12:43 AM UTC
I was standing in the aisle at Bulk Barn
I was low on neutrinos and looking to stock up
I like to sprinkle them on my cereal in the morning
I made my way down the aisle and found the anti-photons
If you like your coffee black and not sweet
Then this is almost as good as other alternatives
My electron supply was fine
But I thought I'd get some anyway
Just for the ion-y
I don't understand the economics but I guess
The invisible hand does
When the clerk looked in my basket
She just waved me through
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Turn, camera, follow the sound of footsteps, nervous in the dark, echoing away down the fogsoaked street. The night begins to cool and it starts to rain beneath the lampposts. Glance, only briefly, at the clerk who pulled the graveyard shift, curled on the floor under the register, clutching at the bullet in his belly. There is a gentle kindness in seeing the world how you want to. Show me the money. You watch the fog.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
You smirk
for you think she's the dirtiest.
BABOY.
And you saw the clerk
failed to punch the mentos
and put it in the bag.
You didn't tell.
You cursed her and
almost hit your LED TV
with your coffee mug.
MAGNANAKAW.
You don't seem to remember
one seminar you took two sandwiches
which you said
you'd give one to your friend but didn't.
You love the idea
of putting her fellow thieves to jail
HAYOP.
Was it only yesterday
when you stole the key to the test?
You thought of reviving death penalty.
MAGSAMA-SAMA KAYO SA IMPYERNO.
And you timed in and were paid for the day's work
which you never did.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
There is hope beyond a papery pharmacy
that is stocked with ink and sheepskin
The clerk is finicky and silent, and elixirs evaporate
as you browse the papyrus shelves
There is hope beyond this paper pharmacy,
so abandon poisons crafted by pen-laden fingers
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
Dear future self
How are you?
Are you happy and healthy?
Do you love what you do?
Who did you marry,
if anyone at all?
How did you meet?
Who made the first call?
I hope that you haven't
lost all my friends.
And I hope you haven't
forgotten my plans.
Not plans of what to do
or where to live,
but how to be
and how to live.
I'm not too worried
about your career
or the money in your bank
But I hope your mind's clear.
I hope you still see
that who you have
is far more important
than what you have.
I hope you still see
that who you are
is far more important
than what you are.
I hope that you haven't
forgotten how to smile
and I hope you still see
that everyone is worthwhile.
I hope that your life
doesn't revolve around work
whether you're a counselor
or a grocery clerk.
I hope that your value
isn't in money from your job.
It should be placed in the things
that can't be stolen if robbed.
I hope that you're still
very good at realaxing
and I hope that your words
haven't turned into acting.
I hope you don't hurry
and rush through each day.
I hope your mind's colorful
and never just gray.
But most of all
I just hope that you
love how you're living
and love all that you do.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
You have
inner-city-Chinese-restaurant-koi-pond
eyes; infiltrated pupils
that sit behind and spy on the others sitting around,
all whilst remaining dark: a hallmark I admire.
There's a maternity queen wrapped tight in a dress,
blue and white, who sits at the front and speaks and
you write down what leaks and you make it
stick with a biro you bought with a virgin-first
pay check envelope-
ripped open with an eager thumb I'd like to hold
when winter rolls up and in.
Lighthouses look across bigger ponds to warn
of storms that are yet to come.
From afar they see and decide,
weigh up and divide choice into digestible chunks of
we can save them, or if not, we'll guide them whilst they swim:
you make me do this endlessly, almost every day
and this poem is to stop me from thinking
your falsetto hums, that pause in mid air, free, are for me-
you've another bow in brown hair and our corridor conversations
lead nowhere-
I'm gracelessly in love and I just said love and
it's a kind-of cliché, a boring over used word
that we all use when we're excited;
when we run laps around a track that we cannot navigate,
when we're hungover and don't want to work with another desk clerk bore
who sits and talks and works as if an unpaid chore,
but it is true and I wish you'd notice me.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
‘Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use ’em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again—and they’ll be gone next day!
If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more!
If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,
You be carefull what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you “pretty maid,” and chuck you ’neath the chin,
Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!
Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles after dark—
You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie—
They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!
If you do as you’ve been told, ‘likely there’s a chance,
You’ll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
‘Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen bo by!
3.3k
He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"
he thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a Coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
3.2k
The clerk behind the coffee counter,
she stares out the window
onto the sunny street, lost in thought.
Her half smile on that young face
is an art exhibit of a daydream
about a possible future.
An old woman at a nearby table,
she stares out the same window.
Her eyes glossed over,
they indicate she's remembering
the good moments long past.
The coffee shop daydreamers
have much in common.
-Ron Gavalik
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER
Dame du ciel, regents terrienne,
Emperiere des infemaux palus....
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,—
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss,
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus,
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass
(Sweet ****** that shalt have no loss thereby!)
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old,
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold
A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore,
And eke an Hell whose ****** folk seethe full sore:
One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,—
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I;
And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent ****** Princess! thou didst bear
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter,
Who even of this our weakness craved a share
And for our sake stooped to us from on high,
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,
And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.
3.1k
Obscurity and scenery
Stuck on the leather seats
Driving down PCH,
*Camel filter after
Camel Filter*.
So numb inside
“Nothing is worth it anymore”.
The future as a convenient store clerk
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 9:53 AM UTC
I took her for some fish and chips,
We had a reight good time.
The two of us kept locking lips,
It really int a crime.
But then she saw this pilot bloke:
It really wasn’t fair.
Though I’m a super Trekkie clerk,
She saw me as a square.
What she saw in him I’ll never know,
There really was no reason.
But off she went with him, oh no!
It felt just like a treason.
Those fish and chips are getting cold,
With no-one there to eat ‘em.
Them mushy peas have gone to waste, be told,
But she prefers to cheat ‘em.
There are more fish in the sea they say,
And now I’m talking females.
Every dog will have his day,
I’d better watch my emails.
Paul Butters
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Pay your quarters
pay your dimes
you're paying for laundromat time
slowly spinning
forgotten
by
Einstein's Theory of Relativity.
Minutes become hours
and
there are still too many hours to go.
Any math class
intense gas
organized religion
waiting for the tow truck,
the bus
in
the pouring frozen rain.
Sitting in the E.R.
with a cut finger
waiting waiting waiting.
Sitting in the hospital room
with an elderly distant relative
you hardly know,
their funeral too.
At the grandparents house
with endless repeats of Judge Judy
on the t.v.
t.v. droning monotoning on and on and on.
Any work day
perpetually two thirty or three,
in meetings with presentations
with more presentations to go,
you're trying to be productive,
but all you know
is
laundromat time
slowly spinning.
Any night of insomnia,
betrayals endless loops,
anxiety rolling through,
following you from one cigarette to another
three o'clock
four o'clock
four-twenty.
Home movies of endless barbeques
I know meaningful to you.
Pictures of people's
cats and dogs
a hundred more to go.
Eight and a half months pregnant,
kiddie soccer on a Sunday morning at 7:30,
the middle school brass band
Friday night at nine,
yes, that's me
passed out and snoring,
laundromat time
a warm blanket
has
put me under.
Anybody else's endless fascinations
say
pictures of weather,
laundromat time sets in
as the
eye lids flutter
narcolepsy sets in with all of this clutter.
So the next time
you're standing in line
and the woman in front is telling
the clerk
every detail you never wanted to know
you'll think about these poor lines
and remember
you're spinning in laundromat time
forgotten by Einstein.
In fact these poor lines
must be feeling that way too
I am going to do you a favor
and
get back to you later.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
As I walk down these streets, I'm smiling
the streets aren't slippery,
they aren't riddled with puddles,
the sky sits like a blanket,
just resting on the top of the city
As I draw in a deep breath
of cold, crisp air
I'm slapped in the face
as it all comes crashing back
with every click clack and scuff of my shoes on the street top
it's as though my feet aren't mine
they walk, and I have no say
in where they go
or how fast they move,
or where they stop
I know they think they're going to the market
I know they think they'll walk the isles
and I know they think they'll carry me to the checkout
but unfortunately I know
that although they are amazing feet
and they've gotten me where I am today
they will not pay the bill at the grocery store
and their full time job as my carriers
leaves no precious time for moonlighting
so it's been left up to my soul
it's will to survive is much stronger than the feet
it knows that though I've done somethings
somethings that hurt too much to allow them to turn into memories in my mind
that scar, and brand and torment the soul
injury after self inflicted injury
that us two, we belong together
that even though I may have sold you,
dear soul
to someone else
for just enough money to pay the checkout clerk
to fill my stomach, if only for one day
to feed my demons, and steady my crutch
you forgive me, for my survival is yours
you know this pain I feel, for it's your pain too
so when, dear soul
tomorrow comes, and I always wake up,
with that brief moment just before I allow my eyes to open
where it's like staring at the sky, walking to the beat
of my feet click clacking down the street
as I feel the crisp air move into and fill my lungs
and escape quickly a little warmer
when nothing else in the world is in my mind
you are there.
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
*My thanks to the store clerk working the midnight shift
God bless the dishwashers at local restaurants laboring for minuscule pay
To the forklift operators moving freight for hours on end ,
to cleaning crews preparing offices for another day
For the plumber protecting health in the wee hours of
the morn
For sanitation workers hard at work well before dawn*
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC