An E-Zine of Poetic Variety
Muse Cafe Quarterly
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| Robert Henry |
CURRENTLY UNTITLED # 1
Life is...
trying to write straight lines
in the dark.
the blind being painters.
those people that refuse to
believe in impossibility.
CURRENTLY UNTITLED #2
“Are those grapes on your nachos?” you asked (all wrinkly-freckles like.)
Your saucer overflowed with questions, but never with those beady eyes, that nappy
hair, or that Italian vinaigrette sweat. There’s a lot of mnemonics and chunking involved
in remembering your name. Capital M - e - a - capital T - capital B - capital A - l - l:
MeaTBAll. Mean, Tactless Bastard All caught up on himself.
“Meatball, I don’t even know your name,” I started. “Has that mole on your face been
growing?”
You probably responded with a laugh, even though I wanted you to hate me. You
probably never deserved that, but then you mentioned something about your “zenis,”
which probably came from a line in a movie. You never were very creative.
But it’s not like I’ve never picked up phrases and ideas from forms of entertainment. The
trick is to repackage it. There’s a thin line between imitation and having a “fresh voice.”
I once told you that, “Besides Jesus, you’re the coolest guy I know.”
Oh. Did I tell you that I believe in nothing? So, where does that leave you?
“Your girlfriend stays with you because she loves me,” I told you. “Couldn’t stand to lose
us both just because you’re an asshole.”
The house, ring, and child disagreed with me.
“Is that a mood mole or summin’? I think it just discolored!”
You probably missed the joke. Maybe you didn’t laugh because cancer isn’t funny when
you have a wife and child. Or maybe cancer isn’t funny at all.
Well, I know a guy that enjoys cancer as a gag. I guess I could repackage this while I go
remember him instead.
PRETZELS COST TOO MUCH NOWADAYS
I planned to go to the roller derby
With that hippie girl
Nancy and Drew hadn’t
The nerve to invite into
Their marriage bed.
Instead, I’m staring at his chest’s
Irregular rise and fall.
I digress.
I was a tiny, fatherless piece of shit,
And me poppy sends a little notice
Through the secretary of me middle school.
“Meet dad at the park,” it said.
And I couldn’t go home anyway,
It was mum’s date night,
Since that Larry guy
Had the night off from selling
Cars and televisions
To the over privileged,
Credit-whoring
Proletariat.
I digress.
Me dad scheduled
Our first encounter between
Business meetings—the type
where at sharp o’clock isn’t
Stressed unless there’s
Loaned money involved.
"I guess I’m like you, daddy,
I’ve got me own concerns about
Borrowed money." It turns out
Me stolen identity has some substantial
Student loans—and I need it
For more than just further theft.
Anyway,
When I approached him that day,
Some scruffy man was offering him
A knock-off handbag for a shitty
Weed bag. What use did he have
To tote around that handbag?
Maybe it should become law
In prominently Conservative states
That citizens must tackle men with
Purses. Messenger bags count.
Then you have some punk in court
Trying to argue that he thought the
Armored truck guy was carrying a purse,
Not a sack full of bills. The word
Meth might be brought up.
The door opens,
And the doctor gives me a funny look,
I ask him if it’s strange to be eating pretzels,
And he says, “If it weren’t for pretzels…”
Crunch, crunch. I eat loudly when I don’t
Want to hear anything that isn’t
Coming from meself.
The doctor can be,
But I’ll never be sweet
To the pus of society types.
“You need time alone,” he says, leaves.
“Son,” rasps the wasp.
I eat another pretzel.
Then I stare, and shrilly,
“It’s your daughter now.”
He’s convulsing,
And it doesn’t seem strange
To see him jerking randomly.
He always had a twitch.
He was twitching the day
We met in the park.
“I’m your father,”
He’d already said so,
Telling me to wait for
Him to finish with his customer.
“Right,” I lifted me eyebrows.
He didn’t say anything.
I stared at him for a moment,
And asked “How much for an eighth?”
Just slip the little pulse reader
Onto me finger for a second,
And pull, and he’ll never catch his breath.
Pop it off the latex glove and walk out.
“I don’t sell for the money,” he said.
He’d been a preacher for the money once,
According to me mum’s scrapbook memoirs.
The first thirty years are terribly interesting,
But the second half is just photographs
From “R U HOTT” sites. It’s strange how
People try to remove letters or add extras.
And how phat with a p-h means the opposite
Of its counterpart.
FOR EXAMPLE, NOEL.
Every part of life lends to artistic endeavors, or for the non-artist, dialogue and self-
pride. As it goes, this can sorely affect every aspect of life. Thus, the relationship
between Noel and the women who lived in worker-homes, and spoke no English, lent
Noel a spark of genius.
His Russian lovers would learn English, translate his simple meanderings, and where he
failed in the States, he’d be a famous poet in Moscow circles. At first, only one girl
attempted to master the craft of American gibber-dash. However, she’d been forced to
leave by issue of an expiring work visa before any substantial progress had taken place.
She’d just wanted to snort lines, have sex, kiss him, and exchange e-mail addresses
before she made home to Gustav. Noel pushed her and pushed her to translate just
one simple poem, and she swore at him, kissed him, and told him she’d be back next
year. So, for six months, Noel gave up on his almost certain Russian fame, and he
settled into writing an advice column under the name of one “Misti Summers.” He quickly
developed a passion for writing from the perspective of an old lady.
Then, one day, he met another Russian who had full command of English, and she
readily translated and submitted his “Golden Girls Verse,” as he called it.
Apparently, he gained slight notice within five months, and everyone denounced the
English-speaking Russian for being a lesbian with some old American hag.
Everything in life lends to artistic endeavors.
PREDICTIONS #5
Proper typing skills
will probably rape sign language
that way us Americans
done English
He pointed to himself
said, "Accident."
pointed to her
said, "Old age."
pointed to me
said, "Suicide."
Lucky numbers:
1 out of 10 out of 15 (will never forget us.)
Life is...
trying to write straight lines
in the dark.
the blind being painters.
those people that refuse to
believe in impossibility.
CURRENTLY UNTITLED #2
“Are those grapes on your nachos?” you asked (all wrinkly-freckles like.)
Your saucer overflowed with questions, but never with those beady eyes, that nappy
hair, or that Italian vinaigrette sweat. There’s a lot of mnemonics and chunking involved
in remembering your name. Capital M - e - a - capital T - capital B - capital A - l - l:
MeaTBAll. Mean, Tactless Bastard All caught up on himself.
“Meatball, I don’t even know your name,” I started. “Has that mole on your face been
growing?”
You probably responded with a laugh, even though I wanted you to hate me. You
probably never deserved that, but then you mentioned something about your “zenis,”
which probably came from a line in a movie. You never were very creative.
But it’s not like I’ve never picked up phrases and ideas from forms of entertainment. The
trick is to repackage it. There’s a thin line between imitation and having a “fresh voice.”
I once told you that, “Besides Jesus, you’re the coolest guy I know.”
Oh. Did I tell you that I believe in nothing? So, where does that leave you?
“Your girlfriend stays with you because she loves me,” I told you. “Couldn’t stand to lose
us both just because you’re an asshole.”
The house, ring, and child disagreed with me.
“Is that a mood mole or summin’? I think it just discolored!”
You probably missed the joke. Maybe you didn’t laugh because cancer isn’t funny when
you have a wife and child. Or maybe cancer isn’t funny at all.
Well, I know a guy that enjoys cancer as a gag. I guess I could repackage this while I go
remember him instead.
PRETZELS COST TOO MUCH NOWADAYS
I planned to go to the roller derby
With that hippie girl
Nancy and Drew hadn’t
The nerve to invite into
Their marriage bed.
Instead, I’m staring at his chest’s
Irregular rise and fall.
I digress.
I was a tiny, fatherless piece of shit,
And me poppy sends a little notice
Through the secretary of me middle school.
“Meet dad at the park,” it said.
And I couldn’t go home anyway,
It was mum’s date night,
Since that Larry guy
Had the night off from selling
Cars and televisions
To the over privileged,
Credit-whoring
Proletariat.
I digress.
Me dad scheduled
Our first encounter between
Business meetings—the type
where at sharp o’clock isn’t
Stressed unless there’s
Loaned money involved.
"I guess I’m like you, daddy,
I’ve got me own concerns about
Borrowed money." It turns out
Me stolen identity has some substantial
Student loans—and I need it
For more than just further theft.
Anyway,
When I approached him that day,
Some scruffy man was offering him
A knock-off handbag for a shitty
Weed bag. What use did he have
To tote around that handbag?
Maybe it should become law
In prominently Conservative states
That citizens must tackle men with
Purses. Messenger bags count.
Then you have some punk in court
Trying to argue that he thought the
Armored truck guy was carrying a purse,
Not a sack full of bills. The word
Meth might be brought up.
The door opens,
And the doctor gives me a funny look,
I ask him if it’s strange to be eating pretzels,
And he says, “If it weren’t for pretzels…”
Crunch, crunch. I eat loudly when I don’t
Want to hear anything that isn’t
Coming from meself.
The doctor can be,
But I’ll never be sweet
To the pus of society types.
“You need time alone,” he says, leaves.
“Son,” rasps the wasp.
I eat another pretzel.
Then I stare, and shrilly,
“It’s your daughter now.”
He’s convulsing,
And it doesn’t seem strange
To see him jerking randomly.
He always had a twitch.
He was twitching the day
We met in the park.
“I’m your father,”
He’d already said so,
Telling me to wait for
Him to finish with his customer.
“Right,” I lifted me eyebrows.
He didn’t say anything.
I stared at him for a moment,
And asked “How much for an eighth?”
Just slip the little pulse reader
Onto me finger for a second,
And pull, and he’ll never catch his breath.
Pop it off the latex glove and walk out.
“I don’t sell for the money,” he said.
He’d been a preacher for the money once,
According to me mum’s scrapbook memoirs.
The first thirty years are terribly interesting,
But the second half is just photographs
From “R U HOTT” sites. It’s strange how
People try to remove letters or add extras.
And how phat with a p-h means the opposite
Of its counterpart.
FOR EXAMPLE, NOEL.
Every part of life lends to artistic endeavors, or for the non-artist, dialogue and self-
pride. As it goes, this can sorely affect every aspect of life. Thus, the relationship
between Noel and the women who lived in worker-homes, and spoke no English, lent
Noel a spark of genius.
His Russian lovers would learn English, translate his simple meanderings, and where he
failed in the States, he’d be a famous poet in Moscow circles. At first, only one girl
attempted to master the craft of American gibber-dash. However, she’d been forced to
leave by issue of an expiring work visa before any substantial progress had taken place.
She’d just wanted to snort lines, have sex, kiss him, and exchange e-mail addresses
before she made home to Gustav. Noel pushed her and pushed her to translate just
one simple poem, and she swore at him, kissed him, and told him she’d be back next
year. So, for six months, Noel gave up on his almost certain Russian fame, and he
settled into writing an advice column under the name of one “Misti Summers.” He quickly
developed a passion for writing from the perspective of an old lady.
Then, one day, he met another Russian who had full command of English, and she
readily translated and submitted his “Golden Girls Verse,” as he called it.
Apparently, he gained slight notice within five months, and everyone denounced the
English-speaking Russian for being a lesbian with some old American hag.
Everything in life lends to artistic endeavors.
PREDICTIONS #5
Proper typing skills
will probably rape sign language
that way us Americans
done English
He pointed to himself
said, "Accident."
pointed to her
said, "Old age."
pointed to me
said, "Suicide."
Lucky numbers:
1 out of 10 out of 15 (will never forget us.)
Robert Louis Henry lives and studies music production in Tennessee. He's an editor at Leaf
Garden Press (http://leafgardenpress.blogspot.com), and his poetry has appeared in 3:AM
Magazine, The CommonLine Project, The Delinquent, and other online and print magazines.
Robert wouldn't provide any sustenance if you considered eating him; so, it's probably best not to
get on a boat with him.
Garden Press (http://leafgardenpress.blogspot.com), and his poetry has appeared in 3:AM
Magazine, The CommonLine Project, The Delinquent, and other online and print magazines.
Robert wouldn't provide any sustenance if you considered eating him; so, it's probably best not to
get on a boat with him.