Three Poems from Dan Provost

Mental Health Year
Shelved for
the foreseeable
future…
Ideas are strange—something
hits me off course…
–I bleed.
  Think.
 Fret irregular and witness
 frowned eyebrows when I dare
 say anything…
Dream big
Die bigger…
Of course, I want
to know if this will
be my destiny…
Saddle stamped
worn down…
Chimes w/ a beggars
call…
Invisible answers.
–“go the fuck away.”
New Digital Camera
Try to contort
your face to the
camera…
It has been set
to infinite pause…
So, the grimace
will never leave.
Just the image I want…
Just the image that inherits pain.
Now we are in unison
to bleed with the earth
together…
Old Henry Escorts Me Off the Edge Sometimes
Promises the Dream Song dared to make
were trying to hinder my appetite for
immature closure—dire steps were
needed to be taken as I endured
another season of debating whether
to leave the house.
My wife is very patient with me.
Helps me to care for my own devices.
Takes into consideration that Henry would
convince me to put a fiver in the juke to
play some David Gilmour and the rest of the
squad.
She knows Henry is some sort of distorted
creep, but, bless her heart, puts up with him.
I guess, somedays he keeps me alive…
Persuades me that penance is only
for the asking…
Not the taking of
some cheap romance tale
of sympathy.
–From Dan’s latest book, Under the Influence of Nothingness

Three Poems from Dan Provost

Never Improved
 
You can play the
part girl with the
Letters to Cleo pigtails.
 
Position your ruby lips
in that Post-modern 1990’s canonized
pout.
 
I just could never play the healer.
 
The veteran scamps still
scatter the night
 
Adjusting hairpins and brassieres.
Hoping to arouse bottle rockets.
 
Battle scars from
a bad daddy or a
tattoo expressing aggression.
 
Still walk in and out of
this aging cinema’s
radar.
 
The lipstick sneer
or the welling victim?
 
Trouble distinguishing anymore…
 
I’ve been out of the game too long…
And there is no “old timers’ day.”
 
No discount coupons or
updated manuals.
 
Women in darkness were
always a hard read.
 
They wandered about…
Slightly sad…
Slightly shaky…
 
But always seemed in
warped control.
 
Scantily dressed, showing enough
shanty leg to keep morons like
me…
 
Internally mumbling.
 
Fantasizing to guess,
brazen sexuality…
 
Wrong.
 
 
 
Day Drinking with Mick and Keith
 
Wasted again, with
the Rolling Stones
serving as some perverted
soundtrack for my desire
to punch a fiend in
the face…
 
No, Sympathy
For the Devil is not my
inspiration to cold cock
any asshole who gets in my way…
 
It’s just another day drink stupor.  With
Jagger’s oblong face and Richards
drunken jargon implanted in my
fuzzy head.
 
Two P.M. might as well be
midnight—as I stagger from
Smitty’s Pub, ready to smack any
well-earned salesmen who has the
gift of bullshit.
 
2000 Light Years From
Home ain’t going to get
it done today Leroy…
 
I’m leaping along, bobbing and
weaving…
 
Laughing and falling towards
the intersection where…
 
The rubber meets the road.
 
 
Six Word Life Memoir
 
Signals worn due to self-hatred.