FRED WOULD UNDERSTAND
I was sitting in the break room,
looking at my phone,
when the news popped up
on my Facebook feed:
the poet Fred Voss had died.
Fred Voss was a unique
and distinctly American writer.
Using experiences he’d gleaned
from years of toiling as a machinist
in a California aircraft factory,
Voss’s poems portrayed
the blue-collar laborer’s world
with sensitivity and compassion
rarely seen in poetry since Bukowski—
minus the “tough guy” bullshit
that marred much of Buk’s writing.
Voss’s poetry was, for me,
a school of possibilities.
Poets, Voss taught me,
didn’t glow in the dark.
They weren’t required to be born
with blue-blooded pedigrees.
They didn’t need diplomas
from Ivy League universities.
Poets, Voss taught me,
worked 9-5 jobs.
They wrestled with mortgages
and insurance, asshole bosses
and douchebag coworkers.
They endured heartbreaks dealt
by family, friends and lovers.
The difference, Voss taught me,
was that poets—each in
their own singular way—
heard music in the rat race
that bypassed everyone else.
Sitting in the break room,
I felt compelled to post
something on Facebook
in memory of Fred Voss.
Something, beyond the usual R.I.P.,
that would convey how much
and for how long Voss’s words
had enriched my life.
Try as I did, nothing came.
I glanced at my watch;
time to get back to work.
Company policy stated that
clocking in late from a break
earned you a half-point penalty.
I was already at 4 ½ points;
5 points meant termination.
I pocketed my phone,
hurried up the hall
to the time clock
and punched back in.
Somehow, I knew
Fred would understand.
OKAY, THEN
I don’t care
that you once met
Tupac Shakur.
Okay, then.
He’s still alive,
you know.
I don’t care
that Bukowski
once told you
to write a book
about your life.
Okay, then.
He said that
to many women. . .
who, sadly, listened.
I don’t care
that you dived
off Navy Pier.
In your underwear.
In broad daylight.
Okay, then.
I hope that
you chose
the deep end.
I don’t care
that you once
knocked out
Ronda Rousey
in a bar fight.
Okay, then.
You used
a beer bottle,
didn’t you?
I don’t care
that your ex-boyfriend
once dared you to
put your cell phone
on vibrate and
shove it into
your crotch,
while he
speed-dialed you
on his cell phone.
Okay, then.
Some people
are just bored.
I don’t care
about anything
that happened
with anybody
before tonight,
outside of
this room.
Can you just
sit here with me,
without talking?
And help me
drink this
twelve-pack of beer?
Okay, then.
You can stay.
WELL-CHOSEN WORDS
He fell in love with her
that day.
He loved her long dark hair.
He loved her smooth olive skin.
He loved her dancing brown eyes.
Her full lips, even when forming
the most mundane words,
gave him a boner that could
pound gravel to dust.
He knew he wanted to spend
the rest of his life with her.
All he had to do was
say some well-chosen words
that would make his dream reality.
He opened his mouth and spoke:
"Thanks for shopping with us.
Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."
He handed her the receipt.
The woman smiled and walked away.
He never saw her again.
Find more of Jack's work on BMR here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2024/02/featuring-jack-phillips-lowe.html
