Two Poems

Bean Newton

Issue 14 * Summer 2004

As we suffer through yet another Bush Administration, Bean Newton's observations in the uncharacteristically colloquial "AmeriCo, 2.0" seem utterly apt.

Things staying the same has done little to lessen the sadness that this year marks the sixth anniversary of Newton's death. His experimental "Camelbak" excoriating corporate America still seems fresh, however. While far from immune to trends and fashions, the world of poetry is slow to adopt new ones, and so Newton's use of separate but inter-related columns in this poem, like "AmeriCo, 2.0" written half a decade before his death, is just now beginning to gain acceptance in some of today's more edgy literary journals. -- E.W. Wilder

 

AmeriCo, 2.0

Get yer big, slobbery dog off'n me.
It's a humpin' my leg, droolin'
all over'n my shoes. The blasted thang's
flea-bitten coat is sheddin' off in patches
on my brand new blue jeans. Yer big ole Texas
range mutt is footy-printin' up my floor, heel nippin,'
and his big-ass ropey ol' tail threatens to wag
all my wife's Precious Moments nicknacks right
off the divan.
He's alreddy swallered her Snowbabies.

It just ain't fair,
                        that big ol' bruiser
of a part-oil-derrick/part St. Bernard should
come wragglin' in here and piss all over my carpet, lay
turds on the fine upholstery of all my La-Z-Boy
recliner's incline planes, and have the gall
to barf up his Ken-l-Ration right
on the coffee table. Damn it all! Send it back
to Midland or Kennefuk before the real hurtin'
starts. Dog like that gonna gnaw off a feller's
leg at night just to feel the bone crunch.
It's like livin' yer own country song.

 

Camelbak

That’s the name of a sporting
goods company. They provide
"hydration systems" for back-
packers and hikers and rock
climbers and the like. Like
most companies, they can't
be trusted to spell correctly.
Spelling well means you're not
cool, and not cool means no-
body and nobody wants that, not
even a Camel's back. They
couldn't have called themselves
"Humpbak," after all, because
"hump" has naughty connotations,
though camels actually have humps
on their backs, where they store
tourists. After all, it's been
years since the trike craze: steel-
tube-framed, fiberglass-bodied
cruisers with three wheels--the
back, ur, the "bak"--a VW, the
front a chopper. The Humpback, as I
recall, was a brand of trike.
It was sin-ugly, but you could
build one at home in a weekend. But
they were all ugly: the riders, the
"old ladies" on the bak, the old
hempbacks or humpers or humpees,
however the case may have been.
These days, it's all factory-
custom, as America: if you want
something done, you pay somebody
else to do it, some strung-out 300
pound relic who built his own in
1978, an old hippie, drug-runner,
biker, what-have-you.
You supply the VW.
There was no water involved: the
spool drained out its context on
the hot-contested arena floor. Hot
Dog fumes and popcorn and beer
wafted toward the ceiling or
skyward or heaven-ward or what-
have-you with the smoke from a
thousand pre-rolled joints. You
dare not roll your own in the
arena, forbid the coming of
security or conning of the right
for left a one-two ultrafist combo
or shot of pepper spray to the
eyewholes, the soulholes
should be if windows they are. The
Champ expired in a glyph of pre-
doused terminology; of pre-
condoned, predigested sputum of
multi-track career and his Long
Life (7yrs.) in the Ring. For
awhile he was Lord of, but then the
women/steroids/money drained from
his sack of flesh the blood/pus
combination now drooling toward The
Count and Greg "The Spool" Grosso
breathed his last career high.
Later, poured into a limo, he'd
ghost his way into the long ink.