an Ode to the Bitter Man

Mike Coleman

this ones
for the bitter man who
has aged a decade
in a year
sitting alone, cigarette in one hand

and warm beer in
the other,
thinking of all the ironies
and paradoxes
and nonsense
in the world
and struggling whether to laugh

or cry –

for the
loner in the dark room who
acts like he’s asleep
because maybe, if he pretends
then he will actually
fall asleep
and maybe, just maybe
have a pleasant dream and wake up

without
screaming,
sweating,
or shaking –

for the
artist who
took one too many art classes
and learned that the thing he loved most

was just another job,
with another boss
blathering bad breath over his shoulder,

ringing into his ears
as he stares at a
blank canvas, struggling
not to destroy the piece
over her head –

for the
up-and-coming pianist who
was so damn confident in himself

with dreams of tickled ivory
and roaring crowds,
easy women and cheap drugs

but fell into the spiral
of laziness
and complacency
and now sits at the piano yawning

with uninspired hopeless acceptance,

playing the same tunes

over and

over –

for the
fast food worker who
gets shit on
every shift and is required
to say ‘thank you’
after each defecation,
smiling, grinding his teeth,

spitting out dust each time he asks

“would you like me to
take your
garbage?” –

for the
student who
goes to school so he
can get a nice job,
but needs a nice job
to pay for school,
stuck in the perpetual cycle
of the full-time, employed student and

always hearing his mother
echo loads of bullshit
about grades
and work
and work
and grades –

for the
lazy ass who
knows he can succeed,
land a job and get an A,
but sees no point in following the lazy river

of work and required education
and firmly believes
that he can find his own way
to money
and happiness

but a dull throb in the back of his mind

whispers
that he just
might be

wrong –

for the
depressive who
listened to that ominous whisper

for far too long
and firmly believed
every empty, dead thought,

sucking himself into burnt stew

of self loathe,
convincing himself
that the world
is nothing more
than spilt blood, bitter tears
and scars
hidden with
stained shirt sleeves –

for the
suicidal who
pulled up to his garage,
opened the door and sat in front,
car running, contemplating
whether or not
to pull himself inside
and shut the door,
suffocating the forest fire that raged
deep in his soul
with noxious fumes
of misery and sleep
but knowing deep down with clear certainty

that he can’t,
and he won’t
and that some fires need to burn out
all on
their own –

and,
for the
nineteen year old who

sees himself as a hack,

as anything but a poet

or a writer

or an artist

or a lover

or a thinker

or a creator,

for the
nineteen year old,
sitting in his room
writing an ode
to all of the lost souls and riffraff

that washed up
on the stormy shores
of his
rattled mind.

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