Three Poems

by Spor Virus

Biography:

Spor Virus is a nihilist with a conscience that currently resides in San Francisco after spending much of his life in the Deep South. His works are often 'urban ketches' based on real-life sitings of aimless, maniacal human behavior in the inner cities of both his past and present. The only redemption is saying 'I'm sorry' on one's deathbed. He writes best when hungover.

NO FREE RIDES

From his steel framed window
He could see the slant
Of the treeline against the morn sky
Whose grey smile faded
Between the turning leaves.
Everything seemed a postcard now
Just a burnt image on chemical paper
A still life of a stilled life.
He was a diagnosed terminal
Subleting a waiting room from death
Most friends feared the visit
Only his brother would show
Whose words were kind and belated
Whose pockets jingled heavy with coins
Too many, it was thought, for necessity.
Perhaps his brother was preparing
For the Fee of the ferryman
Need to get brother ‘where he needs to be’
Gas, grass, ass---or american currency
No free rides here

He heard the jingling close by
It must be visiting hours, he surmised.
One day I’ll wake up somewhere else
With a coin left
under my tongue
Or one atop of
each sewn eye.
And a not too amusing tourguide
With bony hands holding
That black oar
Steering me through acrid waters
Into the jaws of another mystery.
The sound of chains dragged near
Or, perhaps the clink of change I feared

The door then opened for the last time
and in walked that familiar figure.

 

 

A Blinded Bull

That night parade
is about to start
And as I look up
at fleeing clouds
Off to somewhere
more hospitable
I stand firm
and let it smart…

Another night of stillborn memories
And aborted moments of clarity
And many drinks consumed
Others left on shadowed tables
abandoned by their owners
Orphaned and needing a warm gullet
To lead to that dark liver home—
Just the thing that my altruism provides.

And the zig zag swaggering way
I stumble through another and another
Pub exit into the bullring of the streets
Trying to right my path to the next spot
A better jukebox, an empty pool table
The new stable of ready women
The possible presence of round buyers
Another shifting commode in the dark
Another funhouse bathroom stall.
The stink of nicotine-tipped fingers
A friendless conversation to casually ignore.
A new shape of bar glass for the collection
A sticky relic of another night lost
Things to fill the pockets but not the emptiness.

I leave as I entered:
a blinded bull, alone.
Clumsy and horny
and out of place
With a matador’s purpose
on my face.

And wonder if this moment in this night
Will someday be included in that
Self-abridged archive known to all
As the good ‘ol days.

 

The Stroller

She walks
In red high-heels
Guiding her baby
On white plastic wheels
Through the tragic labyrinth
Of our sad urban maze.
That one day he inherits
But in that infant daze
He smiles at our infamy,
Our overgrown cruelty.
He giggles at those lost
Shaking outstretched cups.
To him amusement comes
At our smeared anthill chaos
As he is ushered in a papal way
Like royalty parting the masses.
Does not yet know of taxes
Or love-lost sadness,
Of love-soured madness,
Or Death’s black hand upon us.
Or Time’s steady tick that dims us—
That will land him back on his knees,
Wishing that he’d remained royal
In the high-heel powered stroller.