Raegan Butcher's Blog, page 14

Couvapalooza

Spent last night in Vancouver,WA rocking out with Everclear at "Couvapalooza" --an all day musical event that raised money for local schools to keep their music programs alive. It was a great time and it all benefited a very worthy cause. We've gotta keep art, music, and theatre programs in schools!

The Anti-Bukowski

the anti-bukowski

i was a terrible drunk:
sloppy, sad, mean, stupid, violent
and downright weird/crazy/dangerous
in short
unpleasant in the extreme
the exact opposite of my sober self:
a swell and charming fellow
i can’t recommend the demon rum to anyone
sorry kids
as Leonard Cohen would say, “far be it from me to intrude upon the pleasures of the young”
but if you’re looking for glorification of bar fights and beer drunks
you won’t find it here

Why I do it

I write simply
to put a smile upon
my own face.
The rest doesn't
matter.

another poem about prison

“It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones.”
― Nelson Mandela

in this country
poor people
who are drug addicts
don’t get treatment
they get prison
same with the mentally ill
i was in there with them
with my garden variety borderline personality disorder
i saw i know
i bear witness
our prison system
holds literally millions of crazies
because we refuse to deal with them in any other way
this is not a poem
this is a plea:
is this any way for a “great” nation to behave?

a poem from prison

sometimes there’s just nothing
rain outside the window
too much coffee in your gut
time ticking away but somehow too slow
you have thoughts but they’re not profound
you have worries and they’re average worries
but terrifying too
—how are you going to make it?
you need a car
a place to sleep
food to eat
you need
all the things that everyone else needs
and none of it is cheap
but you don’t know how
to do anything
and you feel
ashamed to be selling your books
as if you’ve joined the ranks
of all the other merchants
the greedy hustlers

just another salesman

a poem from "End of the World Graffiti"

mowing the lawn

the woman who lives in the trailer
across from me has two kids
boys, very young
they are too young to be left alone
they are alone
they are watching me mow the lawn
one of them stands no more
than three feet from me
oblivious of the roaring machine
he is fucked up: a cut on his chin
dripping blood onto his little naked pot-belly
with an open (dazed-chimp) mouth adding saliva
he is covered head to toe in dirt
and his diapers are full of shit
his little brother, too young to walk
is eating the dog’s food out of the filthy dog bowl
i go inside my place and shut the door
wondering why people have children if they aren’t
going to take care of them
i peek out the window and see both of them sitting
in the dirt near the dog house
two doomed babies

just got back from Vegas

Sin city

Las Vegas
made me sad
to see the people streaming past
the homeless veteran in his wheelchair
ignoring him like he wasn’t there
intent on tossing their money
into the void of the casinos
i gave him five dollars
he looked like a young Tab Hunter
and his voice was very soft and gentle
when he said, “Thank you sir.”
i tried to imagine what his life must be like
and i wondered where he would sleep at night
it made me want to cry
it made me want to grab
those thoughtless people passing by
and shake them and tell them
that what they are doing is a sin
and even though
i am now far from Las Vegas
that delicate handsome face
and calm tender voice
saying, "Thank you sir."
will haunt me
for a long time to come
probably forever

when i lived in Mexico, i wrote poems like this

under the volcano

i live in México
with a girl
twelve years younger than me
and we fall asleep
at night
in each others arms
dreaming of scorpions and chainsaws
and if you want to find me
i will be here in Cuernavaca
under the volcano
swatting flies with a
flamethrower

animal poems

left with the dog

i can think
of no better honor

than to be entrusted
with the safety
of Maynard

the deaf dog

half Australian shepherd
half basset hound

no better companion to be found

poetry vs prose

To me writing prose is much more difficult and therefore much more rewarding than writing poetry. Writing a poem is like blowing my nose. Writing a novel is like giving birth. Big difference in the time it takes to deliver the little booger.