FLASH: Drunken Poet of the Riverlands

This is Aram Steeds, who claims to be the Poet Laureate of Limtucky.  Below is an interview I conducted with him at his tent home behind the sandpit.

NY: Mr. Steeds, you call yourself the Poet Laureate of Limtucky, how did you come by this title?

AS: I come by it because I am it, son.  I have acquired many titles in my days: The Voice of the Birds, Stomper of the Anthills, and the Drunken Poet of the Riverlands.  When I was a boy this town was a boy's dream, full of wonders and delight, but lately, it seems to me God has been flicking us with so many psychic boogers.  But we deserve it.

NY: Do we?

AS: Of course.  There can be only so many girls shopping for diapers at noon on a Tuesday in their pajamas before God puts you on the smite-list.  I wrote my first poem about Limtucky when I was a boy, it goes like this:

green grass, gosh

and the rivers run together

like the clench'ed fingers of a myrmidon
'round his trident

there's so much pussy

in this town, that I'm never leaving

NY: You wrote that when you were a boy?

AS: I was eight.

NY: I, um --

AS: You're not a poet, son.  Here's another one, this from 1958, it is called 'Ode To Kraut'

The Krauts are here

with their blonde hair

with their coca cola

mixed in their beer

with their furrowed stares

these Krauts are sour

their women fair

NY: I don't like it.

AS: Because the simplicity of your mind won't allow you to unlock the multitudinous levels of that gem.  To you this is just a thing, but I put russian dolls within that trinket, one after another!  How about this:

You know I can be found'

sitting all alone

if you can't come around

at least, please, telephone

don't be cruel, my love

to a heart that's true

NY: That's Elvis.

AS: Where do you think he got it?  Christ, kid, are you planning on sleeping through your entire life?

one fish, two fish,

red fish, blue fish

i wish, you'd fix

your watch, to your wrist

and count the minutes until tomorrow

and wake me when the drink is gone

and show me out to the yard

where the chickens nest upon the wall

fixin to get their pidgeon on

NY: No, don't get it.

AS: The only thing to get is that I have the rhythm of a fucking jaguar.  It's uncanny.  Look, Kid, where's the Coors?  You promised me some silver bullets.  Now get goin.  Make sure they're cans.  And room temperature.

NY: Thanks for your time.

AS: Cans, hands.  Fizzy cans make for fuzzy mans.

NY: Mans?

AS: Like a bridge over troubled water.