I don't call it Poetry either, so we are both in agreement on that

What I write
is not Poetry
but a screaming
whiskey fit at 2
in the morning
after my girlfriend
has broken it off
for good...
and waiting for me
after six hours
of fitful rest
(not sleep)
is a commute to
a job and another day
filled with another man's
objectives and goals
that don't even
vaguely resemble
my own.

Fuck Poetry!
Why would I
want to mess
with an art form
defined by
one word.

One For The Metaphysicians, Or...

The guy who lives
in the dilapidated
2 bedroom house
across the alley
whistles a tune spiritedly
after he steps out
of his beat-up Honda,
wearing his ubiquitous
gray work shirt
with the rectangular patch
bearing his name
in red cursive.

He whistles like a man
who just hit the lottery,
or got his dick sucked
by a thick lipped super model,
or been told by his doctor
the lump is benign,
or discovered that God really does exist
and has agreed to save him.

But he whistles like this everyday,
which renders those explanations
even more absurd
than they already are.

What could it be?

I've seen his wife waddling after their ill-mannered dog,
I've heard his kid wailing for attention,
I breathe the same polluted air he breathes,
I eat the same greasy, genetically modified food,
I touch myself during moments of loneliness
as I'm sure he does too.

So what is it
that makes him whistle
like that?

If the metaphysicians ever get a hold of him
they might discover
what they've been looking for all along...

or maybe this is one for the head shrinks.

Longing for the Age of Guiltlessness, Shamelessness, Lust and Desire

Stranded on the shoulder
of the 605 freeway
with a flat tire
on my way to visit
a curvy _gordita_
in Hawaiian Gardens.

I have no jack
and no cell phone
so I walk a mile
to the nearest
call box and call
my girlfriend who's
6 months pregnant
with my unborn child.

She brings me the jack
I fix the flat
Kiss her on the cheek
and continue on my way
to Hawaiian Gardens
feeling no guilt
and no shame
only lust
and desire...

What I wouldn't give
to be 19 again.

Greg Scharf lives in Los Angeles, CA. He has work in upcoming issues of Mouseion,
My Favorite Bullet, Zygote in My Coffee, Lunatic Chameleon and on the San Gabriel
Valley Poetry Quarterly calendar. His website is at

2005 Underground Voices