UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/JAMES VALVIS


	UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 06/2012

JAMES VALVIS

The Jim Who Doesn’t Smell Like Piss

There was a kid in grade school
who smelled like piss.
His name also happened to be Jim
and was called by the mean kids
The Jim Who Smells like Piss.
So of course I became
The Jim Who Doesn’t Smell Like Piss.
I suppose there are worse names
a kid can be called than
The Jim Who Doesn’t Smell Like Piss,
and I sometimes went by those too,
but it’s an extremely low bar
and it always made me feel sorry for
The Jim Who Smells Like Piss,
even though he wasn’t a nice kid.
Though we were both terrible students,
ugly, weak, unpopular, and bad at sports,
he still considered himself a prize.
You’d think a guy known as
The Jim Who Smells Like Piss
would have a sweeter nature than
The Jim Who Doesn’t Smell Like Piss,
but that’s not the way it was.
It seemed as if this terrible flaw,
like all the rest of his flaws,
did not improve him in the slightest.
Anyway, it isn’t much of an achievement,
but I say if you can’t avoid being a Jim altogether,
if you absolutely must be a Jim,
be The Jim Who Doesn’t Smell Like Piss.
But if you can’t even be that, be nice.

Being Used Is No Excuse to Be Cruel

Short with bug-eyes and pointed ears,
John was nevertheless a handsome man
and charismatic as a preacher
without any of the off-putting morality.
Also a party guy who knew party girls.
He kept coming over with the heavy ones,
good time girls who smiled and laughed
and clung to John’s arm like a vine
thrown to someone in quicksand.
Clearly they couldn’t believe their luck,
and they were right to disbelieve it.
With John, the beginning was always
just the start of the end.
Though I stopped offering my number,
eventually they would call and ask.
I told them the truth: I didn’t know.
Or maybe it was just part of the truth.
I didn’t know where he was,
but I knew he was with someone else.
He never came by with the same person twice,
the point of going for heavy girls
being to show how many could be scored.
The girls cried, and I tried to comfort them.
Sometimes, yes, that included sex.
John mocked me about sloppy-seconds,
but most only slept with me.
When they quit calling, I didn’t chase.
I knew what would happen if I did.
Sometimes, weeks or months later,
I ran into them at the mall or post office.
They asked if I ever saw John anymore.
If I said yes, they gave their numbers
and told me to have him call.
If I said no, they said bye and walked away.
I never told any the complete story,
what they should have known,
what they would have figured out
if they weren’t so busy flattering themselves.
Instead, I just waved and watched them go.

Beeswax

“Mind your own beeswax!”
My whole childhood,
everyone used to say this.
It confused me. Still does.
I had no beeswax. Still don’t.
And if I did have beeswax,
I wouldn’t bother minding it.
Who cares about beeswax
when there is so much stuff
a guy can find out about?
Like, for instance, whatever
you’re trying to hide.