Ugly Man and Other Poems
By H. H. Chase Rodgers
Ugly Man
The man was ugly
His jaw looked like it was previously or currently broken
It zigged where it should’ve zagged
Bouncing back & forth
Back & forth
Across a desert of wrinkles or scars
And the bags beneath his eyes
Were at maximum capacity
He shrugged and he said,
“The wind through the trees
And the dead leaves crumbling
Beneath your feet,
The rising sea
And the stars you can’t see,
They’re all just your cousins”
His hair stuck out at random
As if the clumps and strands were trying,
Trying to escape what was going on
His eyes, his eyes
Had a small glimpse of Light
That nearly cut through the lonesomeness
Death of a Drunk
It was Daddy’s 67th birthday celebration
And the house was full
With people & smoke
Laughter then jokes
There was silence in the conversations
Daddy himself, well, he was in rare form
Doing his Cool Hand Luke
Pointing with one hand, the other a drink
He spun and he laughed and he coughed and he winked
And twisted his face, deformed
Never one to miss the chance to perform
Mother watched & played coy, shy
But never batted an eye
For every bullshit story he told
She’d heard since she was 22 years old
And in spite of herself, she’d still smile
The guests began to make their exit
She’d try and get them to stay
He’d hug them around the neck
Say that he loves them to death
His face melting like clay
He kissed her on the cheek
Said his prayers and went to sleep
But never awoke again
66 was enough
He’d lived his own life
Never quite getting it right
Now he’s as dead as the rest of his friends
On the Road
The steering wheel wears off on his hand
The cloth above the driver’s side window
Has a hundred little black holes
He thinks
Opinions are like assholes
Mine is better than everyone else’s
Like roses they come & go
He’s been trying to think of himself less
He swerves to try & hit a squirrel
And says a prayer with each dead dog
Rotting on the side of the road
The music ain’t louder than his thoughts
Not due to a lack of effort
He grips & hits the wheel harder
Running from himself he pushes pedal
Til' it damn near bursts through the floor
Long needle pines waving as he goes
H. H. Chase Rodgers is a cook, writer, and general vagrant out of Huntsville, Alabama
