Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/13/20


The only place
I express my pain
is in these fucking
words I dare type…

In darkness mode, hoping
the means will not lead
to the act…

If I appear
friendly and courteous
during my infrequent
collisions with the
outside world…

Understand that I do
not want you to be
subjected to my dankness.

I realize that many
of you are content
the way life is going…

That is a good thing…
Nothing wrong with that…

Honestly, my acts of

are out of respect.
An understanding…
An acceptance you have
of yourself…

My oh my—I wish
I was wired like you.

Ready to step into
the day…the future.

Not clouded with

Or fear…
Or anger…

Exist for
humanity’s sake…

Splendidly alive…

Avoiding the gallows
of half-planted souls…

That refuse to walk with you…

But seem to find their
way side-by-side

with me.


Where I Write

I read Patti Smith…glowing about being in France where Rimbaud and Verlaine drank their full of life…
Being in awe of strolling the same steps of iconic poets.

I wonder if Artie or Paul would care where I write?

Where I take notes, observe the
assholes and scumbags
that inhabit
and interfere with
my head screams…

Sometimes, I hope
my jottings are not
said aloud…Better
to be nutty and be
able to wander than
squirm in a straight jacket…

Humbled, bewildered…

The outward conquered by
the inward—

would have to be contained
by hulking orderlies so
I harm no one…

Still, I’m vetted
without shame.

Realize that I’m not
in the same ballpark as
above mentioned writers…

But still live, maintaining
a brutish charm for the outcast.

Well—Artie and Paul
are gone now…

Patti still lives somewhere
in some plush writing den.

Or maybe she’s on tour—living the cool,
bohemian life.

I’m just a bitch stepchild
with the words that
come out of me…

So, go on Ms. Smith.
Keep the poems handy.

So, fools, like me
can read, and witness—

the famous…
Those who made it…

To the

heights of fondness…


Transparent Lard

Disfigured minions
pampered as

gallery all-stars.

Shouting to the
nobodies from
the bleacher seats

An angular argument that fight
means might.

“They” worship an old
transistor radio…

That plays Roy Clark
and early Beach Boys.

The scene is mighty pale.

But these assholes
refuse to chime in
about the negro walk.

Guns and jugs and Bull Conner.

God and Hannity.

The finest day for
a lynching is

today for these boys.

©2020 Dan Provost All rights reserved.


Dan Provost’s poetry has frequented the small press for many years. His stuff has been recently published in Odd Magazine, Merak Magazine, and Poetic Review just to name a few. His book Under the Influence of Nothingness was published on 02/25/2020 by Kung Fu Treachery Press. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and Bella, the Bichon Frise.

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