Best Hot Shot Poems
when it comes to matters concerning the heart
my head doesn't seem to be very smart.
i never look before i leap,
the wrong way down a one-way street.
it seems i've really got a knack
for picking mr. wrong.
i'll find the ******* in the crowd
it doesn't take me long.
he's the hot shot in the cowboy hat,
the one with snakeskin boots.
or the biker in the leather jacket,
he looks kind of cute.
the ******* with the attitude,
that's the guy i like.
he can have my gratitude
if he'll get me through the night.
A true story.
Here I was,
23 or 24...
Classed an "Executive"
NYC Dept Store Chain,
"Executive" label meant
I could work overtime
For one half of my normal salary...
But a fool sees stars
Where he should see crime
Promoted "Furniture Buyer"....
Big Ticket spot....
They seemed out to prove
Smart I was not.
Big Furniture Market,
High Point, N.C.,
Invited out to dinner,
By big shot vendor....
Oh...whoop, whoop, yea!
Of course, my stuffy boss
was there,
In the next chair
At this odd restaurant...
"The Factory" it's name,
After that night,
I was never looked at the same....
Big shot, Big City....
Big Fool....
It wasn't pretty....
The menu did start
Entrees priced more
Than my annual salary
And I'm confused
There's a boiler next to me!
So this Big City Buyer,
In his $99.00 suit
Ordered a shrimp cocktail,
Oh, what a hoot!
Lights flashing....
Like Studio 54
I had no idea
What I was in for!
Got my shrimp cocktail,
Oh, I do love my shrimp!
But the lemon wedge,
Was wrapped up
My mind now a' crimp
In this decorative yellow stuff,
All fit with a bow....
How do I open it, I wondered...
I wanted to know...
But I'm a Big Shot NYC Buyer,
Sure, I've seen it all....
How dare these dumb hicks...
Have such a gall!!
I took my fork,
I took my knike....
I started trying to open
This thing like....
It meant my very life!
I was struggling,
And sweating,
And frustrated and mad
Got some of the weirdest looks
I ever have had...
These Carolina Hicks...
Out to make a fool of me...
Slowly I realized
Everyone looking at me...
My boss's eyes swollen
In shame
How dumb his young buyer
Should be in a cornfield
And call himself "Town Crier"
Eventually I learned....
This stuff was called
"Cheese-cloth"
Ridiculous I thought...
No cheddar or swiss
Like this had I ever bought...
In silence I remained
Through the rest of my meal....
To me the biggest embarrassment
To me the biggest deal....
Big City Hot Shot Buyer...
Dumb as a farm hand.....
Put in a Manhattan restaurant...
Without but a strand....
Of what was, what wasn't
Of how, and of why...
All I wanted to do
Is to crawl under a rock
And die!
(This is true!!!)
Friday morning
I hopped out of the shower,
popped over to the lavatory counter,
flopped my most profound sexual characteristic
down and onto a misplaced curling iron,
burning the tender center of my-very-being.
Thankfully
Ms. Careless had left a glass of iced coke,
by her torturing implement.
I quickly and fully submerged my pain,
into the cooled, amber liquid.
Friday evening
I attended my first and last meeting
of the Brazoria County Poetry league.
I arrived at the BCPL president’s home
by invitation, to hear their guest speaker,
a young, professor of literature,
from Rice University.
He spoke at great length about metaphors.
What a metaphor was.
How poets used metaphors
to improve imagery in poetry.
He gave examples of metaphors,
and more examples,
explaining each one in detail.
It was raining damn metaphors.
I would have lapsed into a metaphoric coma,
if I had not discovered my bourbon glass
to be much too small, requiring me to rise,
and refill it several times.
When Dr. Metaphor finely finished I
strolled over to where he was smiling,
and announced that he was
full of rhetorical trope,
and didn’t know anything about real poetry,
and he had stepped on a metonymy
and it stank the room up.
And we poets from the sticks
didn’t need a hot-shot from Houston
telling us how to write poetry.
and the president of the BCPL
grabbed my arm,
and snatched my glass from my hand,
and it still had boozes in it.
And he promenaded me to the door,
and assured me that I was talent-less,
and that drinking myself to death
would be my one and only contribution to poetry.
He pushed me out of his home,
onto his front steps,
slammed the door in my face,
after suggesting
I never attend another meeting of the BCPL.
For a moment, I was stunned,
then bowing to his authority
I hurled on his “Welcome” mat.
And Friday morning
as I stood in the bathroom
cradling my tormented body element
with both hands,
the Queen of the Bastille entered,
demanded to know -What my problem was?
I informed her I had no problem,
and suggested she drink her damn coke…
before the ice melted.
Hot shot
Sworded swagger
Flashing boldly unconscious
Glommed to center of attention
Easy to spot.... (not hot)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Nancy Jones on the Fourth of July, 2012
For Nette's "Pen a Pensee" Contest
Grammatically questionable, and includes words I made up since there weren't any existing words available to say what I wanted.
Really enjoy star gazing :)
WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE SOME HOT SHOT ON THE BLOCK.
SOME FULL-TIME DIVA WHO CAN MESS WITH THE WEAK AND COME AFTER THE INNOCENT.
YOU THINK YOU CAN INTIMIDATE AND BULLY ME AROUND WELL I DON'T THINK SO.
DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL MORE IMPORTANT OR DOES IT MAKE YOUR EGO HEALTHY?
WELL IT DOES NOTHING FOR ME BUT JUST TO LET ME KNOW THAT YOU ARE NO GOOD FOR ME.
YOU ARE POISON TO MY SPIRIT AND YOU ARE TORTURING MY SOUL.
YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL ME ON THE INSIDE WITH THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER INSIDE OF YOU WHO HAS BEEN REVEALED.
SHE LURKS AROUND TO SEE WHO SHE CAN DEVOUR NEXT WHO SHE CAN ATTACK.
IT IS SO SAD THAT YOU HAVE TO STOOP SO LOW WHERE ARE YOUR MORAL WHERE IS YOUR SELF-RESPECT.
"Play and be a hot shot as if it’s your last shot."
DECEMBER 9, 2015
Heard you were back for a while.
Wasn't much of a pleasure hearing that
my worse half was back in town.
I could tell it was true
from the smoke that came along with you
and the stench that pulled me back
to where we were last year.
When I wished I could love you when I was sober
when the wind wasn’t hitting my face as hard
and the streetlights were less amusing.
It took me back to those lonely nights
when I wished I could love you
when I was awake,
and you were awake,
and the whites in our eyes shone through
the clear paths before us.
It took me back to the nights
in bars and houses of people we didn’t really know
where I wished I could hold you
somewhere far away
from all the smoke
that clouded the thoughts in my head,
from all the noise and
all the glass bottles on our table,
from all the nausea I got from drinking
to the irony of the situation.
Sometimes I feel there’s no where to run
but back to you and your destructive path
Sometimes I feel like I want to crash
and burn with you
again
You’re only a hot-shot when I hit rock bottom-
but now that I’m sober I can see
what we were
and what you are
shrink into a little roach that I
Crush
Grab a hold of with a napkin
and casually throw away in the bin.
REFINING AND MAINLINING HYPERBOLE
Something reliable, desirable, easily obtainable and consistently good
So a junkie best know the right neighborhood
The right junkie to see who won’t stab you in the back
And who doesn’t have a deck of five aces to stack
Some junkies have held eights and aces and lived to tell the tale
When the “dead man hand’s” reputation came to fail
But tragically the guy with five aces came to die
It seems the number five was one digit too high
And that’s simply what happens when a junkie plays poker and bets too steep to boot
This, of course, is all hypothetical hyperbole for a hypodermic and the dope that some junkie wants to shoot
And a junkie who won’t shoot him in his attempt to shoot his way out of a showdown with death
While a junkie named, appropriately enough, “Junkie” on Eighty-Ninth Street and Lex takes his final breath
Because his old lady named, appropriately enough, Lady
As I always suspected, turned out to be Lady, a lady who was shady
And I find it unspeakable that a junkie wouldn’t warn another about a hot shot
Which, in junkie parlance, means the shot is hot but his body will soon be not
Because one grows room temperature rapidly after a hot shot amidst the stench of rotting flesh and muscle melting into a putrid mess
But don’t expect Lady, the shady lady, to ever confess
****….that junkie named Junkie owed Lady’s ex-old man too much money for a junkie named Junkie to owe
And Lady knew where Junkie hid a kilo of blow……….
To this day Lady the shady lady will tell you that she had no choice
And of course blames it on a chick no one but Lady seems to have known named Joyce
Whose dad owned a Rolls Royce
And whose half-Asian half American Indian step brother had a beautiful soprano singing voice
But that’s neither here nor there
However, I will tell you what is obstinately and obviously clear
A junkie better know the right neighborhood
Because the acrid aroma and stagnating stench of rotting flesh don’t smell very good
© 2012……free cee!
Alias
Short hair, red dress, and bag with a computer recorded mess
Drop of the hat
Drop of the pen
A lawyer, getting the scoop with a camera pen,
just like that
Dangling over a mountain
Following a shadow
Chasing a figurative ghost
I can say I'm sick at rush hour at the most
Alias
Track star
Racing a black car
With a drop of the pen
With a flick of the wrist
There's a new twist
Chasing a tip
Running after a shadow
Open ears, closed lips
I guess I'm calling in sick
Hot shot lawyer
Fast talking reporter
High tech recorder
Modern day Tom Sawyer
Alibi
Alias
A fake goodbye
A goodnight kiss
I guess the question is…
Who am I?
Eternal darkness-I did seek
How sweet, the taste of suicide
And I finally learned
On the day that I died
Then some hot-shot doctor
With all of his gall
Saved my wretched life
But what of my damned soul?
10/20/15
The Kakocracy has finally won.
Didn’t you know that?
The rats at the helm
No longer fear the rat catcher.
He was been bought a long time ago
And is nothing more than an errand boy
Who knows his place.
Birth has become an act of pure brutality
as mothers deliver them to the ring.
You better learn to shadow box, kid
because some of them shadows could break your ribs
with just one shot.
The worst thing that can happen
to those who have never learned to lose
is to look up at the fan whirling high above.
The horror of the unreasonable man
Is to grow lame before the final bell
And never be able to get back up again.
It is here
from money to the body
everything is owed and nothing is kept.
It’s just rent.
It’s always just rent.
Even the nameless
will pay the cost of living in a box.
Mothers!
If you love your children don’t let them be born
Not now.
Not till we drag the trickster monkey
To the guillotine.
In his right hand
Is the twenty first century
Which came on like a curse
But was delivered
As a bullet.
The only thing that will remain
are those mornings which come with an eviction notice
and a court date.
Those who survive
know the meaning
of the SRO heart.
At these depths
All birth is Kabuki theater.
Theater sold on the cheap.
Theater given away
Like a hot shot.
Chances are you will
Never pull that needle out.
In the wards
no angel dares to fly
not if he wants
to find his way back up
to reach the surface
once more
before the mandatory 72 hours
expires
and the man at the door hands
you back your shoes
without laces.
Either walking through the heavy metal door
or being washed out
in afterbirth
the lesson we all learn
is
the future
has become a torn dress
lost in a warehoused apartment
in
a forgotten borough.
It was a crime committed
by a Robber Baron’s pale hand.
It was just another show for all of us to see
as if it was just a sport
only this time
all those who watch
are an unwilling audience.
Vnimaniye!
Attention!
Ten campaign soldiers
marching in a straight line
One took a sound byte mine misstep,
then there were only nine
Nine loyal watchmen
guarding the golden Tower gate
One fell asleep and plummeted to the ground,
dereliction of duty gave an even eight
Eight secret cell spies,
set to activate in hour eleven
One wasn’t synchronized,
the troops were now down to seven
Seven full metal jackets surrogates,
poison trap the debate trail mix
One got caught red-handed,
the number then got reduced to six
Six pawns on the war chessboard,
all vowed not to be taken alive
One actually did follow thru,
whittled soldiers were filed down to five
Five half-company soldiers,
going behind enemy lines once more
Pvt. Lax had his cover blown,
the soldier census was counting four
Four battle tested grunts,
web cam eyes mounted on a cyber tree
Clipped by a media sniper bullet,
tragic triage outcome made it three
Three dog tag fight hounds,
suicide mission ready ... go ... do
Bomb vest malfunction,
skeleton crew became only two
Two wounded boots on the ground,
ready to go out with a blazing run
After the hot shot emptied his last clip,
the company was left with just one
One lone committed tin soldier,
holding the fort with a single gun
He don’t expect to last too long,
and when he’s gone, there will be none
Fort Prop G Company
fought to the last man who could stand
Send another company in,
came word from the chain of command
Hot shot young buck
Sat kissing his beautiful young prom date
Stardate 1958
After climbing a rusty ladded
All the way to the summit at the top
Of the old Standard Oil sponsored Water Tower
That is colloquy known as Lookout Point
Gazing over the late night setting horison
They both made a wish upon a shooting star
In there Midwest Desert Mining Town
That from this moment they shall never be apart
And for many a year this truth would come to pass
But even a wish can only last a certain amount of time
As death comes to us all
Young Buck was destined to become Old Buck
And his beautiful Prom date's
Good looks so in time would wither too
But the wish they once upon a time made
And the years of love they shared
Can still be heard surfing on the Summer Breeze
When perched way up high upon the Water Tower
Drawing new couples into scaling the summit
In search of the Spell True Love Cast
I spent my day shopping for rubies
for my Mommy who wished to mate
misheard though because I was small
asked for boobies instead for her date
the vendour asked me how many
I replied I only had money for one
he offered two small ones instead
in that way cost would not overrun
silicone or saline he wanted to know
water goes well with my rubber duck
I’d like them squeaky please dear Sir
but I can’t say what rhymes with suck
they go with shackles or do they not
would you kindly wrap this small gift
she said about suspense or suspenders
the present has to give her face a lift
then I need two rings but have little dosh
a stud is what she called Dady at night
ripple rings the two have also mentioned
but are the two tit offerings watertight
must not wet sheets when evening comes
they tell me off when I pee in my pajama
threaten me with going back into diapers
by the sound there is enough adult drama
cash or plastic the shopkeeper enquired
but you mentioned sodium chloride solution
plastic is like rubber and they’re not using any
and in any case there is quite enough pollution
here is my piggy bank for payment trick or treat
I give you that and can throw in some lubrication
from the night stand to oil this smooth transaction
now I must rush not to miss this eventful occasion
oh one last thing or am I pushing your pleasure
I think Dad needs a penal extension or a trembler
for when he runs out of steam in hot shot pursuit
this party is a treasure hunt they’ll always remember
09th July 2020
Morning Coffee Poetry Place
Morning coffee must be hot
In the afternoon I drink herbal tea
But at sunset, I drink wine
I like my morning routine a lot
And my time to be just me
Drinking wine makes the evening so fine
And at night a shot
Of rum or whiskey fills me with glee
loving what is mine
I used to smoke pot
Thought that was the key
Went on a spending spree
nowadays afraid of a random gunshot
Hoping you will hear my plea
Time to end the violence, don’t you agree
is everything just a hot shot
Will this set my heart free
When will I ever be carefree?