Different Slants

Seeing the World from a New Angle

Eternal Slave To His Own Bitch-Queen…by Robert M. Katzman

Filed under: My Own Personal Hell — Bob at 12:57 pm on Saturday, January 7, 2012

I wait for you

I wait for you

Crushed by my anticipation

 

I wait for you

Playing with pink packages of fake sugar

Ignoring Today’s Special

Searching the streets…for you

 

Searching for the ways your flowing hair sways

The indulgent tilt of your head

The coldness in your eyes

Your unapologetic walk

 

I endure forgettable music

Bitter aroma of burnt coffee

From unwatched pots

Wafting through stale air

 

While I wait for you

The worn waitress

Peers over her glasses at me

Wondering:

“Will he ever order?”

 

 My tense body

Wasting her booth

Denying her tips

From real customers

 

She mutters to the busboy

Her expression that of pathetic scorn

Women save for men who fail them

Whose suits are too big for them

 

I wait for you

I wait for you

That dismissive air you have

Of better things to do

Than be with me

 

The impatience in your voice

The disapproving lines

Bordering your tightened lips

That killing magnetism you exude

That cements me to this shabby booth

 

My will crumbles

My plans on hold

My future suspended

Enraptured am I

By your criminal beauty 

 

I wait for you

I wait for you

Crushed by my anticipation

 

Please

Come to me

 

 

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Twitter: @MagazineMuseum

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

5 Comments »

Comment by Bruce Matteson

January 7, 2012 @ 2:37 pm

well…this seems like shaky ground I must say….does your wife know about her??????

Comment by Brad Dechter

January 8, 2012 @ 4:44 am

Where”s the beef?

Comment by Bob

January 8, 2012 @ 9:41 am

Brad!!
Happy New Year!

The new poem is what it is, and should mean something different to each person who reads it, which now is about a thousand people.

Where actual revenge isn’t possible, a really good fantasy can be close to it.

In the poem, the man is waiting in eternity for the woman who never comes. But even if she did show up, he knows he disgusts her. So either way, he loses.

Bob

Comment by Gargi

January 10, 2012 @ 5:21 pm

Ouch! I hate the word, “Bitch”, but the title you have chosen seems exactly righ-on in terms of your past experiences with your mom, and thus, your internalized anima (that is, what apparently is lurking in the shadows– the flip-side of your “love of women”. Ouch again!

The poem rendered from that exquisitely captures this captureless maiden (only to be met–thank god– in your poem(s).

Too many ouchies for now….

Comment by robert m katzman

January 10, 2012 @ 10:10 pm

Gargi,
First, thanks for writing.
Secondly, the word ‘bitch’ in this poem is used in the worst possible sense of deliberate cruelty done to this man and that he feels compelled to accept it. He needs to be dominated and needs to suffer. He sees her as all powerful and controlling his life, totally. It is a hell of my own creation and not my view of women. Not at all. It is his.

Bob

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