Poetry: Selections From Hans Joseph Fellmann

Bad Onion

My roommate is an odd one.                  

He comes in late,                           

Stinking of cheese and feet,                

Cheap cologne and sausage,                  

Says ciao in that creepy way                

With too many front teeth.                  

He wears dinner jackets to clubs,           

Flip-flops to work,                         

And glasses                                 

Even though he doesn't need to.             

He rocks when he talks                      

And cheats strangers without flinching      

An affable chap.                            

But like a bad onion, he's                  

Sweet then sour,                            

Sweet then sour.                            

Sometimes I want to shank him in the belly. 

Sometimes I want to thank him for the jelly.

Sometimes                                   

I even get the feeling                      

He's a queer.                               

But just when this reaches its peak         

He brings home a 300-pound gypsy whore      

And fucks her in the bathroom.              

I can't stand the guy                       

Really                                       

I can't                                      

Especially when he leaves his unwashed dishes

Stacked in the sink                          

Like a porcelain shipwreck.                  

I've come close to killing him               

A time or two                                

But then he gives me a slice of bacon        

Or a restaurant tip                          

And things are okay                          

Again, for a bit.

Crooked Legs and Filthy Veins

Those pin-headed stiffs                     

With clean systems                          

And soft steps.                             

I'll never understand                       

People who don’t                              

Drink. Never will they                        

Know the joy of crooked legs and filthy veins.

Of screaming at the moon                      

With a bottle in one hand                     

And the other balled into a fist.             

Of fucking a stranger                         

Down the neck                                 

With a purple                                 

Smile.                                        

Of busting the teeth                          

From an asshole's gums                        

With the butt of a shot-glass.                

Of watching the steam rise                    

From their piss as it splatters               

Against a cop car.                            

Those withering teetotalers,                  

Those deflated saps,                          

Never will they taste the sweetness           

Of lewd songs at 4 a.m.,

Of wine-drenched scrambled eggs

Chewed under

Bloodshot eyes

Mother Cabrini

It was raining when

My mother and I drove

Into the Walmart parking lot,

Plastic wreaths sagged

From the streetlamps

And dead Christmas trees

Were heaped in front of the dumpsters

Like the skeletons of burned witches.

I read the last line of a poem entitled

“Christmas Eve” by Anne Sexton,

Then I closed the book and looked at my mother,

“Well,” I said, “What did ya think?”

She swerved into a spot and clicked off the engine,

“I liked it,” she sighed. “But it was really depressing.”

“Yeah, but her words are fucking gorgeous,” I replied.

“I mean, she was able to take all the depression in her life

And turn it into beauty. She even did it in death.”

“What do you mean?” my mother asked.

“I mean, when she decided to off herself at forty-five,

She didn’t just put a gun to her head and pull the trigger.

She got piss drunk, put on her dead mother’s fur coat,

Poured herself one last glass of vodka, ran a hose from

The tailpipe of her car to the driver’s side window, got in,

Cranked the engine, downed the vodka, and went out like a G.”

I was screaming with my fists in the air. My mother gasped.

“That’s terrible,” she cried.

“No, it’s brilliant,” I retorted.

A man in a white minivan

Pulled into the space in front of us,

He got out, went around to the back

And opened the trunk. He reached in

And pulled out a long sad Christmas tree,

Its branches were twisted in every direction

Like the broken arms of orphans seeking alms

And little bits of tinsel glinted from their tips like change,

He dragged it across the parking lot,

Its twigs scratching on the asphalt,

When he arrived at the dumpsters,

He lined the tree up with its dead relatives

And yanked it into the pile,

As he walked away, he took a call on his cellphone,

I looked over at my mother,

“Most people go out like that tree,” I remarked.

She crinkled her eyebrows and shook her head,

“Not if they’re loved,” she said. 

Free Bird

Nobody does it right, nobody even             

comes close                                   

Everyone fucks it up, everyone tears the heart

from another's chest                          

And dropkicks it                              

Into the dumpster,                            

It is the way of things,                      

And it will always be                         

The way of things                             

Even when our cars fly                        

And our buildings float                       

And our brains are small humming computers    

Love, my friend, knows no rule                

And the man who tries to trap it              

With wires                                    

Or money                                      

Or time                                       

Or anger                                      

Is the world's greatest fool.

Hans Joseph Fellmann is a writer and English teacher from Livermore, California. He has visited over eighty countries and lived in Spain, Turkmenistan, and the Czech Republic. A graduate of the University of California at San Diego, his articles and short stories have appeared in the UCSD Guardian, The San Diego Union-Tribune, and The Prague Revue. He has published two novels: Chuck Life’s a Trip, based on a life-changing journey he took around the world with his childhood buddies in 2006, and Saving Jahan, which is anchored by his wild experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer in Central Asia. His latest book, The Heart That Beats, is a collection of confessional poems based on his life as a writer in Prague.