Tag Archives: Sam Vargo

A Day In Paradise

by Sam Vargo

Lex McGee knew there was bad kharma

Around, such a perfect day,

The flowers sang

The earth hummed hymns

And Lex McGee knew it was flex time.


Lex’s sordid cynicism goes well with orange

Carrots and white wine; the old door mouse

Says into the camera in a falsetto voice.

Fade to black and then some editorializing.


Lex was driving his big white whale Lexus

Through Kansas City when it all came down

Like some bad suspense thriller

Akin to trash-can fires near the railroad tracks.


Lex’s big heart exploded

When he was making love to himself

In his corner room

Of the tenement house

With the glow on from the PC tube

Glowing like a caveman’s fire.


– Lex was with the most beautiful photoshopped

Woman who ever graced a JPEG when his ticker

Exploded. So what happened next?

The movie ends and the credits roll.



by Sam Vargo

Terry’s got to go someplace
And today’s the day.
Right now’s the time.
There’s nothing more to say,
Because she’s got to go,
Right here, right now.
And you know it’s her day
To go down to Fifth & Main
To get her business done
(And nobody knows what
This is, but as far as Terry’s
Concerned, it’s nobody’s
Business but hers, so bud
Out, Charlie). Terry’s got
To go someplace, and she’s
Going now. So get out of
Her way, if you damned well
Know what’s good for you.
She might just run you over
If you don’t get out of her way.
Terry’s got to go someplace
And she’s going, come hell
Or high water, man. So get
The hell out of her way,
Man. She’s like a spitfire
Right now. Dig? Terry’s
Got to go someplace &
She’s going, Martin. Yes,
She’s going, whether
You like it or not. . . .


by Sam Vargo

The city’s darkest soul
Rises from a purgatory
Of toiled and reworked
Labor. The men who
Create jobs sit behind
A desk and mishmash
Numbers all day, each
Day. Meanwhile, sweat
Pours from the masses
And they’re told men
With money rule them.

And they do, these men
With power and clout
Mean much in this world.

We seek salvation,
Meanwhile, through
Drink, pot, Eucharist,
The daily paper, pulp
Fiction, movies, pop
Culture. Men of means,
The movers and shakers,
Care nothing about these
Ridiculous things.

Number crunching,
Economies of scale,
Capitalistic manifest
Destiny: That’s their
Game. They like
Lying in the shadows
Of the hades of commerce,
And everyone’s happy,
Especially them (if
the numbers jibe).


by Sam Vargo

The lonely train whistle blows
As I sit here on July third
With the phosphorescent glow
Of this computer screen blinding me.

Young poets are out at the pubs,
Listening to their music, the last
Thing on their minds is writing poetry.
Fireworks are for kids, but that’s them.

I don’t know what’s what anymore
And I feel outmatched by those younger
Who seem to have a lot more to say
Poetically. I don’t know why I bother

To write poetry these days. I was good
Twenty years ago. The mailbox buzzed
And I was getting published.
These days, it’s as if I’ve already said

All there is to say about everything
And nothing. Stick to genre fiction,
Go where the money is. Only a real
Blockhead writes for no recompense.

And I’ve been doing this mostly:
Sticking to the grind of the formula,
But I have to take time for this guilty
Pleasure every now and then.

Yes, even the rejections seem sweet.
Writing poetry is a dead end street,
There’s no market for it these days.
Let the Ph.D.s do this thing,

It’s their job, after all.
They’re territorial and they bite.
Someway, write something
To take to the bank.

Turn the power button off.
Put your glaucoma drops in
Your drooping eyes, guy.
Go to sleep, old man, it’s late.