Basement Guy by A.S. Coomer

I’m a basement guy
surrounded by performers.
They want to stand up here,
before you,
and present;
make you
the words,
live them. 
I’m a basement guy
in a league of actors.
I write words,
inky black things brought bloody and screaming into the world,
 in a dimly lit, dingy subterranean retreat from the world.
They’re there if you want ‘em.
I’m not gonna to stand up here
and make you feel them.
I’m not offering a song or a dance,
a set of emotions slapped on like some tacky hat. 
I’m not going to stand up here,
with my nervy knees and quaking feet,
and pretense a delve back into the state I was in
 — probably a little more than half-crazed with isolation and desire — -
when I wrote them
like they’re a time machine or sales pitch.
I’m a basement guy. 
All that’s not my fucking job.

A.S. Coomer is a native Kentuckian serving out a purgatorial existence somewhere in the Midwest. His work has appeared in over thirty publications. He’s got a handful of novels that need good homes. You can find him at He also runs a “record label” for poetry: