Burger fried egg ham
Skip fries have another beer
Patio was closed
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Winter
No more than six inches deep
frozen water in the woods
children cautiously slip and step
slide from tree to leafless tree
willing themselves weightless to not
crack thin ice. Laughter and
frosted puffs of breath fill the air
and I wonder as I remember
will my daughter know joys such as these
frozen water in the woods
children cautiously slip and step
slide from tree to leafless tree
willing themselves weightless to not
crack thin ice. Laughter and
frosted puffs of breath fill the air
and I wonder as I remember
will my daughter know joys such as these
Sestina #3
Collaboration with Aytch Rae
On a trampoline wreathed in dandelions, Andy,
eleven, leaping between glee and ennui, wouldn't
be opposed to a dose of aging potion. Either way it went
(back to milk-tooth gaps or balding and bearded) he knew
he'd be freed of this pre-teen identity worry.
Over thinking, over emoting, and loathe to be near his folks inside.
A job like that, they had to have a man on the inside
If it wasn't the teller or the guard, it had to be Andy
And with fifty grand missing you might want to worry
You thought he would run. He said he wouldn't.
In the end, you should have trusted the things you knew
not ended up in this cell looking at pictures of places you never went
Just a dog, wondering where his wolf side went;
age has snuffed the hunt and howl inside.
Chop licking, sniffing for a scent he knew
arthritic hips twinge, lies belly sunward waiting, and he
runs paw-twitching quick through fox filled dreams. Wouldn't
be against a juicy bone to worry.
Homeless, the fringe, they fray and they worry
Unraveling fabric of society through the cracks they went
Wills spent whether they should or shouldn't they wouldn't
Flaws in the system no one to assist them they don't go inside
Sleep in bitter cold parks as distant as being camped in the Andes
Outcasted together sun rises on nothing new
On the wall a decapitated gnu
wasn't much of a wildebeest, were he?
Took a chance to run and up the ante
but the shotgun called his bluff and off it went
turned his whole world inside
out. Ended up a trophy when he thought he wouldn't.
Each time it happened, he promised to quit drinking. He wouldn't
But he would slow. Lies to his wife but she knew
The truth. And no matter how many drops he drank to fill an empty inside
There was always the hollow. By the bittered end neither did worry
What was to come. Days spent wonder where years went
Drinking with friends then alone in the end a bottle and he
Done wouldn't be undone, too late to worry
all you knew determined where you went.
Whether my side or inside never stopping to ask, and why
On a trampoline wreathed in dandelions, Andy,
eleven, leaping between glee and ennui, wouldn't
be opposed to a dose of aging potion. Either way it went
(back to milk-tooth gaps or balding and bearded) he knew
he'd be freed of this pre-teen identity worry.
Over thinking, over emoting, and loathe to be near his folks inside.
A job like that, they had to have a man on the inside
If it wasn't the teller or the guard, it had to be Andy
And with fifty grand missing you might want to worry
You thought he would run. He said he wouldn't.
In the end, you should have trusted the things you knew
not ended up in this cell looking at pictures of places you never went
Just a dog, wondering where his wolf side went;
age has snuffed the hunt and howl inside.
Chop licking, sniffing for a scent he knew
arthritic hips twinge, lies belly sunward waiting, and he
runs paw-twitching quick through fox filled dreams. Wouldn't
be against a juicy bone to worry.
Homeless, the fringe, they fray and they worry
Unraveling fabric of society through the cracks they went
Wills spent whether they should or shouldn't they wouldn't
Flaws in the system no one to assist them they don't go inside
Sleep in bitter cold parks as distant as being camped in the Andes
Outcasted together sun rises on nothing new
On the wall a decapitated gnu
wasn't much of a wildebeest, were he?
Took a chance to run and up the ante
but the shotgun called his bluff and off it went
turned his whole world inside
out. Ended up a trophy when he thought he wouldn't.
Each time it happened, he promised to quit drinking. He wouldn't
But he would slow. Lies to his wife but she knew
The truth. And no matter how many drops he drank to fill an empty inside
There was always the hollow. By the bittered end neither did worry
What was to come. Days spent wonder where years went
Drinking with friends then alone in the end a bottle and he
Done wouldn't be undone, too late to worry
all you knew determined where you went.
Whether my side or inside never stopping to ask, and why
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Not So Fast Stupid Poet Dudes
Collaboration with Aytch Rae
A bowl, water, bits of blue rock and a fish
Ma can I get a dog? No.
Now shut up and take a shower
Change dish dances on a speaker
Plate hits the wall, Turn that shit down!
Johnny sniffed his socks and smoked some pot
Piles of pennies placed in the poker pot
the fat kid Tommy brought was a sweet fish.
After four hands he was down
five bucks; they’d laid out all their slick tricks, he was no
wiser. Perched on a visqueen wrapped speaker
Lily peered over Fat Kid’s shoulder, a green card-shower.
Playoffs are on, screw the baby shower
You’re going, so grab the crock pot
Can I watch on my phone if I mute the speaker?
No, and besides the lil’ smokies, were bringing Swedish fish
Jimmy’s text me scores and you can’t say no
Fine, carry the stuff to the car and I’ll be right down
Tommy asked him to play and he was down
heard Lily might be there, made sure to shower.
Offered her his spot; she smirked out, “No.”
Pinched closed between-button gaps over his pot
belly. A tree house gamble, they used to play Go Fish
and whisper secret messages through tin can speakers.
Hushed crowd waits for the speaker
Lights in the room blink and go down
He thinks of dinner Saki and raw fish
Outside, it’s spring time and a brief shower
Crowd agrees, the country is going to pot
Room full of the party of No.
Fat Kid tried to chat her up, she pulled no
punches. He should play and pay, not speak;
he could flush the swing set days down the pot.
Fat Kid clammed up, kept his head down
what a wuss, this was no baby shower.
She had to scram and go fry other fish.
No one has written down all the stories. The world needs
Needs a speaker who showers down truths
throws them all in a pot and fishes out beautiful lies
A bowl, water, bits of blue rock and a fish
Ma can I get a dog? No.
Now shut up and take a shower
Change dish dances on a speaker
Plate hits the wall, Turn that shit down!
Johnny sniffed his socks and smoked some pot
Piles of pennies placed in the poker pot
the fat kid Tommy brought was a sweet fish.
After four hands he was down
five bucks; they’d laid out all their slick tricks, he was no
wiser. Perched on a visqueen wrapped speaker
Lily peered over Fat Kid’s shoulder, a green card-shower.
Playoffs are on, screw the baby shower
You’re going, so grab the crock pot
Can I watch on my phone if I mute the speaker?
No, and besides the lil’ smokies, were bringing Swedish fish
Jimmy’s text me scores and you can’t say no
Fine, carry the stuff to the car and I’ll be right down
Tommy asked him to play and he was down
heard Lily might be there, made sure to shower.
Offered her his spot; she smirked out, “No.”
Pinched closed between-button gaps over his pot
belly. A tree house gamble, they used to play Go Fish
and whisper secret messages through tin can speakers.
Hushed crowd waits for the speaker
Lights in the room blink and go down
He thinks of dinner Saki and raw fish
Outside, it’s spring time and a brief shower
Crowd agrees, the country is going to pot
Room full of the party of No.
Fat Kid tried to chat her up, she pulled no
punches. He should play and pay, not speak;
he could flush the swing set days down the pot.
Fat Kid clammed up, kept his head down
what a wuss, this was no baby shower.
She had to scram and go fry other fish.
No one has written down all the stories. The world needs
Needs a speaker who showers down truths
throws them all in a pot and fishes out beautiful lies
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Sestina
Collaboration with Aytch Rae
At the grease-streaked table, he eyed her over his waffle.
The Jack & strobes had masked her chipped front tooth
now illuminated in the 3 a.m. diner; a post- "Happy Trails" trip.
Her bar-bubbly conversation turned to croaking short and stout
vapors, like a teapot trapped bullfrog. Bus boy punk
smirked at them while hauling syrup smeared dishes to the sink.
She has taken the time to watch her ambitions sink,
so she picks up married men. Enjoys watching them waffle.
Knows the teachers are right when they call her son a punk.
Bored, she eyes the man with the dead gray tooth.
Her eyes reel him, he comes over with a pint of stout.
She sighs. Middle aged middle management on business trip.
The couple at table five was such a trip.
Bussing nervous curls of napkin he saw them sink,
pressed deep into the Naugahyde by stout
pre-regrets. He imagines them later with waffle
marks of cheap pillowcases on their faces, fine-tooth
combing their guilt. Cupid is such a punk.
Things to forget, how he got to prison. Prison. The nightly punking.
He despises the loneliness of his life, the twisted pain filled trip.
It all started when his mother forgot the quarter for his first lost tooth
Clenched jaw silent he returns to the syrup stuck plates filling the sink
Angered by prowling cougars passing him by. He nibbles half eaten waffle
Thinks back to childhood, like Jack Sprat, he would take a wife that's stout.
Chaired in judgement at the front door, stout
bat across his knees, he waits. Even Mom believes he's a punk.
She's out again and he won't let her waffle
if just once she'd stuck around...well, this is her last trip.
His turn to choke up, and feel the slugger sink
in flesh and blood. He'll fight her nail and tooth.
Bits of bone and broken tooth
Wizened weathered witch bent and stout
Feral claws into his flesh begin to sink
Her embered eyes smolder like lit punk.
His mind trapped and tricked, deadly acid trip
Hunger haunted he finishes and feeds on chicken and waffles.
Long-toothed Cupid, tired of being love's punk
tosses sagging diaper and stout bow. He's sick of the trip.
Pours idealism down the sink, heads to Denny's for a midnight waffle.
At the grease-streaked table, he eyed her over his waffle.
The Jack & strobes had masked her chipped front tooth
now illuminated in the 3 a.m. diner; a post- "Happy Trails" trip.
Her bar-bubbly conversation turned to croaking short and stout
vapors, like a teapot trapped bullfrog. Bus boy punk
smirked at them while hauling syrup smeared dishes to the sink.
She has taken the time to watch her ambitions sink,
so she picks up married men. Enjoys watching them waffle.
Knows the teachers are right when they call her son a punk.
Bored, she eyes the man with the dead gray tooth.
Her eyes reel him, he comes over with a pint of stout.
She sighs. Middle aged middle management on business trip.
The couple at table five was such a trip.
Bussing nervous curls of napkin he saw them sink,
pressed deep into the Naugahyde by stout
pre-regrets. He imagines them later with waffle
marks of cheap pillowcases on their faces, fine-tooth
combing their guilt. Cupid is such a punk.
Things to forget, how he got to prison. Prison. The nightly punking.
He despises the loneliness of his life, the twisted pain filled trip.
It all started when his mother forgot the quarter for his first lost tooth
Clenched jaw silent he returns to the syrup stuck plates filling the sink
Angered by prowling cougars passing him by. He nibbles half eaten waffle
Thinks back to childhood, like Jack Sprat, he would take a wife that's stout.
Chaired in judgement at the front door, stout
bat across his knees, he waits. Even Mom believes he's a punk.
She's out again and he won't let her waffle
if just once she'd stuck around...well, this is her last trip.
His turn to choke up, and feel the slugger sink
in flesh and blood. He'll fight her nail and tooth.
Bits of bone and broken tooth
Wizened weathered witch bent and stout
Feral claws into his flesh begin to sink
Her embered eyes smolder like lit punk.
His mind trapped and tricked, deadly acid trip
Hunger haunted he finishes and feeds on chicken and waffles.
Long-toothed Cupid, tired of being love's punk
tosses sagging diaper and stout bow. He's sick of the trip.
Pours idealism down the sink, heads to Denny's for a midnight waffle.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
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