lucky 13
31 but I see
the perfect representation
of what it means to free
that little boy caged
like a curse
relieved
in the back of a hearse
lucky 13, reversed
over time, it’s easy to see
at 31 years old
that boy was me
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5:51
the clock and sun
read 5:51
like an infant I stare
where breathing is none
combing my beard
for wisdom or some
alternate side
of 5:51, where now
it’s 5:52
peaches
An idea
fosters questions.
And questions
raise ideas.
Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,
in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.
Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions
not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there
waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,
grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day
it too, could devour our peaches.
fears of men
The fears of men
are as trivial as
children, picking children in gym,
they never change
they just get bigger.
My bad.
Confusion
with a thirst
of stale bitterness
is no reason
to poison someone’s
happiness.
My bad.
an open coffin.
There will always be poverty
and powerless men, who feel nothing
towards people just trying to exist.
Believe it or not it was a club to join,
Till 1955,
all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.
But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?
I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?
Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.
It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.
So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,
there must never be closed,
an open coffin.
A little wink to Kurt
Time to sink back
to the far side of the moon?
Nah, this soil will do.
So it goes.
honest fiction
Fill me with whiskey,
I’ll spill some truth.
Fill me with time and no one,
and I have filled pages with reason.
Reason enough to explain the lies
I tried to convince myself true.
My most honest fiction, in truth
is all that I can do.
you’re ugly?
If you
can be
comfortable
with you’re ugly,
you can be
everything
they said
you weren’t.
heroine and Burroughs
Watch your soul.
I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.
Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.
I am only human, I have no other excuse.
I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.
Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?
And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.
So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.
I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.
But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.
Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.
Words Of An Average White Male 