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lore

just a man

drag off a cigarette smirk

a walking shell game

snake in a can

so backwards in life

one questions

reports of his death

yet

he would crookedly smile

calling it

legend

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Old Sketches

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Ha!! Me, too…

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no demons may cross my cumberland gap

you can’t get from her desert south west to kentucky

the archway of plenary indulgence is not her path

demons choked on fear and comeuppance lose their way

oh ye of little faith

was there ever any doubt

Jesus was from Elyria

that Ostara was from Kentucky

and that Lazarus was from Newark, NJ

but he got stuck in traffic for 10 years

on the high roads of rt. 80

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ATM

They

will sell you

candy cigarettes,

insulin,

Camel Wides,

chemotherapy,

God,

nicotine patches,

life insurance,

and a bronze casket

all

in one lifetime.

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you can’t get there from here

happy Father’s Day, dad

you were

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master class

i suppose you could say

i’m one of those people

who has seen more than their

fair share of things

you will certainly find

me adept

in a broad range of topics

from culinary techniques

to obscure music

embalming

comic books

addictive substances

and

lesser know shitty diners

of the northeast

some of it owed to college

and my need

to join the rat race too soon

mostly it was my proclivities

my insistence on taking

a master class

in dating old fucks

what an education

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embracing needles

age has
inoculated me
to human charm
genuine and feigned
thank goodness

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struggling mites of the planet

standing in the shower

this morning

i saw a spider die fighting

against the current of water

and i thought to myself

i could write a few lines for that lost arachnid

his own rime of the ancient mariner

an ode to the minutiae

the miniscule struggling mites of the planet

but what’s the fucking point of flowery conjecture

regarding what does and doesn’t matter

i can’t save him with words

or write an appropriate memorial

nor can i save

a gassed syrian baby

or a woman standing

in the way of an exploding madman panel truck

the waning poet in me cries out for a god

who stood us up

who split with our luggage

who never checked in

at the hotel airport

yeah, i could write a poem

if i remembered

what a poet is

what’s more poetic

than a poet

who doesn’t

feel like a poet

anymore

 

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blow on it

we don’t need to talk
we speak to each other
in the steam rising from
our coffee cups