Sunday is the day
your old ghosts,
demons,
and crushing failures
drop in
for a spot of tea.
Tag: chronology
Categories
the year 2015
failed
to
kill
me
Categories
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to spit or to swallow
the patience and wisdom
coming with age
are fast becoming
my favorite shoes to wear
.
as my own horseshit
and the shenanigans of others
become less excusable
with each passing day
every birthday candle wished upon and blown
.
there comes a point
when you’ve been told
you know better
.
repeated behaviors are either psychosis
or selfish forms of masturbation
such as the poets who write
their daily vengeance poem
scribbled in shit and crayon
on unsuspecting
psych ward facebook walls
.
god
grant me the serenity
to zip my lips when called for
.
to know when to spit
and when to swallow
.
but mostly
when to say
fuck off
dipshit
poetry
is the purest
form of journalism
in an age stripped
of its innocence
.
where the huddled masses
are reeling from the latest
upgraded Halliburton version
of the vietnam war
.
as children of the eighties
we wore throwback peace signs
waxed romantic for woodstock
and tie dyed everything
because we wanted in on the optimism
the blatant irreverence
we wanted a hit off their cause
.
now we have our own vietnam
and our children are craving
the eighties
laughably
a time we considered
a decade of decadence
coining the phrase greed is good
yet they view it as a simpler time
.
i suppose
that is the natural order of things
in an unnatural world
.
besides
in the eighties
we still had food
that would biodegrade
because it wasn’t
made from polymers
.
pete rose
didn’t break my town’s heart
’til 89
after having made it swell to heaven
in 84
.
don’t make direct contact with another human
don’t believe anything the government tells you is the truth
and don’t drink the water
as mr. murrow would say
ladies and gentlemen…
good night, and good luck
perhaps it is because
i hold no place in his daily life
in no way requisite
my long dark hair
his lack thereof
he says i give him goosebumps
he wants to buy me shoes
even though he knows i don’t need another pair
so
i will think of him each time i wear them
acceptance offered by warm bosom
sweet breathed mother sighs
his face nestled into my pale pink sweater
where tears wet dark skin
the allure of the old country
in the last season of life
i am nothing
but someone
he lost
so he brings me fruit too beautiful to eat
Categories
in 1994
i just explained
to my 17 year old son
who kurt and courtney were
and how
somehow
in 1994
that meant everything