Posts for June 1, 2024 (page 3)

long clouds laid out
like panting dogs
upon the sky.

baking pavement,
swimming in the heat,
ready to burn paws.

sparse trees,
young and small and weak
and unrelentingly green.

I’m tailing the next car,
up to the next hill,
up to the rise,
up a speed table.

it’s a lonely kind of upwards
(they only let dead dogs into space)—
fast and wyrd and
utterly expected.

I imagine I can pull the car’s steering wheel
up, like a plane’s.

I’d fly into the gravitational blue
(like so many before me),
and leave a fluffy white tail:
daylight shooting star.

To seek perfection
in penning poems to share
is vain. Write on! Post!

How easily fairy lights and pitch fabric become stars strung in space.

Written on Epcot’s Spaceship Earth during a momentary delay that turned into an on-ride evacuation

These are the people of my town 
Up and down the streets 
All I can say about the people of my town 
Is man they can’t be beat

Mike he owns the hardware store
Bought it from his daddy 
His wife cuts hair across the street 
She’s friends with my aunt Patti 

The guy who likes to feed the cats 
Wants you to stop and talk
“There’s fifteen plus a new one 
hope no one calls the cops”

Old man Gill ain’t over the hill 
He walks ten miles a day 
Did you know he shot two hole in ones
When he was sixty eight 

Widow Jones is a pretty nice lady
Has the most beautiful daughter 
All I can say about her cooking 
Is she pours a good glass of water 

Bruce he wears an invisible suit 
Full of self righteous rage
Hates all people of this town 
Especially the blacks and gays

Dee is a gossip extraordinare
Really likes that money 
Drawn to the rectums of the rich
Like a fly that goes to honey

Larry has bar in the center of town 
Where my dog can get a drink 
And you’ll always see the millionaire
With owner of the roller rink 

If you really want to know what going on
It’s Brenda’s beauty shop 
Today it’s genealogy 
Of the girl with green crewcut

Michael’s living in his van 
He hasn’t been right since Pakistan 
Miss Martha in rain is walking her dog
Wearing her husband’s London Fog
The lady at the counter of the Stop n Go
Has beautiful smile and an angel’s glow
Firemen, policemen, bankers and thieves
Factory workers, packs of teens
Chicken in a bread pan picking out dough
Grab your partner and do se do
That’s my town 
Talkin bout my town 
Talkin bout my town 
Talkin bout my town 

They build their new homes from bombs
Burned brown bodies blown beyonder
USA printed proudly on hollow shells
We got bodies we can claim
We all should be ashamed

Tens of thousands cost cutting
police guns resold on American streets
Greed is the creed in the land of the freed
Bruised broken brown bodies bulleted buried

Youthful voices silenced 
with brute force
vanished futures
It seems like a theme
or a recurring dream

i feel
her
voice

they reset
my
soul

every
single
time

Living the dream
We all wish for it 
Hope for it
Long for it

The dream marriage
A life partner
A romantic, passionate lover
A best friend to dry your tears
And share your joys
But that’s why they call it a dream
Because you wake up
And your other half 
Is banging the neighbor
Down the street
And you’re left alone
No one to hear your cries
Or dry your solitary tears

The dream job
A fulfilling vocation
Using your talents
To their fullest potential
Money, prestige, pride
A comfortable living
A retirement for the future 
But that’s why they call it a dream
Because you wake up 
And you’re handed a pink slip
Bad economy, downsizing
Standing in the unemployment line
Waiting for a check
To keep the wolves at bay

The American dream
Life, liberty
The pursuit of happiness
Basic freedoms
Peace and harmony
But that’s why they call it a dream
Because you wake up 
To riots in the streets
The looting of human souls
Death and destruction 
And sheer emptiness

Living the dream 
We all wish for it
Hope for it
Long for it
And pray the dawn never comes

ate my omelette. 

getting drunker by the sec. 

philip told me to. 

lost my way
don’t even know where to put my thumb
background is foreground
and I’ll point out that the puzzle
pieces are on the floor under my bed
where so much weight has been lifted
this long time since it’s been empty
don’t think this is a lament
after 86 years pity holds zero’s place
and the age of kindness has kicked in

how can one be honest
when fictional lives have more merit
badges than us haphazardous characters
of real life?
Penelope wanted to know things
not the truth necessarily 
but the spirit of the time
the rebellions she thought novel
and instead found a worm hole
for which she had no patience 

bi love is spell checked to by love
ok then 
it is by love i have lived
and if you’re one who keeps count
only once has my love been flawed
(and that in the ignorance of youth)
it all seemed natural free funny
loose and never wrong
Can you say the same?