Unwilling to verify whether or not
the experiment's been performed
since science has been bastardized
and the Internet's been hijacked
I'd wager what's left
of a poorly squandered soul
that if most indoor houseplants
were only watered when it rains
the majority would survive.
The laws of mortality
transcend manmade labels
of flora and fauna:
We get what we need
on a schedule outside
our control.
I bet Bukowski was better in bed
and Hemingway was more fun at the bar.
I'd kill to converse like Vonnegut
and speak of the dead like McCarthy
all while laughing in the face
of Satan a la King.
Here's to having heroes
in a jaded age of frauds.
I, [state your name],
was nothing
short of mortified
by the wasteful void
at the bottom
right corner
of p. 62
in November's
tidal issue.
I clipped the poems
apart with scissors
that cut me once
and rearranged
them in five ways
that preserved space
for an even longer
spilling of one's guts
than the one-ninth
of a page
which your design team
deemed unfit
for local souls
to purge.
I'm keeping this plea
short and unsweet
for the sake of brevity
in the hopes
that it takes up less space
in your Trash email folder
since it won't adorn
your publication
but please
for the sake of those
who need this catharsis
and validation
in order to survive
keep this in mind
when laying out
what's more than words.
Sincerely,
Everyone Who's Bled on Your Pages
This is the first time
I'm saying this
but I know
that I'm dying.
My hair's falling out
in clumps
fistfuls in the shower;
the blame I used to shift.
My time here's fleeting
like a pre-coffee glance
at gas station boner pills
glistening in dusty plastic
on the foreign clerk's counter
between his calls to home.
Several times a day
I reach to place items
on a table that's no longer there;
a precursor to a tasty oblivion
obnoxious in the present.
The box fan in the window's
not blowing the smoke out
fast enough
against a whipping wind
that's left from this hurricane.
Even the smell
of my father's basement:
smoke and must
and wood from the '30s
can't comfort me any more;
a lease signed
away from me
that won't be broken.
How could you?
A sailor to some
a cowboy to few
recalcitrant misfit to most;
here is the lie
I told:
We're all dying
some slower
and more blessed
than others.
We count our days left
on calendars
fingers and toes.
Currently reading:
"Bagombo Snuff Box" by Kurt Vonnegut.
Teach me to poach an egg.
I'll teach you to poach a heart.
We'll teach each other many things
we've failed to learn so far.
I haven't gotten cleaner
from scrubbing with your soap
but it's one less sad reminder
as I struggle here to cope.
I had to buy new sheets
to replace the ones you took.
I wish you'd taken more things.
I'd rather sleep than look.
You wrote me one that rhymes.
I need the ones that don't.
It's another reason why
you're right. We shouldn't; won't.
"I see that you didn't
shave today
to fit into
your character."
When I was a kid
my old man was asked
to play the Penitent Thief
hanging on one
of three makeshift crosses
in the Crucifixion Christmas play
put on by our church
in downtown Newburgh.
The role of Christ
had been reserved
predictably
for the pastor
but I sometimes ask
its writer, Luke
what if it hadn't?
Messiahs run
in our blood.
"Lady, this beard
took a week."
Currently reading:
"Dreams of the Astronaut" by Boom Boom Shapiro.
