No poems, just an unsheathed thigh
All poem mongers
Write lies waiting for photos
of naked women
The mountain people
never cry for lost lovers
only foreclosures
Up here past the books
Something more than happiness
and less than women
In love, and the sunsets don’t satisfy anymore
Not even the smell of oak satisfies, in grandmother’s cabin, tucked in the mountains up and away from the sea level slaves. Up where the mountain people snatch young maidens, because they too, are curious of human women. At least that’s the song they sing in the oaken tavern, lonely men sing them and the songs don’t satisfy anymore. Give my love to the mountain people, because nothing is enough to satisfy down here with the slaves.
Old grandfather, you’ve run out of time
Old grandson, don’t tell sister, there was never much to begin with
And where I’m off to, don’t tell old sister, there is much less.
On Easter Sunday things were rising
Rising with them, the goldfish I buried in the backyard
Out of respect, and maybe guilt because the bowl had been small
Waterlogged and flesh still dripping it turned to me:
“He suffered and died for me and others have also died”
Boring fish with boring things to say,
rising to somewhere with the others
On Easter Sunday things were rising
Rising with them, the goldfish I buried in the backyard
Out of respect, and maybe guilt because the bowl had been small
Waterlogged and flesh still dripping it turned to me:
“He suffered and died for me and others have also died”
Boring fish with boring things to say,
rising to somewhere with the others
The curve of her side reminded him of a bond
he’d followed around late in the night
and taken advantage of when they weren’t looking
and made money.
Down in the hotel lobby
White collars dance with white women sirens
while the good bull runs outside
and the man in room 327 faces a startling predicament
The curve of her side reminded him of a bond
he’d followed around late in the night
and taken advantage of when they weren’t looking
and made money.
Down in the hotel lobby
White collars dance with white women sirens
while the good bull runs outside
and the man in room 327 faces a startling predicament
White collar poets
Howling like you always have
Nothing to write on
Jack Miller held his gun like he did his wife, nervously and without experience. Out on the patio looking to the distant factory, he wasn’t sure how the bossman held his gun, or his wife for that matter.
I think he had it in him, to a flimsy writer like me, Miller was the un-aborted war-child of E. Lee and one seductive grizzly bear. But he was scared, and a grey wolf howled in the night and he was damn scared. The grey wolf suffered from PTSD from the great wolf war, and Mr. Jack Miller went back inside.
Sleep is a sad thing
Jungle souls and jungle girls
And dead elephants
