Writers are not my people
Writers are
not my people.
My people are
out there
on the street
making their
slow way
home on foot
from the
grocery store,
a plastic
bag with
looped handles
in each hand,
their feet
kicking up
the autumn leaves.
Author Archives: Klaus
writers are not my people
Filed under poems & short jabs
what’s no longer in
What’s No Longer In
I whip thru
yellow pads
like they’re
going
out of
style.
And they
are.
Filed under poems & short jabs
winter’s cold finger
Winter’s Cold Finger
Winter puts her
cold finger
to my
lips &
demands that
I prepare
to die.
I bat
my eyes
make outrageous
promises &
wait for
spring
Filed under poems & short jabs
windblown monkey
Windblown Monkey
I’m a
windblown monkey
on the cusp
of distemper.
I have an
opposable thumb
a pink tongue
& a
small pouch
full of pebbles;
a lease on
the outcome,
squandered youth
on a leash.
Bring it on,
let’s accomplish
the mission.
Whatever you
scrutinize will
spring up &
bite into
your throat.
Filed under poems & short jabs
what you believed in when you were young
What You Believed in When You Were Young
At least
when you
were young
you believed,
that’s the
way it
was back
then anyway,
a rebel
without a
cause sort
of belief,
not some
blanket abstraction,
you devoured
absorbed things
into your
flesh &
blood, like
your ’49
Ford convertible,
your slicked
back D.A.,
Chuck Berry
blasting over
the A.M.
radio as
you raced
over the
dark back
roads of
Connecticut,
fistfights
behind the
backstop over
some girl.
You were
sixteen,
didn’t read
books,
& you
& your
buddy Mert
tore up
the high
school soccer
field on
your Harleys
when they
threw you
out of
school.
Then you
went to
work in
the factories,
& on
Thursday nights
you’d wait
in the
parking lot
on your
Harleys
for the
Catholic girls
to come
out of
CYO.
It wasn’t
until years
later in
the army
when everything
you believed
in had
been dashed
to pieces
that you
found books.
You read
Camus’
The Stranger
cover to
cover on
your bunk
in the
barracks &
thought a
new door
was opening,
when in
fact the
only door
that mattered
was closing
softly behind you.
Filed under poems & short jabs
write thru the pain
Write Thru the Pain
This is
the brain
washing machine.
This is the
think tank.
This is
ground zero.
This is
ten below
zero,
naked in
the snow your
last words
frozen to
your lips
like
arctic pearls.
This is the
fish bowl
full of
quarters &
green slime.
This is the
whey of
things.
This is to
inform you
of your
rights.
This is
to prove
I can
write while they
yank out
my fingernails.
Filed under poems & short jabs
