Category Archives: poems & short jabs

thoughts over breakfast

Thoughts Over Breakfast

Side order
of bacon.


Black coffee.


Ruptured dreams
&
hash browns.


Pull the
trigger, don’t
stand there
with your
fingers crossed.


Of course
they’re watching,
that’s what
god gave
them
eyes for.


Of course
they’re plotting
a comeback.


Lay your
mirror down
make a
stand.


Trim sail
& float
in circles.


This will
confuse the
sharks &
the submarines,
leave you
time to
gaze at
stars &
plot a
new course.


Giants of
opportunity.


Trade-offs
& substitutes.


Tangled sheets
in the
pantry.


Hot cakes
on the
griddle.


Cheap-shot
assassinations.


Germs
in a
geriatric ward.


Snake oil
& –
what are
you doing
here in
the
first place?


Who let
you off
the
funny farm?


Who dressed
you up
like that?


Take off
those red
suspenders,
who cares
if your
pants
fall down?


Something has
to be
done this
can’t go
on forever.


Here’s your
chance to
get recognized.


Do a
quick change,
get presentable.

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little children

Little Children

Little children
can do
no harm;
it takes
a long
time to
teach them
that.

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the chiseled face of pure freedom

The Chiseled Face of Pure Freedom

Plagues &
plagiarism.


The fist-
in-a-
face slam
of a
marching band.


Backlash in
an alleyway,
full moon
over sycamores.


The chiseled
face of
pure freedom
in the
cosmic weave
of things.


Keep at
it long
enough &
they forget
how to
come
for you.


At this
rate soon
there’ll
be nothing
left
to be
sorry for.

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grammarian with a head full of voices

Grammarian with a Head Full of Voices

Sometimes he’d
write in
the third
person to
disguise himself
& other
times he’d
write in
the first
person to
protect someone
else &
now &
then when
the voices
in his
head were
unbearable
he’d
write in
the second
person plural.

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fragmented americana

Fragmented Americana

A car
with boom
box music
vibrating out
of it
& the
windshield wipers
working on
a sunny
day just
cruised by
the driver
well into
his 60s
bifocals
drooping mustache
close cropped
gray hair
clutching the
steering wheel
with both
hands his
face consumed
in misery.

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the night train to denver

The Night Train to Denver

It’s risky
business,
transporting
contraband from
my dreams
into the
waking world,
because the
waking world’s
not awake.


The waking
world is
out like
a light
& dreamless,
a pink
hum of
complacency.


Maybe you
see where
I’m coming
from,
maybe not.


Maybe you’re
my dreams’
contraband,
struggling to
escape
on a
thought wave.


My dreams
may be
nothing but
contraband,
something that
can be
smoked shot
up or
loaded into
a gun.


Does this
mean we can
no longer
sleep together?


Sing songs
& go hiking?


What questions
to ask
myself!


What sort
of answers
am I
waiting for?


What’s in
the brown
paper bag
that I
won’t let
go of?


I’m on
the night
train to
Denver &
I’ve locked
myself in
the uni-sex.

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