Stints

slouching,

staggered by the slightness of my sleep and

your stark fuckery.

so much so

I can’t even scrap together a shrewd sentence to

slay you in true poetic structure or

slander you sub-rosa in idioms

nor serve you with that same fucking nerve

you been struttin’ around with lately.

this is just a sad silhouette of a slant

you should take a stab at my notebook

it’s storming.

Ask me what it’s like to have myself so figured out*

As the song goes,

                       I wish I knew.

as well as I wish you knew

that being alone has been

both grim and yet so fucking

prophetic for me

 Have you been able to leash the hounds in your head yet?

Lately,

I find peace

underneath the route 78 overpass
Continue reading “Ask me what it’s like to have myself so figured out*”

Buddy Poppy

Colonel John McCrae penned it best

when he wrote “In Flanders Fields”

it was one of the most quoted war poems, ever

and

we try to remember all those lost in World War II

but mostly I remember you and

all the stories you told me

looking dapper in your Navy suit and

a sailors cap that surely made it through the first world war

not knowing the cap had a specific name

nor how lucky I was to be at our local Acme with you.

handing out paper poppies, violent red all the same

with a green wire stem that always bent

especially nice around tiny fingers

for an even smaller donation of anything

every penny was accounted for.

Every 11th of November

I give all the sharply dressed gentlemen

holding bouquets of radiant poppies

as many dollars as I can afford

trying my best not to cry and

collect as many as I can wrap around each of my adult fingers

Continue reading “Buddy Poppy”