If I could
write
in the hand of
Baudelaire, the
beautiful Alexandra
might
love me.
If I could
even pretend
to pen an
ode
then I would
write one
for the passing
away of
a creaking
wooden bridge
named Bono.
A real bridge
not the U2 guy.
If the sun
keeps on
shining,
I may write
a poem and
clear my head.
If I could
think clear
even for a moment
I would know
I needed
another drink,
with a little ice.
Same blog: third name- I can't help myself. Same kind of stuff; a little poetry, a little prose, a little drunkalogue. Some adult themes, and language. Good Times.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Anymore
I was in rehab
with this Bama
chick once,
not the one
I married.
She cried
great tears
while she prayed
I remember
believing she
could have
washed Christ's
feet.
Her old man
had shot her,
twelve gauge,
long time ago.
She remembered
that
he cried for her,
offered her
a smoke.
She killed him later.
Run off from rehab
with a dare devil guy,
rode motorcycles,
I heard he
beat her ass.
I don't believe
in as much
anymore.
with this Bama
chick once,
not the one
I married.
She cried
great tears
while she prayed
I remember
believing she
could have
washed Christ's
feet.
Her old man
had shot her,
twelve gauge,
long time ago.
She remembered
that
he cried for her,
offered her
a smoke.
She killed him later.
Run off from rehab
with a dare devil guy,
rode motorcycles,
I heard he
beat her ass.
I don't believe
in as much
anymore.
A Rollie Upon Waking
That morning
sitting up
in a never-made
bed, and
rolling a cigarette-
its ends
unkempt with
brown-golden
tobacco
and loose bits
all in his lap-
he thought
of her.
He no longer
gave
a damn.
He thought that
ends of his
rollie looked
like an old man
like him
with hair growing
from his ears,
he thought
of her
and wrote
a poem
because
he no longer
gave
a damn.
sitting up
in a never-made
bed, and
rolling a cigarette-
its ends
unkempt with
brown-golden
tobacco
and loose bits
all in his lap-
he thought
of her.
He no longer
gave
a damn.
He thought that
ends of his
rollie looked
like an old man
like him
with hair growing
from his ears,
he thought
of her
and wrote
a poem
because
he no longer
gave
a damn.
T.V. Dinners with Dad
When
I was a kid
my dad
would
sometimes look
over at me
and say
Point the antennae at Memphis,
and I would
go outside and
wonder
which way Memphis was,
and I would
twist
the aluminum pole.
After a moment
he would shout,
Okay
and I would
come back in
and watch T.V.
with him,
enjoying
my Salisbury steak.
I was a kid
my dad
would
sometimes look
over at me
and say
Point the antennae at Memphis,
and I would
go outside and
wonder
which way Memphis was,
and I would
twist
the aluminum pole.
After a moment
he would shout,
Okay
and I would
come back in
and watch T.V.
with him,
enjoying
my Salisbury steak.
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