Me and Baby
pull into a
convenience store
with a sign
hawking
fountain drinks
and Chicken
"Love me"
tenders.
I am pumping
gas when a
drop-top Camaro
pulls in and
a golden-skinned
pretty boy
with jewelry,
long hair and a beard
jumps out
and floats
to the entrance
smart phone in
his whistling
hands.
The pump kicks
off and me and
baby and
the beardo are
all back inside
our cars.
Jesus Christ
in a convertable I say.
No George Harrison.
Too gawdy,
I say,
George wouldn't
be caught dead
in a car like
that.
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Friday, April 10, 2015
Second-hand Sheep
In the footpad's hour
between discount tricks
and newspapers tossed,
I am troubled
at the ghost of you.
Memories of when
I fooled myself.
All other time is lost.
In these hours
of utter abandon,
of madness
and indecision-
I live every moment
again and again
counting seconds
as sheep
and passing out drunk
as sleep.
between discount tricks
and newspapers tossed,
I am troubled
at the ghost of you.
Memories of when
I fooled myself.
All other time is lost.
In these hours
of utter abandon,
of madness
and indecision-
I live every moment
again and again
counting seconds
as sheep
and passing out drunk
as sleep.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Poetry Saves
Donnie killed Verless
and I
call Stick
True Blue.
I don't know
if he can
DO IT
without the booze,
" Ethan wept."
but I'll kill myself
on the Cross
of Creek and Coke
and rise again
before I'm done.
For you.
and I
call Stick
True Blue.
I don't know
if he can
DO IT
without the booze,
" Ethan wept."
but I'll kill myself
on the Cross
of Creek and Coke
and rise again
before I'm done.
For you.
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