Did your mother lick you into shape
before you got drunk as a moose?
fairy legless
Ceasar threw you into the Colosseum
you kicked every which way that you might
frothing at the mouth for a fight
because everyone is a lion
a liar
on the prowl
my little cub bear
it’s the pride that eats ya
spilling your guts is no way to hide
Poetry
May as well
All this depletion
the dirt and debris of our ill-gotten gains
pulling punches
makes me think
we may as well just fuck
I want the rest of my beard back.
I trimmed my beard today
it came as quite a shock
for I had forgot
just how short
even the longest length
it will trim too!
And boy, does my face feel naked now
Poetry off the cuff: Ripples
We threw ripples on the lake
skimming stones
a reflection
how we crest and flow
a surge before the fold
a rush before the pull
a swell and then a break
all these mistakes
and successes we take
a slowing of the pace
before rushing up again
Poetry off the cuff: It was a blast
It was a blast
chasing the highs
careening around corners
watching the damselfly’s ride our slipstreams
Little beetles, hitchhikers on our shoulders
each riding on the energy of each other
Poetry off the cuff: We forgot the sun returns to us, eventually.
The red glow of cigarettes Marked the sunrise
the sun pulled up last night’s rain Into a mist
we tried to mimic the weeds
the way they swayed to the breeze yet held strong
Rooted to place.
Then came the arrival of goodbyes
among the songbirds
singing greetings.
we had whiled away the hours
till we had no skin in this play
bored and hollowed from each other
We could never be like the weeds
we chased the sun too much Instead of sitting in place.
Poetry off the cuff: A Snippet of time
The birds perched on the powerlines
little musical notes
People sped by in their exoskeletal suits
hands-on wheels and eyes on their pursuits
Weeds grew toward the sun
only opening when the rays would meet them
A man sped by with a mower
and the flowers bled pollen
The birds sang songs of blood and sex
a territorial language penetrating the sky
Traffic lights glowed red
as did the embers of time
Another sunset
before the next sunrise
Poetry off the cuff: The Grind
I always watch their teeth the news anchors, standing beside a ruin and wonder what they last bit into as the TV screen eats me up into the bad news that grinds my brain to mush
Poetry off the cuff: A self-portrait
I like to write short
and to the point
come to think of it
that makes my writing a mirror image
of my short-arsed self.
Poetry off the cuff: Three things are certain in this life; Death, taxes and anxieties.
Death will blow my breath away
one day
Sooner than most
so they say
But
Perhaps a fascist takeover
will kill me
‘fore my heart wins out
and pulls me to the ground
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