~~~
threw out bottles and bottles
of aged liquor mixes and
some liquor too old
for brain risk taking,
tonic water that could
no longer tonic,
margarita mix that might
mix a stomach story poorly,
spirits that had seen better days,
cranky and worse,
twenty plus such characters
from bottom shelf pulled
all well gray coated covered,
in twenty plus dusty seasons' complainings...
clanked and clanged the plastique bag
of liquid trash to the curb,
perhaps purposely others to awaken,
perhaps the thought occurred,
that no minute or opportunity must go underutilized,
unlike my glassy expired companions,
in happy contemplation
contemplated,
"whatever will the neighbor's think?"
****, those party animals
didn't invite us!
~
you're never too young to forget
where you left
those critical external ****** appurtenances,
the jangly, yet magically disappearing
into a stony metaled silence when needed,
bunch of keys,
so mission critical to
the sweet savory of
our lives' mission
but!
you think you should write
you're never too old
but that would be stale bread,
old news, insufficiently poem-worthy,
coated in stale peanut butter and jelly
no, young
is written tight and right,
for in the days of selfies and tinder,
'tis the season of
easily committing grievous
social personal errors
that it almost criminal,
forgetting those keys
and their locking companion's,
who also serve us
daily, dually
unlocking our hearts
open wide
to all things
kind and wonderful,
love long lasting
yet to intently lock us up,
safe secure from
those that who would predate
their own young,
or noise suppress your own best songs
so don't casual place those keys,
in the bowl by the door,
key kept close upon thy person,
for though they may be
pointy pocket causing misery originals,
keep them forever handy
for they are thy keeper of thy sources,
the third hand that
opens up the treasures of
thyself
~
twelve princes had I,
from the sun king's corona
they were born and derived,
with a "hop" and skip
from Mexico,
they, conquistadores came north quick,
seeking the salutations and praise
of our eastern middle states'
summer breezy kisses
I met then at George's
our island supermarket,
to which they came seeking shelter
our island so small,
that all purveyors,
homes too,
are shtetl nominated by
each owner's name,
even if the first to inhabit,
though long from the island rabbited,
so they are deeded and recorded
one prince, the bravest spoke,
"Let me be the first
and thru my neck,
you poetic thirst to quench"
and as I tippled the long necked Corona
beer
**into the overheated imagination
of my amplifying belly
their parental sun did whisper,
"**** good thing
there are eleven more!'