it's no good,
no good,
no good.
No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.
then kills.
It's no good.
No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.
No good.
Definitely not a monday morning thought:
A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
shit-smelling ****
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.
It's no good for that time.
It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.
Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.
When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.
You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.
Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.
you and her.
It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.
It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.
It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.
It's good for clarity,
it maintains.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
it's no good,
no good,
no good.
No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.
then kills.
It's no good.
No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.
No good.
Definitely not a monday morning thought:
A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
shit-smelling ****
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.
It's no good for that time.
It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.
Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.
When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.
You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.
Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.
you and her.
It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.
It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.
It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.
It's good for clarity,
it maintains.
Request permission to use this poem