I was supposed to walk
this earth and make
a change, but I didn’t,
and I still walk just
the same.

These plump tear ducts
are ripe for picking.
The fields are dry and
ready to combust into
another weekly fireside
sweeper of moral.

But I must be a father
to my crestfallen anchor
and usher in the streets
of baby lying long,
watching the teeth cut
and sculpt that *** into
new laws and lands.

You cannot carry dead weight
over chipper sidewalks
with the expectancy of waves,
without song and stress
lifting and pulling
shoulders up into the
grinding mountains face,

kissing it's cheek for the
assurance it needs to hold
the flaming skies up for
us all here, water starved
and ready for transitioning
into the painful parent
ritual of children treading
w a t e r .

~Jeremy Szuder

In the back of one's mind
right in front of these eyes,
horse blinders to the left
and to my right.
It’s 2 a.m. every 10 seconds
of my life.

Sitting always on this chair,
my neck snapping forwards to backwards
so violently, and whipping
me back awake again.
The waiting for that bolt of lightening,
the jolt of thunder to quake me
out of my slippers goes on.

2 a.m. and still waiting
for the magical words,
or just giving up and saturating
my already soggy cranium
with another **** show sitcom,
all for the payoff
of another lonely hour
burned to a crisp.

My wife bought me
a boomerang airplane pillow
to wrap like a comfortable friendly noose
around my planter head and in it,
I am a sitting duck.

I nod away in 10 second increments,
my dreams lovingly groomed and
coaxed into submission.
But I fight the sleep.

The struggle is real.
I want my last waking hour
to be glorious, to send myself down
with my creative endeavors left
dancing in the dark,
parading their proud feathers
like peacocks do when they flaunt themselves
across the gardens and driveways
of Arcadian delight.

I want to awaken with something
that bears the singed markings of the
creative spark.
To know I hit it before I quit it,
night after night,
early into the morning hours.

-Jeremy Szuder

The summertime had come with
the most indecent proposal I had
ever been offered,
when it killed all the fish
in our little tank.

It came with long days of heat
and short nights not much colder.

There were days off
but no vacations.

There would be a fist fight
or two in the local towns libraries
instead of quietness.

I had not waited very long before
hammers struck pavement
and cars kissed each other at full speeds
across suburban roads.

Everyone seemed to work alongside
that one guy who fed his ego
with salted peanuts that were
more salt than nut.

Yes, all of these things, and then some!

And to hell with all the dogs
and their days, they’ve had them.
I wanted mine for once.

The summertime snuck its’
robust fingers into my mouth
and coated my tongue with CBD oil
as all the girls began to laugh at me,

dumping golden dead fish
into my toilet bowl and flushing
them away.