"jailbirds" poems
BOTH were jailbirds; no speechmakers at all; speaking best with one foot on a brass rail; a beer glass in the left hand and the right hand employed for gestures.
And both were lights snuffed out ... no warning ... no lingering:
Who knew the hearts of these boozefighters?
1.1k
The slow, smooth, slick of ice
Runs down cold iron bars
Snapping cackling dry grass
Crunching under every step
Loosing momentum, shedding its vice
Freezing wet my fingertips
Electric cold, my fingers slip
Down the bar of ice
To meet the maker of its own device
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
What passion-
What love-
that turns this cold heart
to flesh.
I am yours
You are mine
Forever we are one
enslaved,
entrapped,
together we become
in love
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
wardens trying to catch the running thoughts… here and there, snakes become ladders.
jailbirds of a different kind, pink and yellow trunks, see-through vests. they're way too many, they can't be numbered.
parole impossible, behaviour mad… drinking spirits and each other, in equal parts. pink dogs with zebra tails, fetching make-believe bones lost amidst psychedelic sunflowers.
thoughts helter skelter, in the tiny vastness, where only grey matters. bright flashes creep in at the bat of an eye, the hazy images of the outside world.
'em wardens are back, logic loaded in their guns. six rounds, a million too few… but now the dogs found something to chew!
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
There are jailbirds who dig holes
to secure an escape
There are gardeners who shape holes
to plant a treescape
There are pirates that make holes
to bury a chest
There are gravediggers who fill holes
to lay souls to rest
There are thieves that drive holes
into banks kept shut
just like lovers (like you)
that leave a hole in my heart
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 9:50 PM UTC
Alone,
in the prison
that is my mind.
The jailbirds’ whispers
raise all the hairs on
my skin.
“Give up”
“You’ll never be good enough”
“Just end your
pathetic
miserable
life”
I cannot take
this torture
anymore.
So, I killed the jailbirds
Before they could **** me
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
As a man
Working with your hands is the most rewarding feeling one can know
I enjoyed building fences with the crackheads
Tearing the door frames off of a worn down trailer home in the boonies
Even washing dishes with the Mexicans and reformed jailbirds
I took my pitiful wages with pride because they were earned through these hands
The frats—effeminate men—and women never seemed to understand
Everyone says to do what makes you happy until what makes you happy doesn’t afford you a Bentley
Then all of a sudden
You
Aren’t
Doing
****
Your ambition is called into question
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC