"jailhouse" poems
•
You are a really good fisherman,
And I am just but a foolish fish,
*Preposterously bitten your hook,
With your bait of feigned love attached to it,*
Piercing it all the way to my heart,
Leaving me wounded with all of those prevaricates I've fell for,
But I don't know why,
I still love the feeling,
That you've been jumping in gladness,
That you've finally caught me,
Even though I was hardly breathing,
'Cause you've taken me away from the place,
That makes me breathe and gives me joy.
It somehow gives me relief,
Seeing the auspicious sun,
Brightly gleaming into my beautiful scales,
Not knowing it was just a start of a baleful Gehenna!
I should've known all along that it's just an entice!
But I am still blessed,
'Cause I have manage to escape,
While damaging and harming myself in the process,
From the jailhouse that you've locked me in.
From then on,
You've learned a lesson,
And use NET instead.
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
I'm a prisoner of love, in this unguarded cell,
The warden whistles my name you'd think it hell,
but she knows my case all too well,
Her piercing eyes as resolute as the Bastille,
Dodging Cupids arrows at will,
Across this broom is forever, I'm gone for a life long spell,
With Joy as my bars and happiness the rubber shower mats,
Blissful ecstasy is its escape deterrent traps,
I pass the time a whittling hearts and sharpening this rap.
See those chalk lines on the wall of my heart?
They record the memories of my days since the start,
Her smiles are more prized than jailhouse art.
At inspection and roll call in the morning,
The smirk under the cap then a whispering,
Keep careful watch on our "Prisoner Prince Charming",
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
( To the tune of Jailhouse Rock )
Party night came to the hp site
Singing and dancing till late at night
Friends dropping by said count us in
Man you shoulda seen them poets swing
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
They all got together in a flock
Rockin at the hp hop
Well I didn't know you played the saxophone
Frank Zappa Davis on the slide trombone
Along came Embers with a whole brass band
Man that thing was getting out of hand
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
We were rockin and we couldn't stop
Boppin at the hp hop
Music getting louder as the night wore on
Hands clap feet tap sing that song
Grab hold o' somethin just to play a tune
If you don't play the piano play the wooden spoon
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
We were givin it all we'd got
Boppin at the hp hop
Someone made a speech, said we're all friends here
We all shed a happy little single tear
Then she said oh for goodness sakes
I love everybody in the whole **** place
Let's rock
Everybody let's rock
Keep it up y'all don't stop
Boppin at the hp hop
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Rainbow cascades down the clouds
In all its colorful splendor, only to
Ingress in a land listless and gray.
The people watch in horror as color
Invades them, the contrast, repulsive.
The children scream and run to their
Mothers, pointing at such anomaly.
“Don’t look, my dears. Such filth your
Eyes must not witness.” A curious
Bystander inspects the rainbow and as he
Lay his hands on it, color makes its way
Up his arm, flushing out the pale visage.
His hair the color of earth, hazel eyes, and
Garments, a fiery crimson and tint of
Sunrise. Pandemonium erupts as the
Man of color stands before the crowds.
“Mom, why does he have color?”
“Keep your distance, my dear, he might
be dangerous.” The man of color walks
Down the street as people scurry away
In fear. “You! Hands up!” Commands a
Squad of armed officers and they proceed
To arrest him. Cuffed, he is taken to the
Town jailhouse and studied by a team of
Physicians. “How do you feel, Sir?”
“ I feel happier than I ever felt in years.”
The man of color surmised he was free,
But little did he know he was imprisoned
By the town. Marked. Stigmatized. Reviled.
A freak who lost it all for showing his true
Colors. Ostracized and alone, why live?
But one fateful day, the man of color found
Purpose, and discovered an ability to infuse
Color on any object he chose. It didn’t take long
For his house to burst with vibrant blues, reds,
Greens, and yellows. He hurried outside to
Breathe resplendent hues onto pallid flowers,
And took a step back, glowing with pride.
Onwards he dashed to town to impart color
On the bleak streets and its ashen inhabitants.
“Hold it right there, freak!" Yelled someone from
Behind. "I saw what you did, and I can’t let you
Pass.” A shot was heard and a bullet pierced
Through his sanguine heart. Falling to his knees,
The man of color kissed the ground and
Declared, “May color come to those who love,”
And breathed his last.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.
A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.
Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.
The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.
The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.
The guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Wakey Wakey, rise and shine
greet the morning with a smile
wide awake and feeling fine
dancing with this boy of mine.
Twisting on the kitchen floor
the monkey, the jive and many more,
the mashed potato, the hustle too
he follows my lead with a giggle or two.
There's a hound dog, a jailhouse, some blue suede shoes
as we Rave On with Buddy and Peggy Sue
Reet Petite makes an entrance and whips up the crowd
"Turn it up Daddy, I want this real loud!"
Then on to the Land of a Thousand Dances
even the dog's grinning wide as she prances
we take Three Steps to Heaven and meet Cathy's clown
then on to the next one, no time to sit down.
So I'll fry up the bacon as my little bug jitters
and poach us some eggs with some sweet 'tato fritters
as I sing of Lucille, Maggie may and Delilah,
then Shake Rattle and Roll to those Great ***** Of Fire.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
When I'm in a funk
I don't listen to punk
Only rock n roll
cures my soul
Can't help my foot tapping
and trying new moves
to the simple grooves
So c'mon everybody
you cats and chicks
don't let your hearts drop
Lets go to the hop
shake it all over
do the twist
the jailhouse rock
Rock around the clock
Rock n roll brings your smiles back
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
We headed south that night
Right down the highway towards our new life
Sunny Olde California here we come
Everyone wants to be in Cali
Me, I don't understand why
The sun's too hot
It's so crowded
Too many famous people
What's so great about California?
Why does everyone want so badly to move to Cali?
But now I understand why we left
Why we left our comfortably modern house in Vancouver
Vancouver had everything we needed
All the love and support we needed
Everything we needed was there in our small little town
But now we are moving to Sacramento
One thousand four hundred and thirty seven kilometers
Fourteen hours of driving
I finally understood why she did it all
She was taking us away from him
So he wouldn't hurt us anymore
When the court date came
We all had to testify
I wasn't sure what I was testifying against
But somehow I answered and answered til I broke down
After my endless crying
They gave up on me
I wasn't fit to testify she'd say
But I understand why
I was too young to understand but now I do
He came in all sunshine and lollipops
We all thought he was going to stay
Stay forever and never leave
He left in handcuffs and bruises
We never saw him again
Until my mother dragged us all down to the jailhouse
He was leaving...for good
The apologize really didn't matter to me
See I didn't understand, but now I do
I understand why everyone wants to be in Cali
You become like an ant
You are invisible
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Under the I-20 bridge
over the Chatta-
'hoochee suits me
fine as fishin' line
- I've been retried
and found
I ain't wanted
nothing but a winter coat -
my sweet mutt Woof
- an old six string Martin
and a 'frigerator carton
for sleeping in the winter wind
when the sun don't shine -
I don't have a bone to pick
- my fingers ain't quiet as quick
and nimble on a riff - my back is stiff
- but my voice is still whiskey
smooth and my words turn
water into thunderbird - wine
retried suits me just fine
- jailhouse jeans
and salvation army boots -
refried beans and cheap cheroots
- sitting on an old truck tire
around an open fire
I've been retried and trued
but I ain't yet retired -
somebody's got
to feed my dog -
sing some songs
- catch these fish
and start the fire -
drink a little *****
- 'neath the I-20 bridge
over the Chattahoochee
rivaaa····
r ~ 10/16/14
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I hope when we lie down together in one another’s arms
After staying up much too late,
You feel my rib cage underneath my skin,
Beneath your fingertips
As you rest your hands and cradle me in your arms.
When you feel the ridges of my bones,
I hope you’re reminded of the small parakeet
That sat inside a big cage where all day long
You heard her chirp and was reminded of my steady heartbeat.
Only did the chirps quiet when you reached your fingers through
The small openings; wanting to touch its feathers and feel
Them through your flesh.
Are you reminded of the way my heart seemed to stop
Whenever you moved your fingers over my scars?
I wonder if the wounds that have healed over
Remind you of a jailhouse that holds back the monsters
That lie within me.
If the white bars that hold the cage
Remind you of a prison cell where an inmate
Speaks quietly to himself late at night,
I hope you’re reminded of the parakeet and how
It fills the night with chirps, like the prisoner’s voice
Echoes through the cells as if he’s the only one who’s
Imprisoned.
And I hope my scars tell you that the monsters
Have been silenced
For the night.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ****** do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,god **** warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Memories
they are a dungeon
and I'm breaking chains
dragging my feet
blistered and worn
out of this jailhouse
into sunshine,
Look for me not
Let me dance
on clouds, with freedom
let my soul heal
look back? I shall never.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
On a Friday night while sipping Shiner beer.
We drank and danced and mingled and she told me she lived single,
In a small room at the Rustic Pioneer.
What started as a one night stand turned out to be a double;
I finally left on Monday about three.
If I stayed any longer I would have to face the trouble
Of a love affair that wasn’t meant to be.
On a trail not far behind me rode a lawman from Laredo,
With my picture on a poster and a price.
Dead or alive made no mind to the dead I’d left behind,
Who had died cheating at cards or playing dice.
I left her in Colorado; headed straight for South Dakota.
But I lied and said we’d meet in Santa Fe.
Should the trail lead him to her bed and he acted on what she said,
I’d gain several days sending him the wrong way.
But the bravest hearts are fools for love when fate has dealt the hand
And I headed back to Denver at full speed.
I returned there for the misses, who had won my heart with kisses,
Taking no heed of the danger in my deed.
Back in Denver I was taken by the lawman from Laredo.
But there is no hero in this tale of vice.
At a downtown bar in Denver the girl shot me from a barstool,
In her hand she held a poster with a price.
With a bullet in my shoulder, my gun never left the holster
And the lawman moved to quickly save my life.
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
At a jailhouse altar she became my wife.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Intending to escape the world
Like a convict from a jailhouse
Only for the penny strippers and corner tippers,
Professionals of the arousal.
How soon we are to arrive,
That we would rather leave.
Grass of multi-colored pigments
Sway cemented in my mind.
Yet, I do not disagree.
Imagination take me.
Whispering dove of pity
Flies to a land that is free.
I step outside of myself
And see the stringed bow pull back,
Watch the arrow fly through foggy air,
And land on an island
In the middle of unnamed lake.
She calls to me then, crying for
Her lover has left again.
Timing tears with labor
As he sharpens his dull saber.
He watched her as tears streamed down her face,
Wondering if any of it was even worth it anymore.
The dog barked as he drew himself a glass of water,
Looking into the water as the sun reflected in its downward motion.
Outside of myself and out of my mind.
Leaving the world to its own self behind.
A hacking wish covered in spittle and blood,
Love for some is just not enough.
And now, when he sees his reflection, he sees her.
Cracks of his face remind him of chipped high-ball glasses.
Swollen eyes reel re-runs of wine stained teeth.
His shallow cheeks of late-night love making.
There was never meant to be perfection.
Life is really just one big accident.
Or a coincidence, a mistake, or a miracle.
There was never meant to be perfection, honest.
Do you think I would lie to you?
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
East of the Equator on 1° 15' tropics is an old pirate isle
Irate willy-wavers are set to meet, I repeat, on Santosha
where, if you know it by its sanskrit, they might reconcile
Wishful leaders play symbolic. To us are none, but frenzy frolic.
Rudy doubles a pretty sight when smart cookie crumbles
to his knees. The apprentice, a fake gansta has capitulated to
Trump who's known to expostulate his lot of twitterati
oh, the wizard of sentences, cut the circuit and paparazzi.
Rocket man says read my lips, so Dotard threatens bigger drips
Both gaga over trigger hands, like-a-virgin on hot dozen buttons.
Ain’t it a saga, they goatherd each other on, so call in Dennis to
get us out of the funk. Just maybe, a remote chance, a fun slam-dunk!
The world awaits with bated breath, the immovable anchors to a
bad romance. We're stuck for answers to translate two gyrate minds,
singing hits a-capella under nuke umbrella. No tanning spray and
pray please or death-from-behind us all, the wrench of humankind.
At 34, Prince has just begun life, to see his people starving to die
At 71, ****** has a life doing what he does, while waiting to die
Chasms miles long, but cookie cutter share tall man phantasm
94 stories high towards disarming God in their own ego suites.
Gurkhas and gazetted city blocks, the people in uttered groans
All twitterpating over a hermit throne dancing to a jailhouse rock
Two bright like buttons, so zero sum bargains may cost an arm and
an earth - nuclear glutton! Not a far gains from your usual Target?
At St Regis in gather, string theories of riddles to Lord of the Rings
Towkays at the table “Order! Order!” no one absquatulates at all borders
In shambhala, will it be “Big and Bold” or “Beg and Hold”, who knows
Except Goldenhair, in first minute - Upside or Upset of an F1 ride!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
Well 5 missed calls.
Must be the 4 concrete walls.
Inside of a box in a box.
I know your bored.
You never thought of me this much before.
I know its hard and you are going through it.
I do my best
But you dont always believe it. You always think im doing wrong. When its you thats been gone so long. 5 missed calls now. Lets see what happens when you get out.
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 2:59 PM UTC
quite drunk in this evening tender with rue – there is a gentle hand
that whirls against the bougainvillea.
things remain to be constantly in the tranquil as I am not
yet shaken in my fragile frame –
the leaves rustle in the 19 degree cold moon,
the beer bottles emptied, stacked beside the receptacles.
she and I could be dead, and it took me 3 years to know this:
there is a photograph of her thrown somewhere
behind scraps of metal, caged there, like a jailbird
in a jailhouse, screaming blue against redness.
I had love, and love died.
you neither flinch nor move at the very slight of me,
passing over the porch of your reading.
the thing that once moved now festers
with stillness, and so many vibrant explosions begin in the sky
and there is nothing discernible in her abject eyes.
I remember driving past your home in front of
a little, quaint house and I swore that the even your voice
speaks to me in evenings full with the thought
of never knowing you again.
you are so real like the horse that grazes the field
underneath umbilicus of power-lines,
yet so fake and feigned like the truth that tries
to assess itself , crawling mazy back into my drunken arms
like a child startled speaking a thousand things
I have already no use for.
sometimes the sun is like a house on fire.
sometimes the simmer of onion smells like ******
most of the time, the look on my face, half-drunk and half-believing,
looks like a night distilled and fractured by voices.
I will never ask for your hands to touch,
I will never ask for you body to make heat,
I will never ask for your footsteps to chime in grave music:
I have my own defeats to keep me
that way: toppled and scrounging for light.
let me be.
I have seen many warfares and not a single shot of a rifle
has broken me into the man that I once was.
I drive back to you and it is never the same:
it is banal to say that you have yourself
and I have my own, deep in study.
let us drive back to roads whetted with kisses
and from there, start to disentangle
like leaves from boughs
deep in December.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Quicksand approaching with the clarity of a swinging jailhouse
It rocks under the Elvis moon like a hidden glued rubber soul
Wet not slippery, cause of the nosy sneakers that worked their way in
'You got a problem to fix',yelld mr. Smokey
Expect nothing is my advise
The Atlantic surfers got closer to riptide as if a nuclear campfire could be avoided
Some Silky Road diners just changed their *** to get ready for porcupine
Robot pencils drew it so fast
As the results were outstanding
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Life subliminal,more than criminal,a nasty travesty to be able to look and be unable to see,to speak without sound and yet to drown in the clamour,
where the glamorous party long into the night but the night longs for rest and who knows but the best that the best's not what we've got.
And the ***** who tramps through his haze gazing at stars locked in his jailhouse behind mental bars knows nothing of this,
his life is an out take,his bones wait for day break but the night knows best.
The glamorous and the glum,a mansion and a slum and for some life's a scream,for others it's a dream and for me it just seems that we're all being beamed,
subliminal messages.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
I wish you were my cellmate
In this secret jailhouse heart
Shackled wrists and captive soles
Our bond a metal spark
Of sharp steel keys
In sharp steel locks
That hide us from the air
The air dragged in through two great lungs
The gateway to this lair
We’d spend the days devising plans
For solace and escape
While secretly devising plans
Preserving this round shape
For there’s no jailbreak from ones frail heart
As small as it may be
This red hot blood flows swift and coiled
Sanguine cycle will not cease
Until my red hot pedigree
Flows free and unconfined
By walls of flesh and stark white bone
A mortal contract signed
The day we swim in freedom blood
The day we will return
To mingle true with dirt and roots
And end this prison term
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 7:21 PM UTC
Green glass bottle with sediment at the bottom. dregs ?.
Unshaven rumpled dude on the bus bench. Belly growling. Begs?.
Brown paper bag back pocket, salvation in a swig. shaky legs ?
Single light shining through the curtain two stories high.
Front door banging in the breeze wide open Why ?.
Jailhouse libation prune juice and such.
Can't stay out of system recidivist in the clutch.
Three hots and a cot the easy life calls.
Drinking gypsy wine and selling smokes.
Safe in the arms of the Law.
Gypsy wine will make you stagger
Then you take a fall.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
I saw him led across my BLACK AN D WHITE television screen in the rundown city of NEWARK huge shades covered his eyes like black bandages head skyward voice a dynamite musicial roar of sound as RAY CHARLES screamed I GOT A WOMAN WAY OVER TOWN THAT"S GOOD TO ME THAN JAMES BROWN in a shoulder cape danced did a split dropped to his knees and roared PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE and PAPA GOT A BRAND NEW BAG the DRIFTERS took the stage with UNDER THE BOARD WALK JACKIE WILSON ex boxer punched out the tune LONELY TEARDROPSwhile doing another split and throwing his coat or hankerchief to waiting screaming fans DION AND THE BELMONTS told about RUNAROUND SUE SMOKEY ROBINSON AND THE MIRACLES with his high falsetto touched the rafters with TEARS OF A CLOWN the TEMPTATIONS told everybody that would listen that PAPA WAS A ROLLING STONE and I WISH IT WOULD RAIN so that no one will see my teardrops when I go outside BROOK BENTON with his smooth baritone sang about A RAINY NIGHT IN GEOGIA and that ITS JUST A MATTER OF TIME and THE JAGUARS were careful on tiptoe because THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT ELVIS PRESSLEY wanted to know ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT and sang about THE JAILHOUSE ROCK and JERRY LEE LEWIS known as the killer on the stage beat beat the piano like a bad child with elbows feet hands letting us know about there is A WHOLE LOT OF SHAKING GOING ON we ain't faking there's a whole lot of shaking going on
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
He wished he’d been born tough
instead of already broken down in ways.
Raised by an English teacher;
he didn’t complain about it,
but sometimes wished
it was by a linebacker
or first baseman instead.
Jesus Christ, just look at him!
He was a yard across at the shoulders
yet a good shove would’ve
put him on his ***
He resented it sometimes;
especially considering the way
he was wired.
Like a pilot light
that’s always looking for a reason
to fire up all four burners
all at once.
Sometimes he wished
that he could fight his way out of a bar,
just once.
Spend the night on a jailhouse cot.
Go to the ER with a broken nose.
The adult in him knows that these are foolish thoughts.
He’s too old for that **** now,
pushing 40.
Sometimes he feels 25 and powerful.
Sometimes he feels geriatric and slow.
He likes himself better now than he did
10 years ago.
But, then wonders what could’ve been
and who he’d be if he’d been able
to draw his first breath just
15 minutes sooner.
In the end, he figures that
maybe he’d like himself less than he does
right now.
That’s the only thought
that saves him
now and then.
***
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC