"jockeys" poems
Yes, it's seemingly a nonsensical rhetorical question, but, for that precise reason, it will illustrate a lesson, if you so desire to tag along for this short session.
Per Wikipedia, "The horse (Equus ferus caballus) is one of two extant subspecies of Equus ferus. It is an odd-toed ungulate mammal belonging to the taxonomic family Equidae." Hmmm... I much prefer that the horse goes "Nay," eats hay, has a mane, and is ridden by cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, equestrians, knights, jockeys, conquistadors, Mongols, and all. Even better, just point a horse out or otherwise show a picture to a kid and they will never be mistaken again. Even the littlest ones will never be stumped when faced with a rhino, tiger, giraffe, camel, and such.
Admittedly, there is a worry that we could be fooled with that of a donkey or mule. How come no one has taken advantage of this?! What a scam to get us rich! "Duh doy," you say, cause we all know when we see a horse, so why would anyone try to trick us with an *** Well I ask you in turn, why does anyone try to trick us with good art versus bad, let alone art versus crap? How could anyone fall for that?!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
I sleep with my glasses,
so, I can see in my dreams
the moment you left me,
it's all part of the scene.
So, the jockeys, they need me.
I know they will bleed me.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
The buzzards and seagulls,
they know what you've done.
You said, come on boy,
let's go have some fun.
But that look in your eyes
was full of goodbyes
and now, I'm all but done.
I'm full of regrets
but, it's just one more bet.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
The clowns and the hookers
got nothing for me.
They took all my money,
oh boy can't you see?
There's just one more bet,
and I'm full of regrets.
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
Bukowski and Hopper
look down on me smiling.
They've been out to sea.
They've been past the islands.
I'm tired of running
and I'm tired of standing still.
Another pill won't do it
and it's time for me to go.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
You took all my money
on a day that was sunny
and you know them old clowns,
they really aren't funny.
So, I head to the track
to win it all back,
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
Aug 23, 2023
Aug 23, 2023 at 7:32 PM UTC
Hare Krishna's
In their Pickups
Depressed Comics
Down on their Luck
Teenage Girls
Screaming Meme's
****** Pinko's*
Leftward Leaning
Vincent Price
Flo and Eddie
Rodger Rabbit
Priscilla Presley
Nuns in Habits
Dwarf's in Ponchos
Deadbeat Dads
Munching Nachos
Right-Wing Nut Jobs
Trading Slogans
A few Hero's
Including Hogan
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Buddhist Monks
With Electric Banjos
Holding Signs Up
Of Marlon Brando
Taxi Cabs
Blaring Show Tunes
Pregnant Women
Down-loading Soon
Derby Jockeys
Flying Monkeys
Kool-Aidholics
Skittle Junkies
Bozo The Clown
Bumper Stickers
Psychedelic
Crazed Toad Lickers
Rhinestone Cowboys
In their Skivvies
Gothic Girls
Heebie Jeebies
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Blue Haired Granny's
In pink Moo Moos
Ballerina's In
Tattered Tutus
Mathematician's
Number Crunchers
Even have Some
Out to Lunchers
Model 50's
*Do *** Daddies*
One More Round Of
Flo and Eddie
People Sneaking
Across the Border
Lonely Fry Cooks
Taking Orders
A Few Wannabes
Not Saying Much
Will The Real Elvis
Please Stand Up
Are just a few of the sights that you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Thank you...Thank you very Much
Ladies and Gentlemen
Elvis...Has Left The Building
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
What could be worse
Than a garden
Full of gnomes and trolls?
Is it:
Lawn jockeys and yardells;
Chuck adjusting his carb every Sunday afternoon;
Bathtub ****** Marys beseaching us to love;
Metal flowers on outside garage walls;
Fish ponds with gills in the filter;
Red gravel flowerbeds with little white fences;
Cosmetic door knockers;
Swimming pools without diving boards;
Mirrors on fences;
Burning ******* in fire pits;
Backyard landfills;
Icicle lights;
Weedy neighbours and an east wind;
The screech of tires;
The thump of metal;
The sound of screaming;
The absence?
Yeah. Plenty could be worse.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
Captured
Kidnapped or
Paid
For children
Camel races are held
Using this kids as Jockeys
Ages below Ten
Since they weight light
They are given a shed or a tent
In the desert
Offers just biscuits
Because they won't gain weight
What actually they want for racing
Which will speedup the camel
No bed no pillow
Sleeping on the sand
No positive dreams
They even can't cry
If they do they will be beaten
On the other side
Camels are having
Swimming pools
A pediatrician
Good food
Nice place with
Good comforts
Why this difference?
What they say is
Kid cost 500 dollars
But camel costs Million dollars
Who can stop it
It is illegal to have a kid as jockey
But who cares the ****** rule
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
i am the controlled group
i expected interferon and
i got a saline injection
hepatitis c is the
monster
hiding under my skin
i've called for 300,000 favors
from faceless friends - IRC, IRBs, dietitians, physicians
to try to cheat the system
and to cheat the 4 horsemen
harbinging my own internal apocalypse
"If they don't give me anything,"
I began calmly to my wife;
"the scars on my guts will generate another
Chernobyl out of frustration;
out wanting to see my son graduate."
my white blood cell count is 3
and i will wreck this study
go to mexico
and buy as much real medicine
as i need to survive
rudely refusing the FDA's
50% miracle drug
the ingenious intravenous
sugar pill
i only have 3
white blood cells
circumventing valuable scientific knowledge
is not off the table
i will walk away in slow motion
after saving my liver from
hepatitis hellfire horse jockeys in lab coats
with the entirety of clinical research
burning behind me
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
I am in love with you sometimes
like when I am riding the bus
beneath luminous buildings stapled deep
into the polluted black of the sky
that sadistic monoliths so horribly scrape.
Then there are times when I want you dead.
I scream loud into my pillow
then press my ear to the cotton
but after my punches it is too scared to reply
so all I hear are the echoes of my scream.
You ought to be ashamed for what you've done.
I am a strong, resilient, independent young person
and you blank face, you liar,
you slaughterhouse chief...
You ought to be ashamed.
Does your heart beat like a racehorse
when the Jockeys come off?
Are you aroused when a man in a suit,
a business-man suit,
tosses the homeless a quarter?
Do you hope that it lands by their tattered, torn shoe heads up?
Do you think they just need a little luck?
If you do,
then I have a secret to tell you:
*You are the most flawless person I have ever seen,
and holding hands on the city bus scares the living **** out of me.*
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
riposte.
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 6:40 AM UTC
we took the long way
to Hadley and MacFadden, goin' about twenty-five in twenty-six ways...
twelve sheets to the wind at a cosmic chili banquet. we wove through the tambourines and headlights -
cruising through the pinch in the grid, on the Eastside. where Margret hustles feathers from very still pigeons, and Mosley, that little runt Mosley conquered Connie Haskel's Willow Tree in the backyard.
we were coming up on something special in our Hometown
but we were low on gas, and had just bought Beer.
this scenario was on repeat. night after night in the sultry debauch of a languid stroll in a couch rocket.
glaring at the skirts on Perkins and 5th, that eat seaweed and cough drops.
they're so hot you just wanna drive a better car.
we used to park -
at Todd's Mom's and walk to the Slaughtered Hog and order a rack O' ribs and drink moonshine, smokin' that **** and sitting next to ****** jockeys in jogging suits and headbands that say " i sweat profusely, when I want too. "
And Carmen What'sHerName? used to get our table 'cause i figured out the location of her section.
she would smile and bring pecan pie
and flash those eyes that said " i'm off in an hour " . we sang to Muzak - and
left our To-Go Boxes at the table; stumbling through the lot
fumbling for the keys to the TARDIS.
and thinking about Carmen.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
As we wander through the dunes rhythm,
The blistering sun jaunts across,
Exhibiting the elegance of the sanguine sands,
A ravishing roots of colours,
Whirling on the Sahara,
The beautiful blue skies,
Their true reflection,
With delight we trail from audaghust to the inlands,
In a waddling gait,
The heavy luggages on humps,
Are the loads of luxury bade by kumbi saleh,
The camels and jockeys pride themselves in it flamboyant environs,
And our thobes and keffiyeh makes merry,
In the breeze of sacred grove trees,
Mesmerizing the aesthetics of Arab architecture,
Treking through the routes of Tjilmasa to Tehrent,
In the comfort of the oases,
Replenishing our thirst and fatigue,
With benevolent breeze from palms and peaches,
Glancing at the magnificent mirages pearls,
We sight the atlas mountains,
And its Maghreb,
Caravan
A Poem Written By,
Historian E.Lexano
©March 8,2015
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
“Sweet Kiss” was the horse and Frank Hayes was his rider,
Both destined this day to gain fame.
Frank was a stable boy on his first stake horse;
The horse too was a novice, but game.
This pairing went off at 20-1, but was well worth the risk of a “fiver”.
Sweet Kiss won the race and the bettors were stunned
for his jockey fell off, a cadaver.
Frank suffered a heart attack on the last turn
and the horse was the only survivor.
Frank Hayes, undefeated, was interred in his silks.
“Sweet Kiss”, undefeated, retired.
Jockeys are short but have memories long-
None were willing to be her next rider.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
on a dark desert highway, hot fart-wind in my hair
with a warm smell of diarrheoa rising up through the air
I was scared of pant-crapping on that starry starry night
my belly heavy and my sphincter groaned in pain
I had to stop for a *****
there she stood in the doorway, the receptionist from hell,
and I was thinking to myself what a ******* smell,
then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
I rushed into the bathroom shrieking, hey,
I need to pump it out.
welcome to the hotel california;
such a lovely toilet;
be careful don't soil it
with an ill-timed **** splatter;
any time of year, it don't ******* matter.
now my bot is oozing brownly, it's got the mercedes bends;
I'd better wash it for the sake of her pretty boy friends
dancing in the courtyard, k-y jelly in their pockets,
some dancing in the **** some in their jockeys.
so I called up the waiter, please bring a bucket of wine;
he said: we haven't had such a ****** here since eighteen forty nine,
and then I got hold of this cute looking guy
who was a ******* great fairy
and he showed me his **** so hairy
probably laiden with a.i.d.s. ....
welcome to the hotel california;
such a lovely toilet;
be careful don't soil it
with an ill-timed **** splatter;
any time of year, it don't ******* matter.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Sport Alliteration.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Can you canoe white waters in a bucket ?
Slam dunk that punk for stealing your best car
Watch pool aces take it from your pocket ?
Or pretty perky jockeys riding last.
Tennis stars still have their cake and eat it.
Chess masters checked from mating much
this year.
Simple sailors question whether weather’s
clement ?
A runner’s been a runner from the start.
Notice now a notice board to board to notice?
TV covers the sport. Sport covers the TV.
I rest my case for alliteration Who really cares?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
December 2nd 2018. ~
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
She paces back and forth to strut her stuff.
And all the jockeys come running.
They all want to ride this beautiful horse.
But she wants nothing to do with them.
Some stay with her for a little while.
Her persistent fussing does the trick.
She is fastidious and will not settle.
A soon as another jockey leaves?
Five more arrive in hopes to get a ride.
She has only had one jockey to stay for some time.
And to farce, she will not abide.
She is going to wait for the jockey-
That see's more than just a pretty ride.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 11:57 PM UTC
When the night falls,
I am at my best.
I could topple from the sky for a saunter amongst the wingless owls arbitrarily.
Carrying my futile attempt on serving the sun with a contempt glance,
As I let my imagination run free like nine jockeys in one horse race.
When the night falls,
I am the captain of my own ship.
I could set my course straight to my hiding place without any further ado;
Where I'd sail to where dreams and phantasies collide until the clock strikes two.
But most importantly,
When the night falls, life isn't like crossing a palisade or walking through a horrible gale;
Life isn't like a perpetual movement of climbing up the rickety stairs or losing a bet to the middleman.
Life isn't as stilted as when I stood dead on the yawnful street or as boisterous as the crowds watching King Louis guillotined to death.
Because there is only peace.
The skies may be the blackest black; the air may be the emptiest space,
but none like the night
where I can sit and stare,
and watch as the moon and the stars
shine my way.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
The horse is chasing the jockey
Horse has a lotta moxy
Trots round like she is real foxy
Jockeys chase her down
his play gets old makes her frown
Turn of roles excites her soul
Riders line up but she cannot be found
Prize horse everyone thinks is trick
She runs when things get thick
Horses chase a finish line
Panting hard before the finish line
Wanting nothing more than to win the chase
Watch the smile grow on her face
As she chases that jockey down
Nudges with her nose and knocks him down
Wanting nothing more than to feel his hair
Wave and wander all over this mare~
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Survival
Strung out and pressed
Horse **** force fed
Crowds putting jockeys
on pedestals
Slit wrist attention
for the edible icon
No better view
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
stubborn stoic functionally drunk
my Papa embodied all three
his military hands were
hard & he trapped us
in these vices. “pretty please”
we’d scream, adding sugar on top
was the path to freedom
Beatlebomb
was the horses name, we were jockeys
bouncing up & down on his knee.
Beatlebomb never lost, but Bourbon bread
an early retirement
Once
Jim Beam pushed Papa…plow! Ol’
Beatlebomb brusied and feeble
fell short. Like the liquor, Papa
puddled the floor.
quit boozing!
Pretty please-sugar on top.
his hand harassed the bottle
“maybe later”
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.
The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.
Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
The blue eagle and the demon of the steppes
in the last cab in Berlin
Legitimate defence
of lost souls
the red mill at the beggars' school
awaits the poor student
With the housemaid Know huntsmen how to hunt on pay-day
Know huntsmen how to hunt
as papa speculates
with the smile
By the dagger the dagger the dagger
the tiger of the seas dreams of happiness
Avenged
The vestal ****** of the Ganges cries out Vanity
when the flesh succumbs
Stop look and listen
the famous turkey spends a day of pleasure
turning round in an enchanted circle
with the pluck of a lion
M'sieur the major
My Paris
my uncle from America
my heart and my legs
slaves of beauty
admire the conquests of Nora
while someone asks for a typewriter
for the black pirate
It is not possible
that a woman dressed as the Merry Widow
could become the wind's prey
because the millionairess Madame Sans-Gene
leads a wild existence
in another's skin
Her son was right
Patrol-leader 129 who wears an Italian straw-hat
and is the ace of jockeys
is abandoning a little adventuress
for a woman
It is the April-Moon which chases the buffalo
to Notre-Dame of Paris
Oh what a bore the indomitable man
with clear eyes
wishes to judge him by the law of the desert
but the lovers with children's souls have gone away
Ah what a lovely voyage
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/The-Staircase-With-A-Hundred-Steps#sthash.Ty7mN87W.dpuf
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again.
And walking on the wild side.
I fancy a walk it’s a fine spring evening.
And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning.
Who knows what’s round the corner?
What tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies?
Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys
Discussions which inevitably create fraught tension.
That which must be defused
Catch a break brother you’re casting successive **** storms.
Throw on the parker and thus to the shelter.
Thirty six and dour and positively *****
Few dollars in the bank.
Show patience and may receive what I deserve.
I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur.
Indulge the kindness of strangers.
The merging of unstable behaviour.
Shake the snow globe and set tasers to stun
I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork
Another dumb quirk, dumb dirt that comes from my cracked beak.
She considerers me flippant and freakish.
I am truly scrooge macduffed
She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints.
I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces.
All the venues are familiar.
Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of ****** puns that drag and caress us in the arm pit of jacks sick giant.
None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence.
The next few hours are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained.
If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my ***
Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane.
Without my trousers.
And several tubes in the near regions.
And now it come to this.
Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Guided by beer light down moonlit streets
pockets stuffed with stale tobacco and receipts,
pariahs of the night, queens of the teen-age
attacking their youth in a drug fuelled rage
shaking their bodies 'neath schizophrenic lights
a typical night filled with hatred and fights,
the bloodlust was fun, a midnight boogie,
danger both caustic and infectiously groovy
girls all wearing dresses too small for their *****
disk jockeys playing electro-pop to please the masses -
#WAM!#
#BAM!#
#OH YEA, OH MAN!!!#
like raving corsairs they arrived; guitars lean, leather jackets sublime
o'behold the rip-roarin' Raven's Clandestine
["People ARE YOU READY?!"]
they played rock that growled in your ears
snazzy lyrics metaphorical tears,
indulging in passion, *** alcohol and heavy drugs
dismissing dire warnings with cockily executed shrugs
swaggering to blistering tunes in front of the crowds
singing songs 'Psycho-Bitch' and 'Rebel-Tastic' obnoxiously proud,
falling in love on the stage, falling in love in their beds,
adorning their wild hair with tassels and threads
blissfully ignorant they simply didn't care
wanted to do what they want, alas life ain't that fair -
the bassist met a rogue ***** contracted ***
the guitarist lost his sight, carried on playing though he couldn't see,
the drummer lost his cool and battered a fan
found high on ******* for 10 years locked away more than
and the lead singer, with his hip swagger 'n jive,
suffered a massive stroke, upon the stage in a screeching solo he died
*[he hides his sinister within songs
died gazing at scantily-clad chicks in fluorescent thongs]*
promising to be legends they rocked the 1970's ambiguous nation
alas their substance abuse and ****** desires had already cursed them to damnation.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
I wrote a poem for
you.
I wrote a poem for
me.
I wrote a poem for
desk jockeys and cash
register fanatics.
I wrote a poem for
all the benches of
the world
and all their inhabitants.
I wrote a poem for
Allen Ginsberg
and his secret loving
soul, now made public
for mass consumption.
I wrote a poem for
King Buddha and his
promise to enlighten
us all;
sending us
to Pure Land personal
heavens.
I wrote a poem for
the alarm clock
cold morning, cold feet
warm sheets
blues.
I wrote a poem for
everyone everywhere
always because
work is boring.
I wrote a poem for
the void. Never having
seen it, no way
to describe.
I wrote a poem for
crosswalks hallucinating
***** looks within
blank, staring headlights
threading smoke rings
through needles.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
Being 16 and free,
living on the sailboat
with my Dad and brother.
I was rocked to sleep
by the gentle
waves in the marina.
Just being...the wonderful
verb of youth,
Bills came in,
Dad would say, "They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
We'd laugh and peel
up the Pacific coast Highway
to the track,
Hollywood Park or Santa Anita,
to bet on the horses.
We'd dope the racing form;
Get chili dogs.
Dad would give us
money to bet with.
I saw some of the
best horses ever:
Secretariat
Affirmed
John Henry
Bates Motel
We saw the greatest jockeys too.
William Shoemaker
Liffit Pincay
Eddie D.
Our tiny heroes.
The thunder of the
hooves coming down the
homestretch still echoes
inside of me.
Dad always said, "winners buy dinner, "
but he always paid.
We stopped at this
steak place on the
edge of L.A.
It was dark; they had the best
Fillet Mignon, you cut it
with a spoon.
The sun sank into the blazing
ocean, and with the windows rolled
down, we could taste the salt
in the air.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 9:53 AM UTC