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Jed Oct 2012
Smoke in the summer Forget
about the winter Ash glows
like sunsets Tried it once
before Coughed till I couldn't
anymore Asthma is the worst

Once bought a soft pack
My cigarettes were soggy Buying
hard packs now What the
**** is that In my
skinny cigarette Change about fifty

Go outside the joint Ask
around for a loosie Bumming
cigs is hard Tender cigarette
After a sucky *** daze
I want you back now
((5-7-5)*2)*3 stanzas/(5 lines^5 words)
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)


at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,
and
bent

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River
^

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...

NaTTy
^^ https://www.pinterest.com/betteshallmark/hallmark-quotes/

———————-
^emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”

she asks, “who is that?”

“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’

she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where u buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”

but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2220471/she-just-shakes-her-head/
Brent Kincaid Feb 2018
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
The One Percent will play.
Squirrely Shirley Hurly Burly
In the full light of day.
Hop them, bop them;
You can’t stop them.
They’re never going away.
Crying, trying, always lying,
They count on your ignorance.
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
Wham bam, thank you man.
Daffy, laffy, slappy happy.
What’s the hap? What’s the plan?

Cooked books, buncha crooks.
Loosie, goosey, where’s the noosey?
Flakey, fakey, jump in the lakey.
Take and take, oil of snake,
How much of this can good people take?
Scream and shout, let it all out
Stick it, we’ll show up and picket
You’ll try to trick it, we’ll buy you a ticket
On a rail, feathered, or off to jail.
Subliminal criminals, sentences too minimal
We’ll feel best if you and the rest must
Sell your houses and cars from behind bars.

— The End —