"skynard" poems
We sang: retro post-modern.
With tattoos of Lynard Skynard
And boats sailing
At high mast.
Mediocrity accepted as norm.
We came rarely,
For legal reasons.
Religion stained our blood,
And our *****
With pine smoke fragrance.
Laughter,
Few and like
Stucco condos-
Birds whispered secrets to life
As we murdered each other with silence.
Sun rise:
Gleamed positivity with
Bling chains of Christ.
We danced while naked and alone,
Another legality-
And culture was processed in the blender of commerce-
Black and white word puzzles plagued our lethargic minds.
From triviality—
Transience.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:03 AM UTC
You are a bundle of baby blue balloons
tied to the rail of a gate; the entrance
of used car parking lot.
A man, who
goes by the name Joe is doing his
damnedest to pawn off an old mustang,
the year: unknown -- he has yet
to be familiar with specific car models;
he was the manager of
Costco for 20 years before
getting fired for ****** harassment.
His wife is at home.
He speaks two different languages.
You over hear him, and can't help
but giggle to yourself, each of You
swaying in midair like the fur
of a dandelion.
It must be nice to have two sets
of limbs, upper and lower body
movement; it looks as if
a clusterfuck of genius
has taken the form
of flesh.
Perplexed, You
let one of You
go. You never come
back down.
This is easy
You think.
Joe has failed again; this is 3rd time
today; unable to muster up the courage
to call his wife for support he turns
to a little coke he has in an old
Altoids case kept in his left pocket.
The restroom is where
all the ***** shameful
practices of humans take place;
You call it: "The Encasement of Perserverence"
Clever thought, You say to Yourself
drifting there, alone in Your
grave of gravity.
I see You and wave, but You
pretend to not notice me
and continue to float
like a cloud.
Joe comes back, sits on a red
chair outside the main entrance;
where the sliding glass doors
no longer slide. He hums
a sweet little tune; Simple Man
by Lynyrd Skynard.
You sing along, but through
your film so no one can
comment on Your bad pitch.
It's another day in Tuscon, Arizona.
The sun begins to set.
And we're sulking like undiscovered
mermaids under this umbrella
of 'what the **** do we do now?'
Night will come soon; hinder our progress
with it's unique way of settling the score.
There is no stillness, and You're
no longer a bundle of baby blue;
You are a bomb bound to burst
once the needle of morning
discovers where You live.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC