"springsteen" poems
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles
And she loves the Rolling Stones
She wakes up to David Bowie
And she dreams of the Ramones
She goes out to dance clubs nightly
Till her ear drums both get blown
But, she has a deep dark secret
That her friends will never know
At night when she is by herself
When the room is nice and dark
She slips beneath the covers
With Johann Sebastian Bach
She's a closet classic ******
And her name is Amber Clark
She just loves orchestral music
The rock and roll is just a lark
Her friends think something classical
Is something for your folks
They cannot play an instrument
They cannot read the notes
They think that chamber music is
What people play on boats
But she has a deep dark secret
She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote
At night when she is by herself
And her friends have gotten ******
She slips beneath the covers
And she listens to some Liszt
She listens to it many times
In case there's things she's missed
She's a closet classic ******
She has "Baroque" upon her wrist
She listens to the music
That her friends like to be cool
If she told them what she listens to
They'd laugh her out of school
So, when they go out clubbing
She will join them as a rule
But...ah that deep dark secret
This girl is no ones fool
She listens to Beethoven
And she knows each piece by heart
She knows where one bar ends
And another one will start
She can play most every instrument
And she knows most every part
She's a classic closet ******
But she still knows Boyce and Hart
She has cds in her library
And most sit there untouched
When her friends are gone they don't get played
She doesn't like them much
She would rather hear a symphony
By a composter who was Dutch
But there's that deep dark secret
And she won't use it a crutch
At night when she is warm in bed
She listens to Mozart
She needs a little Nacht Musique
To open up her heart
It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze
It hits her like a dart
She's a closet classic ******
And she keeps her worlds apart
By day she sings Bruce Springsteen
At night she listens to
Composers that her friends don't know
They're so old they're new
So she keeps her world a secret
For she knows what they would do
If they found she didn't know
Where were you in sixty two
But at night she is a ******
And she listens to Mozart
She needs that piece of music
To shoot an arrow through her heart
Eine Kleine Nachmusic
She conducts every part
She's our Closet Classic ******
shhh.....the song's about to start...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
it’s not about you at all
you get swept up in people’s definitions
hung on the wall in someone’s frame
you’re artifact on the edge of their radar
to your family, you’re a son daughter sister brother
and technically yes, your mom bore you
(and still does)
but must you accept all that goes with it?
you were born in new jersey
must that make the sopranos and bruce springsteen
your problem?
artists paint you as lame and superficial
the boss works you like a crossword puzzle
to the government, you’re a fraction
to the rich, you’re money to be spent
to the cops, an obstacle
to the bartender, a lousy tipper
they convince you, they’re persuasive
but must this be your face?
it takes a lot of energy to break free
you escape once to find yourself in another cage
it’s a russian doll of captivity
maybe it's not worth it
how many times can you wake up
and say **** it?
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.
The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.
He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.
The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.
It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.
Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.
Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.
Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.
The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.
I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor
And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
Blood felt in a caress
Was the last gift of love I sent you home with.
My thoughts gently clinging to the curled ends
of your hair.
The moon bright as a baby's skin
The wind from the sea leaving nothing untouched
I could think of a Springsteen lyric
but this isn't the summer
and my clothes cling too tightly
To this body which I intend only to please you.
I think instead of a friend telling me of a power-out
When he lived in a minor Chinese mainland city of seven or 8 million
And how all he could see for miles around for an entire week afterwards
was smog.
And I contrast that
With when in the relatively far west of this tiny island
We stood laughing in wonder at how the stars hung so closely down on us
And how smog is all that fills my head
When I try to remember words you use
When you speak of the moon.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
Have you been shredded
By the tenacity
Of your alcoholism
Yet,
Or will we have to funnel
More worldly atrocities
Into you,
Filling you to bursting?
The swish in your belly,
The boldness of your talk;
Decimated.
Let me be the one
To **** all you are
With my well-kept home
And all-American children.
Let me poison you
With my son and husband's baseball game,
My seasonal dish towels.
Let me tear your being
With my baby
Who doesn't even suffer a diaper rash,
With my laundered and ironed clothes.
Let me destroy you in domesticity,
A cold beer at the end of the day
And too many addictions
Kept hidden.
Let me dismantle your establishment
While I bear my blemishes under the skin.
Let me break your concentration.
Let me make you think
I am perfect.
Let me make you think
That my family is sound.
Let me convince you
That you mean nothing
To the world
If only because
My children will be more intelligent
and more well kept
Than the one you poisoned.
Let me be
The Stephen King novel,
Bruce Springsteen song,
All-American house wife
And let me be kept far,
Far away from You,
Dazed and Confused
And depressed and medicated,
You.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
He's Uncle John to you, but John to the rest of us
Got a way of telling stories without the fanfare or the fuss
He can jump into any conversation, has a lot of stuff to say
and every bit is interesting 'cause that always been John's way.
There was one about his summer job before 1970,
paid to push a Swan-shaped boat off a dock in Asbury
With a grapple hook on a ten foot pole, or something of that sort
well he'd push 'em out and pull 'em in wasn't doing it for sport~
The same guy who owned the swan boats, tunneled love across the way
twice a week John worked the darkness, but preferred the light of day.
Played rhythm at the Upstage in band called 'Cory' later
workin' Perkins in West Belmar, took the name from the percolator
Around that time he grew his hair out, it was like an Afro-sheen
mistaken for Tinker, a surfboard chinker and drummer with Springsteen.
Cruisin' down around Brookdale in his '39 LaSalle
Met 'Stinky' Tink at Thompson Park, where he was singing with his pal
Hey John, you look like Tinker,
but now you favor Gere
a live ringer for Mike Richards,
and don't forget DeNir-
Oh, if you can't remember anything from 40 years ago
just ask your Uncle John who knows the time in Tokyo.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
If I could pick the menu,
I'd choose a tasty appetizer of Hendrix pituitary,
& a huge salad covered with Joplin cortex.
Plant's gray matter for the main course,
sides of Jaggar & Morrison stems,
along with a bottle of Springsteen spinal fluid.
I'd definitely have to order
an ample sweet-portion
of Daltrey thalamus
& sprinkle it with some Cobain lobes.
A shot of John's cranium
with a nightcap of Townsend cerebellum
would surely hit the spot.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Before kids we drove
a blue Chevy Corvair.
No seat belts (of course),
so you could slide next
to me in the bench seat.
We rolled the windows
down to escape the gas fumes
and the staggering smell of oil.
But oh the sound of the engine
roaring behind us in the trunk
as we accelerated close together,
the streetlights all turning green.
We leaned into loose curves,
navigating to the straightaway
where we would open up and fly
like lovers from some Springsteen
song until the road became nothing
and the car disappeared and it was
just you and me hurtling to this place,
suspended by our own combustion,
carried by time, married by velocity.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
My boyfriend used to take me to Pizza ****
(as we always called it)
after every home basketball game.
We'd fill up on bread sticks,
box the leftover slices,
just so they could sit in the back seat
of his green Chevy jeep
while we made out in the parking lot
with Eric Church's new CD on the stereo.
I told everyone the bruises on my thighs
were just an accident,
when really he pushed me
into the tires
after he had a few or dozen beers
at the party down Bear Run.
He never did like being told
what he shouldn't do.
We'd lay down the seats
and sleep on sweatshirts
with a cooler lid for a pillow
until 10a.m. on a Sunday,
an hour late for mass.
Silently we'd ride
until we'd reach the power plant.
He'd cough and I'd sigh,
quietly singing until we'd reach my driveway.
He never did kiss me
whenever he'd drop me off.
I came back spring break
the following year.
The jeep in his yard with a for sale sign
propped against the hood
and his cell number
written in blue window chalk
just above the windshield wipers.
I saw his little sister
peek behind the curtain
when I knocked on the door,
but no one came to answer.
So I lit a cigarette and drove home
listening to "Springsteen."
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I **** off the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
it's involuntary.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
Monica disappeared
She told me she might love me
I told her where to meet me
But when I got there
She was gone
I had become enraptured
By her cherubic face
Elfish, tomboy haircut
Law-breaking smile
I should have known there was something lurking
Behind it
Some secret or some thing
Some One
Some dark, ugly lie she’d found herself caught in
Fly in a spider’s web, vulnerable
But it was easy enough to see
She was too hard to let anything hurt her
She might as well have hurt me
I never told you how
Her kisses left me breathless
The music of Cocteau Twins came alive
In her ethereal expression
As our lips reluctantly let go of each other
Her sated smile told the story
Of happy endings and serendipity
The Fates had other plans
And maybe she knew it.
So somewhere in her heart or her head
She had conspired with the Great Unknown
To break my heart
And so she disappeared.
Lost, flawed goddess?
The woman kept her fair share of secrets
And most likely a greater lot of lies she’d fed me...
Cotton candy to a baby
Grim acceptance of the brutal reality
Brought home by her disappearance
And nailed shut by the knowledge
That I would never again, in my life,
Here and in the Great Beyond,
See her face, kiss her lips, relax in her embrace
Never again dance to Springsteen’s slow songs, silently surrendered to sensuality and the staggered stagnation of sense and sensibility and I would drive all night just to buy her some smack…whatever she wanted
Hear her voice
In this place I will call her “mine”
In this place
She would confess, "I'm yours"
So much like a dream
In this place
Look into her eyes then
Wake
Wail and moan for the miles that separated us
The sackcloth and ashes well worn in the years since
She vanished into thin air
She’s as dead as if she’d stopped breathing
As if her heart had actually stopped beating.
The period for grief and mourning are long past
And yet here I lie
Overcome by a tsunami
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 7:41 AM UTC
I must have given her that Grateful Dead t-shirt
Too tight now for my thickening chest
It hung like a sheet from her bony shoulders
Draped to cover her tiny *******
The sickening smell of cheap menthol cigarettes
Would have pushed me far away yesterday
I was thinking I might have to get used to it
She wouldn't kick that for the world
I must have had a thing for pixies
Or bruised fairy tale princesses
With glass slippers smashed into a thousand shards
I stepped on every last one to pretend
I was the saving prince, the forgiving hero
She never asked for
She never needed
She never wanted
She'd leave that guy waiting on the phone
Tiny, fragile dreamer
Dancing at the ward ball
I'd seen her a few times before
Acting like a ***** with a joint in her sock
She made me sick
A strange sickness that drew me to her
A saccharine smile hid the selfish harlot's heart
It didn't fool me for a minute but I didn't care
No worse than anybody else in that packed house
I'm the one who asked her to dance
With her barbie doll's head on my shoulder
And our eyes closed tight
The slow rhythm gave us permission to take our time
I knew what I was doing when I requested the song
I knew what Springsteen meant when he sang
"Heart and soul...heart and soul...heart and soul...heart and soul..."
Only to find out in the end
She had neither
But it was easy to pretend with the other lost people dreaming along with us
She don't have that **** shirt no more
And I don't have to know that for a fact
To know it's the ****** truth
She don't have nothing from me
Not even them memories
I hoped to get into her
Stinking **** teeth
Skinny ******* trash
Alien face, big teeth
You thought I didn't have a heart, either
Or a soul but you were wrong
It wasn't for you to take along
To whatever hell you went to
When you left me on some universal corner
Standing by the phone
You dead *****
I won't listen to that song anymore
Get out of my mind
No one else hears you but me
And most of the time I can keep from listening
I never cared about you
You didn't give me a chance to
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
There will be no better days
there were no bad days
there were just so many days
one after another and another and another
and there will be unendingly more
because this is never done…
…each day is a quantum string of moments
shimmering with meter, rhythm and rhyme
if you listen
moments make days of music...
…but not loud
more like angels whispering to each other
just out of earshot
there it is
behind the other sounds
traffic of door and automobile
the hiss that kills the middle ear
that makes hummingbirds hide…
…so just listen;
be present
and the leaves will shiver in delight
as the hawk cries
and cat stiffens
and you finish your latte
and the barrista smiles at you
and you…
…remember childhood’s pets
rain rivers on windowpanes
through which you sat and watched
cinemas of sunsets
with those sweet, few others
who understood this
with you…
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
Livin' out Hefner's flesh colored dreams
Hangin' with bunnys and beauty queens
Bangin' Springsteen's pleasure machines
Makin' the scene, some say obscene
Spent at the end of a hot summer day
Lookin' for needles in tall stacks of hay
Cryin' for someone whose gone far away
She's the only one who could make it okay
**** films and syphilis ruined my soul
Glossy magazines I bought and stole
Devoured my heart, left just a hole
Juvenile lust has taken it's toll
Dreamin' of Hefner's flesh colored lies
Layin' my head 'tween some prostitute's thighs
Numb and alone, how I've come to despise
Can't wait until this part of me dies
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
I WAS! DESIGNED! IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA!
I WAS! DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA...
that's all the U.S.A. seems to be,
an advertising conglomerate,
oink oink it's like three blind men
and Donald Trump:
one touched his egoistic *******
impression and said it was the Mississippi
mud-hole Riviera,
another touched his overweight cheeks
and started to chuckle while calling ************
a bulldog salivating with the cheeks
choke on chuckles you chimpanzee:
chuck chuck, whatever onomatopoeia
five cents spare...
and the last blind mind touched the
over-comb quiff... and he said: by god!
the wind hairstyling grass!
while the Russians sold off Alaska historically,
and are selling bits of ******** Siberia
bit by bit to the Chinese,
evolutionary implementation
of Pan-Eskimo...
you need eyes like slits akin with excess
camel eye-lashes to survive the cold...
like i told you, Russia will end up shrinking
into a border enclosure limited to
starting between Belarus (the ******* Tsarist **** bags)
the Baltic states and Ukraine and ending at the Urals.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
Moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly,
she says she only likes black men,
and they say “Once you go black you never go back.”,
but I’m white and when she came she came with me,
and since she arrived she hasn’t left,
sometimes,
truth really is stranger than fiction,
quit drugs got clean,
so now she is my only addition,
on a rooftop in a cool spot sipping champagne,
in the pool got a true shot at some real fame,
feeling like the hero and the villian,
half Joker have Bruce Wayne,
the truth is I feel like a mix of all the Bruces,
Bruce Jenner Bruce Banner Bruce Lee,
Bruce Willis all in it no limits or gimmicks,
Born in the USA raised on Backstreets of Philly,
an American Dreamer living The Dream,
Born To Run call me Bruce Springsteen,
found the Fountain of Youth this girl with this tattoo’s the proof,
so now I bath in the rainbows of this spring,
life so exciting sometimes I just want to scream,
like I do right now as we dance ecstatically,
unconditionally above the world on this rooftop under this star light,
which makes sense since she is a dancer by trade,
we dance and sweat and let out everything that’s inside,
we spread our arms we extend our tongue,
we seize the moment this moment of life,
because we know everything goes in an instant,
life passes by in the blink of an eye,
but without the bitter the sweet ain’t as sweet,
trying to wake up from this dream Vanilla Sky,
and sure these waters are rough,
but hey at least we’re enjoying the ride,
as we find moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly…
∆ LaLux ∆
Free Book: https://www.scribd.com/document/388173677/The-Holy-Trilogy-Volume-2-Mandalas
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 5:16 AM UTC
Remember that story you used to tell
about how the pyramids were made by aliens?
You loved believing in ridiculous things.
And that homeless person who sang Better Days
better than Springsteen?
That song always made you smile.
Remember how I always took your case
about your political beliefs?
You'd try these silly tricks to make me stop
( kissing worked pretty often )
Remember that fall night when we were ******
and thought the elevator wasn't moving? (It was)
We were in there for a while.
What was that joke about the bunny and the bear?
Cracked you up, every time.
Remember that time we made fun of all the sappy scenes in all
sappy movies?
(There was the bet, the makeover, the boat passing under a bridge,
the wine in a park, the meet after a year at this spot,
the blue french horn, the airport lounge, the waltz song).
And then we said we'd make our own sappy movie, and it would be original.
Remember those times when nothing needed to be said?
And it seemed as though the world just stopped breathing for a few moments.
As though we slipped through a fleeting crack in time.
As though .. I cant find more analogies. You'd have to be there.
I no longer remember the irreverence of first chances and carry-on luggage.
Because the world just kept moving,
and the traffic lights turned yellow,
and the umbrellas came out in the monsoons,
and Heath Ledger died,
and old stories were forgotten and new stories told.
I didn’t find any crossed stars, or dividing oceans
or random people in bed.
I searched for misunderstandings
under the sofa cushions, but could find none.
There were no pieces to patch up together.
The quilt just seemed a little frayed at the edges.
Maybe there’s just no such thing as an original movie.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
It’s ******* Veterans Day
He said as my teeth turned into shrapnel on the street
He had the right to remain violent
I had the right to remain silent
Men have died for your right to speak
How dare you question the military?
Dissent squashed with brute force
Drone strikes on a straight course
Bang Bang! Like the pixels on a Playstation
His hands return ****** to the deployment station
PTSD on the brain
IUD as cremation
It’s ******* Veterans Day
Pay your respects
I’ll collect your debts
And turn them into fighter jets
You say you support the troops
Or do you really support Fox News
Or MSNBC
What ever you choose
It’s information that you lose
There’s no glory in ******
No matter what flag you use
Who’s this foreign invader your protecting us from?
The way I see it, is you’re the invader, son
Let’s hold a concert
Where the **** is Bruce Springsteen?
Let’s have a parade
Do people on the streets remind you of anything?
Oh yeah, that thing called protest.
How we talk about the things we detest.
Unless it’s about the troops.
Tie yellow ribbons instead.
Aren’t you glad Osama’s dead?
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Free to be, is a pleasure.
When you breathe the treasure of your heart
and realise it's daft Mr Springsteen to be dancing in the dark.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
Twilight.
Late at night.
Beautiful sight.
She blinks.
Heels in her hand, mascara flakes onto her rosey cheeks.
Swaying,
Secretly praying,
Silently in her mind.
Even more silently in her heart.
Who knows what of?
Who cares?
She thinks.
These are the best days of her life.
At least that's what they told her.
Eighteen,
Singing Springsteen,
Loudly in the streets.
Drunk and disorderly,
Who knows who she'll meet?
And who cares?
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Maybe I'm drowning in a daydream
Or maybe I've been asleep a little too long
With my heart set on a girlish fantasy
To the lulling beat of an 80's love song
I'm only set up for disappointment
When I press pause on my MP3
Because reality only leads to resentment
For expecting this idea of love to be bestowed upon me.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
We are stuck_____ in a turmoil
Her pantry
All red tape
Her can good's
on him?
It's my pleasure,
And he's as painful
Spinning wheel seizure
So tinny
tiny Tim foil
Long neck-------- giraffe
Life too short he's the
end of the kabob stick
My pleasant passenger
is lovesick
Mom's lips he rattles
His eyes of the
snake
Like Arby's smoked ribs
So pleasantly
on his tab
The Webster hub
passenger drinks
Pub
Bet Ya baking Trump
truffles hum?
((Nescafe Escape))
Carmello latte- James
Bondman another passenger
Mr. Sandman twins
of duct tape
it says___
((Where I End))
Where I begin
her money vault
The piano player
Billy Joel the strangers
My own flesh
and blood
Cousins and
Arsenic and lace
poison
Threw them
over the threshold
Elvira siesta greyhound
My pleasant
passenger
Secretly pulling teeth_____
mistletoe at birth
Caught in his fire
from Bruce
Springsteen
birth
The messenger
singing
Fiddler on
the roof
Matchmaker
make me a
(Outer Rim)
space station
The orange juice
his
Pulp Fiction
The argument
Please let there be
Yankee fans
Take me out
Don't ball me out
The game with my nephews
Buy me some cashews
and
Crack-Up Jacks
My pleasant passenger
I don't care if
he ever comes
back
Mary Mack dressed
in maternity black
The funeral came with her
right-hand
messenger
Newborn
life assignment
Bravo applaud
Not everything is
so pleasant
Contradicting
My pleasant
passenger
Couldn't
comment nothing was delicious----?
Rebirth reassignments
Come at me
consignment place
Second hand or
twice around
Another passenger
coming to town
I screamed he
had no face
bandages
Robin Hoods**
The passenger gobble up
seconds poor our goods__--
The first rich
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
You've got a flat screen mounted
on your kitchen wall with zip
ties and chewing gum.
There's an ashtray by your left
wrist, and a tattoo on your right
of a midnight street light sunshine
shine
down
on a reupholstered love seat,
only used twice: once for the Eisenhowers,
once for last weekend watching Seinfeld
reruns, putting out Sonomas and *** talk
on the twill-like cushions in that dank
basement apartment w/ poster'd brick
walls.
Slayer, Sinatra, Sabbath, Springsteen,
a Space Cowboy, and something Sanskrit
above your box-springless mattress
about the cosmos spitting hellfire
next month because we didn't sacrifice
crumpled dollars yesterday, or Clinton
in the '90s. There are masses of humans paying
for the market collapse that sent 800,000
oranges rolling into the street, cold.
God-fearing couples are abstaining from ***
to save their souls from the ******
Rapture. Cable cords are being unplugged
in the middle of A Christmas Story so people
can hang themselves from church steeples
to avoid ruining their Chuck Taylor Loafer
Tennis Shoes in the molten **** suffocating
saplings and parking meters. Christ'll save
the righteous ones, the ones strung up closest
to the bell tower.
The parish hall radio says salvation's
only as good as a new haircut.
And that we should all pick up the warped
acoustic guitar in the cellar, and try
to form barre chords with our swollen
knuckles and arthritic wrists now
because punk music will be dead tomorrow.
Hell, the postman will be dead tomorrow,
and every little postcard, paycheck, and print
coupon he's carrying will be dead, too.
There is an ashtray by your left wrist,
and a tattoo on your right.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC