a quart of tequila,
still no feelings,
spinning ceilings beneath me,

in my venomous state,
we went to comedy night at the viper room.

torn to shreds in the front row,
of a gung ** americanised show.

i came because the river still flows,
with depp and the stageshows from the whiskey a go go,
directly opposite the pavement.

the boulevard was full of cars,
and homeless superstars,
that made it far,
but not past the stars on the walk of fame,
Holly would never be the same again.
*******, *******.

we walked past the cast of a bottomless flask,
cast in the shadows of the sorrows of rodeo drive,
staying alive is easy,
follow,
the yellow brick road and wish for a dollar.

tomorrow is another day.

i seen a man of my same age,
he was a traveller,
vocabular immaculate,
hair cut ******, dindn’t shave much,
one of the same touch.
grubby hands and unfinished plans.

his sign said, were ******.
i teared up,
he looked up and stood up and we hugged.
i could see me in his weird look.
just another rhyme in my page book.

i gave him a bag of survival necessities,
i hunted him down after 24 hours.
i was worried to go back,
and finish what i started.

i consider the concept as an artist,
but the truth is this,
the humanist within,
could never miss that appointment.

he sat there in the same spot,
and if i didn’t come,
he could of lost faith in the promise of a circumstance.

i took a certain stance,
he said he was a traveller,
a poet with grubby hands,
i held him with open arms.

i don’t worry about him,
i worry about you,
a ***** and the truth,
trumps and mansion and no use.

i’ve read between the lines,
and wrote this motion on tightropes and suspended emotion.
they want a showman,
but when we show them the ocean,
the don’t want to know the deepest minds inclined.

absolutley,
mutiny in the ranks,
my heart sank when you decided to revamp,
your opinion of me implicitly.

minor to me,
skeleton key to multiple routes.
i never gave a **** about your opinions then,
and I certainly don't give a **** now,

nor have i ever,
stared the gift horse in the mouth.

how i came by
this lush trickle of vocabular erupting passion
   i electrically shovel

  in
          digital grunts
i
   kno

                ,w
not
                                only
    

                   i           :T,s

HA'b,i:Tu
                       a
l l
          y

She asked me about the word “reckon”
“Did I ever use it?”
Not at that time
She was curious about its usage
I did not know why
Until much later
When I realized with a sigh
She had another lover
Been going on for some time
An Australian he was
I reckon he used “reckon”
In his daily conversation
I reckon it’s a word they must use down there
I’ve had to reckon with “reckon”
It’s still not in my vocabular
In fact, when I encounter it
Into the distance I stare
I reckon it brings back
Memories of my old girl
I reckoned then she loved me
Til she headed for the hills
I reckon it will take some time
Until “reckon” disappears
After my day of reckoning
Which fails to give me cheer

they float in rusty rouge waters
as fog steams upward, obscuring
various uncanned flotsam

white shapes of vocabular form
disperse into random orientations
entangled by processed seagreens

i saw the letter 'k' rise to the surface,
only to slip below again as other
consonants recomposed

with a single dip of my spoon,
seven of these lifted from
their salty wakes form
a simple line of
characters—

spelling
                   nothing...


"unremarkable soup"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved