We scooted along down
main street
past the bars where the drunks
and their secrets stand in
doors and clouds of cigarette smoke
and the cops walk through
"just to make sure there's no
funny business"
and up the road we went
hearts beating in time with
flashing street lights
passing a jewelry establishment
billing itself as
"the hardware store for women"
even though we knew it's already been
sold and would be shutting down within
six months
and we crawled through the great
oblivion
of main street at night
past the neon cavalcade
of fast food joints
and their ******* contests
of who is out selling who
and the billions of burgers
that plague the conscience
of nobody during this great obesity epidemic
and a police officer started following us because we stared
too long at the bars perhaps and so
we had to make a quick
getaway to a purveyor of tacos
to pretend we were up to no-good
just to give the boring police
in this boring town
something to do for a few minutes before
they had to go back to watching the
drunks and their secrets
and keeping an eye out for funny business
at the bars

He liked to throw
rocks
at the sun and
at kids
who had never stopped to
question how they
had gotten their names
because he was sure both
were out to cause him suffering
by bringing joy to the eyes
of strangers
and all he ever saw was a dark
reflection illuminated by
an infinity of setting suns
against his eyes
all glazed over with
chronic daydreams
of being able to play
hero
in a world without consequences

Though I am
diametrically opposed
to looking into other
people's vehicles,
I couldn't help but
notice that this one
in the library parking lot
had eleven welcome mats
in the back seat and it was
a welcome sight indeed
but then someone started
yelling at the church across
the street
perhaps the holy spirit had
finally arrived in all its glory
or maybe it's just tax season and Jesus
is coming to collect
but I could sell this painting
at the library
it's a giant cat all neon orange
and green
or perhaps I'll just head
home since the library closes
early on Saturdays

Some fool once
suggested
that I start to
carry around a
little notebook
to write my poetry
in whenever
inspiration strikes.

I'd rather not live like
a
caricature
all scribbling melodrama
in the corner of darkened
bars and seemingly
unable to work out the mystery
of women
and exuding an infinite
aura of depth
to draw
the eyes of strangers on
a passenger train
as I ride from mystery
to mystery

the fact of the matter is that
there are
no ******* trains
in this town and
there are no picturesque
vistas with which to fall in
love
but rather an endless
array of fast-food
joints
and thinly disguised
bigotry
and the neon red, white and blue
gets nauseating after a while

truth be told
I had a notebook
once
and a stranger came up
to me and asked me what
I was writing
and I said "poetry"
and he laughed
and sneered
and said
"oh, SOMEBODY is getting cultured!"
and I learned at that point
that more often than not
"nothing" is a good answer
for strangers and that
my poetry is better kept
in my head until it is time
to type it all out
because writing poetry is not
a spectator sport for me

my poetry is a *****
little secret between
myself
and the few who care and
my thoughts are not a persona
I am not a performer for strangers
in an endless act of
"more cultured than thou"
I write for me
and
notebook or no

I am a god ****** poet.

He liked to use
clip-on promises
because it was so much
easier
than learning to tie knots
and facing down the
fear
that you could strangle yourself
if you weren't careful

Needs a title
as all things do
because existence is most
palatable
when it is defined
and while every action
screams
for meaning
and every inaction
wails
to be heard
we are somewhere
in between
a holding pattern between
meaning and meaningless
and we latch on to
the floating driftwood
of trends
and fads
and music scenes
because everyone has it
figured out but
you

so anyway
that's why you should
drink
Diet Coke
because all the cool
people are doing it
and you do want to be
cool


right?

Every day brings a new adventure!
or so the sign had told me
hanging so delicately
on some sort of kombucha based
drink
as though I could augment my life
and invite adventure in just by
drinking a drink
but that's how advertising works
I suppose
and we must be above the ads
because we are all independent and
free
unless...
that too is an ad
and the revolution has been bought and sold
and we are all just loosely strung along
quirks
that are indicative of our specific
ideals of humanity

here's looking at you
white dude with flannel and dreadlocks
and Rastafarian colored shoes

here's looking at you kid with pompadour
haircut, pastel shorts, and a MAGA hat hanging
off his backpack

are we all truly going our own ways
or are we just advertisements for
something better than
being unknown
and undefined?