Another round
I’m drinking with Edgar
while Baudelaire claws
the turf and howls outside.
Poe is a lot drunker than
he should be…a cheap date,
a ‘lightweight’ even.
“You know that Lowell
wrote that I am only two-
fifth’s genius?”, he stutters.
“So fucking what!”, I reply,
Look what you did to that
guy out there!”.
“Yes”, yells Baudelaire, from
the lawn, “A rotten influence”,
and calls for another round.
Juxtapose
The sun sneaked
out this day,
I imagine to
please the masses.
Most think all
is well with
the stark sunlight,
Makes some others
want to hide…
to hibernate even.
Cold and rain
can be conquered,
either by wardrobe
or by shelter,
but there is
only so much
one can do
to beat heat.
Some would rather
risk heat exhaustion
and skin cancer
than chapped lips
and cold feet.
Crazy events are
coming of age.
Icebergs are melting…
tornados, quakes, and
other phenomenon are
striking in the
most diverse places.
New England area
grows colder while
the West burns.
Not looking forward
to summer coming.
All has changed.
Without Mourners
A discarded
child’s toy
in an
overgrown
field.
It was
once loved
and embraced
for security.
It once
provided
what was
not supplied
by humans.
It now
lays abandon
exposed to
all elements.
Not a
fit ending
for something
once precious.
It perishes
without mourners.
Dumpster Fire Press 