Come With Me
We walk the steps
of forced life within a
filthy neighborhood— a doomed
scenario that tortures existence into
a blind escape stare, where the
angels of the absurd cannot comprehend
a vision of a place where ugly people
play for keeps…
Not Science Fiction
Head still
staggered…
Tilted—
Far away from all the
terror you
have seen…
Self-inflicted
…
Maybe, maybe not
Addonizio
I’ll never be cool like that pretty lady who writes crosscutting poetry and plays the blues harp.
Her books continue to examine how she lives life on her own terms, owing explanation to no one.
Don’t we all want to say that about ourselves?
Quietly, I sit in my mancave in Northern New England watching the young/old walk by, always with hints of remorse. Attempts getting into a zone where words enhance my true soul are often stymied. The big boy magazines reject my shit without any explanation on how to jot better.
Getting on stage either to recite a great observation or playing some Little Walter tune on the harmonica—Kim A. has it going.
I’m always stuck in inward violence.
I also realize that this should not be looked at as a “contest.”
But, I do.
And I’m way down on the scoreboard…with no timeouts
left.
Dumpster Fire Press 