Category: original content

maybe

A poem about probability.

maybe i’ll get what i want.

maybe.
some day.


maybe soon
i’ll know what i want.
sooner than later is better.


maybe i enjoy eating frozen foods
and protein bars
and McDonald’s for lunch every day.
it’s a choice.

maybe.
just maybe.

maybe one day i’ll have the strength after work
to make a proper meal
that cleans out the fridge
and uses all the sauce
for a change.

maybe.


maybe on the other end of that hotline
she’s laughing at my jokes
and not rolling her eyes
as i am assuming from her uniform replies.
maybe.

maybe i need to slow my roll

and maybe i need to step it to the floor
and go full bore –
Mad Max form –
right now ahead of my fifteenth chance
or i’m too old to learn from my mistakes anymore.
whichever comes before.
maybe.


maybe maybe maybe.
maybe yesterday was already too late

and maybe i’ll grow a third leg.

maybe i’ll croak in a week and maybe
i’ll pass away peacefully in my sleep

and maybe i’ll get rigor with an
endorphin-induced end-of-life dream boner
and an open casket will be out of the question.
kind of hard when you’re already booked
for incineration.

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imprintations

A poem about manifestation.

i am pandering to the points that i want
on the eve of Jupiter entering Venus and whatnot
and comparing it to what i really need,

as i loiter in my Mazda where you can usually find me
doing one of the following
rhymed list of things:

being alone,
playing Klondike on my phone;

listening to a CD on my SUV’s player
from my stack of self-burned music CDs,
all of which i’ve heard before;

and wet-lipping a big ol’ blunt just for me.
i know you’re all joking about my masturbating in the back seat.

maybe now that i’ve brought it up.


i don’t really know anything.
i blow the smoke out and i ponder my fatty
while i cough uncontrollably like i’m acting on TV:
telegraphing it for everyone in the audience to see
that it is, in fact, ground marijuana leaf.
if you priced this thing out it would be a killing,
but i don’t have the start-up to buy a booty-babe
to do all that tedious rolling.

i forgot where i was going


so i drift for a moment,
and in that space, she wanders through
in a special guest cameo i can’t mentally defer.


i know that i shouldn’t be driving

but my Saturday is also New PlayStation Deal Day –
as nutritional as breakfast cereal
and modestly-priced as Extra Foods –
and i wasn’t paying interest on my credit card
for a bill that, with tax, costs only two-oh-seven

so now i’m in the parking lot of the Seven-Eleven
with my twenty-five-dollar cardboard voucher
filling up to the tip of my breast pocket,
and the rain clouds from my last week of work
have parted
as a plane flies against a wild blue heaven
and you’d think i’d be running home


and so

because it is calm

i think about her again,
and the clouds loop back like a Terry Fox race.
i guess they were blowing back this way eventually,

anyway.

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itchy Achilles

A poem for my late father-in-law.

the father

had heard
and seen

everything the boy
had ever thought;
had done
and said –

that’s what the low-budget documentary
on Amazon Prime told him.

it was all outlined
in a big ULINE box with no lid
full of labelled duo-tangs stacked the wrong way
on the top shelf –
no less important than all the rest –
to whom the spirits kindly regressed.
the father didn’t necessarily ask for all this.
all he did was ask

and he was met with

and where maybe once he permitted himself to forget some things
based on nature,
his age,
now he knew everything.
that was the curse of the dead
and their wistless blessing

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sorry, Stormy

A poem for Stormy Daniels.

sorry, Stormy,
but i think you can assume
that if anyone invites you
alone to their room,
it’s probably not because they want to interview you
for a prime-time engagement on the tube
or simply to share a quiet dinner for two:
it is most-likely transactionally-based
on the high probability of painting your face;
and let me tell you, it ain’t in red and blue –
probably a good thing, too.

i know we should,
we can,
do better,
but how have your male fans acted in your presence –
i mean really acted –
through your decades of attending porn conventions?
winning awards for your performances?

what sex act made you most famous?

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just say

A poem about how I don’t believe you.

i am glowering at some clothed chick’s
skin-tight pant
because it is there
and because i am a man,
conceiving a conversation in my head
about Kubrick & cannabis and sex positions
that the two of us will never have.
my father was right:
i’m just like my mother –
a broken fucking record;
still choking up at the sight
of metronomic hips in dark blue jeans
when they pass;


long hair tightly pulled in a farm girl’s braid
with a ribbon
for a rubber keeping it all together,

but it’s habit.
leftovers.
i’m more attracted now than i ever have been
to my own thoughts
and dreams
it seems
and by and large
the thrill is gone
because i know now that nothing.
any time you want to talk to me
it’s always under the guise of you wanting something
other than me,
so if you’re going to say anything at all,
just say no and
please leave me alone
because you shouldn’t start what you can’t stop.

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Posted on by wd 0