Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,
in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.
Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions
not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there
waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,
grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day
it too, could devour our peaches.
make the dead
their spirit, like
by many hands
to spread the word,
grave men and grave women
only hear in death
because they can’t
listen in life
unable to fathom, that
gods walk among us
all the time.
The fears of men
are as trivial as
children, picking children in gym,
they never change
they just get bigger.
I take off my shoes
to walk in the rain
through thunder & lightening
it’s a damn Good Friday.
This guy at the bar the other night
tells me my poetry aren’t poems
but rather songs
as he takes my phone
and begins singing them to himself.
These are great man, he says
really good stuff here,
as he sings, flipping back his hair.
And I don’t stop him, because why
would I stop someone
who’s turned my pain into pleasure
when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.
Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!
There will always be poverty
and powerless men, who feel nothing
towards people just trying to exist.
Believe it or not it was a club to join,
all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.
But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?
I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?
Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.
It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.
So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,
there must never be closed,
an open coffin.