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sundown.

riding towards the light
to unfinished concrete
and soft grass.
that one cement seat
for rain and filth
we sat and wished
of riches, women, and fame.

as it set past the land
we wished of love,
understanding,
and parents that never fought.

it was always the same
frustration, hope and fear.
it was never the same
hormones, sex, and anticipation.

riding away from the
purple and orange.
hoping and dreaming.
we had sat upon the concrete
and knew that was our
haven.

to wish, to dream, to imagine.
a secret shared.
a hope confided.
a future dreamed.
I sat at home.
looked to the sky
ignored my life,

and knew.

Categories
poems poetry

Hooker Love.

musty cotton sheets

soft, hot skin, sweat.

she smells like cheap

patchouli and benson & hedges

freckles on her thigh, her

arm resting on her drooping tit.

she buries another fucking butt

into the ashtray and asks

when I’m going to get a

curtain for my goddamn shower.

she likes the avocado ones

with mushrooms on them.

I tell her she’s a moron and

can’t pick it out.

 

the ashtray

empties in my face

her fat ass and small waist

gets up.

she still smells like

sex- her legs wobble

and buckle as she sits on

the toilet.

my door doesn’t lock.

she wants breakfast.

bacon.

eggs.

coffee.

the bitch wants me to keep

paying for a relationship

that usually lasts an hour.

Categories
poems poetry

Food Haiku.

Cereal

happy box on shelf

contents may not have settled

prize is on the top

 

Pizza

hot and gooey cheese

stuck to the top of the box

no tip for you, pal.

 

Burrito

warm soft tortilla

filled with meat and spicy love,

belly hurts so much.

 

Carrots

crunchy orange goodness

in ranch they are amazing

and now not healthy.

 

Lasagna

food of fat orange cat

popular italian dish

noodles from china

 

Fruit

oranges are tasty

pineapple is really good

kiwi is fuzzy.

 

Corn Dog

hot dog wrapped in corn

mustard is the best on them

ketchup, not so much.

 

Chinese Food

better the next day

fried rice and orange chicken… yum!

chopsticks take practice.

 

Ice Cream

sundaes and milkshakes

versatile cold frozen

don’t get a headache

 

Soup

beef, chicken, tofu

veggies, crackers or noodles

but it’s still just soup.

 

Donut.

fried till golden brown

Homer Price used a machine

that flung dounts out

 

Chili Dog

when I was a kid

I would eat 4 at a time

bellyache for me

 

Salad

leafy crisp and green

topped with so many choices

now it’s bad for you

 

Shrimp

Tiny or quite large

Have they been deveined and peeled?

That’s just too much work.

 

Steak

cooked to perfection

seared on a red hot skillet

use a butter knife

 

Pudding

cold and thick with skin

easy to make in a bowl

in pies thrown my clowns

 

Tuna

sandwich or salad

no flavor until you add

at least seven things

 

Mexican food

many different things

cheese, meat, beans, lettuce and sauce

it’s all the same thing

Categories
poems poetry

how i wish we’d met.

dirty frozen pavement
pristine lines of white
footprints melt into
concrete path

passing strangers
cold wind
pink noses
and visible breath

narrow walk
heads buried
in rhythm
of clumsy steps

fleece and woolen
elbows
brushing once
for just an instant

a gentle touch
a quiet nuzzle
of elbow
a moment of spark

no glance back
to watch her go
just soft
warm

weeks pass
the walk
was lonely
cold and wet

watched feet
old canvas
snowflakes
on pale denim

nervous chest
feels heavy as she
glides past me
quiet and fragrant

sudden rush of
sweat and anticipation
that gentle nudge
of elbow

that rush
lingers on
hours days
months years

a lifetime
written in
the touch
of an elbow.

j.

Categories
blog

30.

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. 30. Birthdays are surprisingly punctual. Same time every year. This year was just fine. All the birthday staples were available- cake, gifts… etc. I am getting closer and closer to the age that doesn’t look at a birthday and say,”Another year older! Joy!”

No, I am starting to think,”Another year older? Oh damn.”

But, every year I get a little wiser. Every year it gets harder for me to stay up late. Every year I look at younger people more and worry about the state of this country. Every year I wish a little more that the music would be turned down just a bit more. Every year, I wonder more about a 401k, and why I need to diversify a stock portfolio. I don’t go out near as much as I once did. I can’t stay up for 24 hours straight, go to work, come home and stay up till 4am. It’s not in my body to accomplish such a feat. A feat unheard of in the 30’s crowd (so I’d imagine).

I am turning more and more into a responsible adult. Something I told myself (at the mature age of 17) that I would never become. “I’m going to never change!” I would exclaim.

Things change. Growing old is inevitable. I am growing more comfortable with the process. When I turn 40, I am sure I will have things to say about getting even older. I will talk about aches and pains… hair in places that should not have hair… and the like.

Maybe what I should be saying is,”Another year older? Bring it.”

J.

Categories
poems poetry

cold rain does it to me every time.

frigid rain
fogging up
black thick
frames
knit wool
tight over
ears and
eyebrows.

howling wind
through cotton
and denim
sleeves over
numb fingers
new shoes
kicking icy
puddles

racing dreams
thoughts of
places far
and hearts
close
longing for
the chill
to subside

time forgotten
in stares
through wet
windows and
shining metal
playing out
a life
needed

Categories
poems poetry

Booth at the Restaurant

warm amber
dances against her face
into her eyes
the booth is soft
and quiet

they hold hands
across the table
stolen glances
from so close
breath lost

whispers forced
from throats
that beg to
scream their
love

the gentle glow
from frayed lamp
and dusty shade
flush against
the walls

his eyes catch hers
that perfect
slow motion
stare
that kills you

their hands
shiver
spines freeze
and they remember
that moment forever.

Categories
poems poetry

to the movies.

crunched white ice
under worn bowling shoes
frayed laces and empty
circles

stone dead hands
inside borrowed
fleece and cotton
holding rolled coin

knit cap on top
gray and black
over long thick
hair

he walks alone
to the near empty
theatre
and asks for just one

paying
in rolled quarters
and looking past
the popcorn

he forgets why
it took him here
the cold weather
and the coins

in another place
the dark helps him
calm his world
for just 2 hours

j-

Categories
poems poetry

in the moonlight

reflection of
solid red glow
in the cracked
scratched glass
sitting up in sweaty
sheets
and dry throats
quenched by stale
mineral water

linen sheets
breathing over
naked legs and
soft corners
and lines
of pink skin
chest heaving
still trapped in the
moment
locked in that embrace
that has no words
it has no moment

no defined time
or feeling
memorable
yet vague
forever
entwined

the sweet smell
of love and bodies
twisted in knots
that go on forever
deep sighs and
closed eyes
stealing wanted kisses
and glances

between puffs of smoke
in the silence
the mirror
beaming moonlight
giving us enough
to light the next cigarette

to catch the life in our eyes
as we laid
hand in hand
billowing and sipping
loving and silent
j-