the unadorned bard
Wednesday, July 16th, 2014Poetry is a
dead end. Perhaps a lute or
a beret would help.
• • •
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Poetry is a
dead end. Perhaps a lute or
a beret would help.
• • •
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Why change, or even
pretend to change, when we all
know we share one fate?
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They would drive miles for
pie, then drive more miles homeward
discussing said pie.
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Around the corner
and down the hallway to the
big bowls of kibble.
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The celebration
of the unworthy in an
unironic sense.
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If it’s too nice a
day for class in April, it’s
a crime in July.
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A once special day
had become another date
on the calendar.
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Asphalt wet with a
leak. Precious water wasted
straight to the sewer.
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The lumpy couch, the
unmade bed, really any
napping place would do.
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A fresh coat would at
least cover up the rust spots
and hide all the mold.
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Barbecue pork, red
clay, honeysuckle, crawfish
boil, shotgun smoke.
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Coming to save the
day, not for humanity,
but for avarice.
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Photo: Robert S. Donovan (CC)
Happy birthday, America!
It’s OK to love
America, but not love
lov-v-v-v-v-ve America.
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She rushed in to fix
the unfixable, but could
not bear the stillness.
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