the ire next time
Thursday, January 23rd, 2014He steadied himself
not for the audience’s
scorn, but for his own.
• • •
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He steadied himself
not for the audience’s
scorn, but for his own.
• • •
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Frozen noses point
to Orion, frozen toes
planted on hard earth.
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Is life a bucket
list, a cabaret or a
tombstone’s etched hyphen?
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The city’s collapse
came not from corruption but
mediocrity.
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Tell her she’s special.
Tell her she’s totally hot.
Tell her she’s the one.
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He played by the rules
and took care of others, then
was hit by a truck.
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He stared at the glass
of pale bourbon, unable
to shove it aside.
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The boogeyman does
not hide nor shock, but merely
points out our failings.
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The drifter pulled his
rolling bag beside him, safe
and dry for the day.
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Wet, cold, ice, windy,
warm, cloudy, chilly, fog, rain,
snow, slick, sun, clear, sigh.
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The personals seem
like a competition in
duck faces and wants.
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The plastic garlands
fluttered carelessly in the
January wind.
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A few old timers
creeped along dusty pews as
the service began.
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He diagnosed his
malady as either a
mild cold or malaise.
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An astute few saw
the bigger issues. And none
lifted a finger.
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