Poetry

March 17, 2019

 

Thyme

I have heard

267 people are born every minute

While 108 die

And yet I don’t feel any of it

I just bide my time

In this numb state

Maybe it means absolutely

Nothing at all

I would rather have the

Treats, even the tricks,

Than be that damn fool Linus

Waiting for something

That fails to show up

The only miracle

I see is people’s

Relentless gullibility

 

 

Raft

No Do not be alarmed

This thing in my hand

Is only a book

Yes, it is made of paper

But I assure you

I am quite content

With my antiquated technology

I do not require any assistance

My batteries are not dead

I do not wish to view

Anything on your digital life raft

I am reading this by choice

And I do

Hope to be left alone

Nothing against you

I am sure

Whatever it was

That you were insistent

On showing me

Is fascinating

Please do not be alarmed

This thing in my hand

Is not an act of desperation

I am by my own accord

Choosing to read this

Book

And yes

It is made of paper

 

 

Old Mission District  

Tomorrow

Our heads will ache

From cheap wine

Our throats will burn

From thirst

The asphalt will render

Our sore muscles useless

But tonight we drink

Tomorrow

The sun will rise

High over the bay

Forcing us from our corners

The shadows of skid row

But tonight we drink

Tomorrow

We will reach

For an empty pack of cigarettes

Then scour the streets

For half-smoked butts

A warm cup of coffee

And a bathroom

To sit and reflect

But tonight we drink

Tomorrow

Will be just like

Any other day

Busking and begging

For change

Enduring all the “piss offs!”

And “get a jobs!”

But tonight we drink

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