Paris in the rain

a woman’s life

is too tenuous

delicate

billowy

spider web

close call on I-75

in preterm labor

on the way to the

Paris airport

in the rain

fragile

beautiful

precious

sacrosanct

finite

for bad friends

bad family

bad coffee

bad shoes

bad mattresses

bad jobs

bad husbands

bad debt

and bad dick

learn this by 30 for maximum

enjoyment

future

female

conquerors

of a dying planet

Dinner at the Sizzler

if purgatory

is a soup kitchen line

in a catholic church

hell

is serving up grub

on the corner of 8th & vine

southern baptists

pulling up

in their tax exempt jesus wagon

to serve homeless people

hot chili in july

heaven, happens

in Cincinnati

when pigs fly

across the ohio

when the oxycodone and meth crops fail in kentucky

the country folk flock

across the ohio river into cincinnati

to go to the open air opioid market

people once came to the queen city from the south

to get factory jobs that no longer exist

they were called briar hoppers

we don’t have a name for these new immigrants

other than marginalized, homeless, inmate, and DOA’s

but they’re good at making change

a five dollar bill on the streets of this town

will turn into a baggy of heroin

faster than it will turn

to singles

sweetly, simply

ice blue shimmer

swaddling a snowy city

morning is being delivered

at the library’s

side door

i crosswalk dash

through breathy billows

from my rose red lips

a parliament of cellos

cooing ave maria to a piano in my mind

focused on the coming coffee and time clock

when the man walking passed me

lifts my trance by smiling

sweetly, simply he says,

“beautiful…”

The Inevitability of Cherry Blossoms

“Every mile is two in winter.” – George Herbert

 

January

has a way…

of making atheists

of Englishmen,

country folk,

and poets.

 

It’s as though

they have forgotten

their prayers

and the inevitability

of cherry blossoms.

poem scribbled onto the back of a half price books receipt whilst sitting in the architecture section

i needed to escape my thoughts

but didn’t feel like driving

all the way to the library to be

.

surrounded by books

settling instead

on a half price books

i was hoping to find

kafka on the shore

by haruki murakami

.

no such luck

.

instead

gleefully discovering

a hard cover with pristine jacket

of larry brown’s

fay

and a two buck

the smiths

cd

.

i sat in the wing chair

of the architecture section

devouring my unearthed treasures

trying to forget

for a moment

people were elsewhere

in the world

busily

bloody

needlessly

dying

.

i found myself

wishing for a part time job

in the intellectual oasis

as a way to support my book addiction

.

sighing as i realized it could never be

.

i don’t have enough facial piercings

i’m not pale enough

i don’t have an ironically bad manic panicked haircut

i haven’t stretched my ear piercings with grommets

inside which one could wear an antique salt cellar

or piece of driftwood

in each lumbering lobe

i don’t wear my sweaters belted and frayed

or present with a look of general disdain

and loathing of the shoppers or human race

a permanent puss on an acne scarred face

.

they would never

hire me

to spit or to swallow

the patience and wisdom

coming with age

are fast becoming

my favorite shoes to wear

.

as my own horseshit

and the shenanigans of others

become less excusable

with each passing day

every birthday candle wished upon and blown

.

there comes a point

when you’ve been told

you know better

.

repeated behaviors are either psychosis

or selfish forms of masturbation

such as the poets who write

their daily vengeance poem

scribbled in shit and crayon

on unsuspecting

psych ward facebook walls

.

god

grant me the serenity

to zip my lips when called for

.

to know when to spit

and when to swallow

.

but mostly

when to say

fuck off

dipshit

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