Ah, What the Hell
When he finally exposed
his philosophy on writing,
Jack Smithson told those
who cared, that
writing was just for the hell of it…
“Take out of my poetry
whatever you want…”
He claimed, sipping a
beer…
“If you like it great, if
not—that’s fine too.”
Jack didn’t last
long in this world…
He fell along
the side of the road…
Fading into a bleak
pile of stones. He
stood in the entrance of a
temple for a while…
But realized that so many
assholes considered themselves
poets… he
had to get away from
content expression…
So, Jack still lives
in an unmarked grave…
Looking out the
window…
Observes his choices…
Stains the rug
with feeling and
tossed syllables
occasionally…
Lauds spellcheck.
Then goes back to
bed—understanding
that leaving the
keyboard without
any spilled blood
is nothing
but forced typing…
Keep Watching
I wish I could keep my secrets
of
past failures
far
away…
Empty them into the garbage with
the bottles, the candy wrappers.
The suicide attempts.
Never adorned by Christ
or waded my toes in
the lake of being reborn.
Let’s continue to hang
out at the street corner.
Worshipping the telephone
pole—and witness the
champions, scumbags,
lonely and depraved…
Pass on their way
to some sort of
hungry
ecstasy.
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