Jason Ryberg

Killin’ It


There I was, on stage, for some reason,

with the Blind Boys of Alabama, at some

big palatial opera house in front of a

sold-out crowd of tuxedos and gowns,

like I was meant to be there,

like I was in the goddamn band, man,

and supposed to know all the words

and what the hell I was doing (though

I was neither blind nor from Alabama),

like I wasn’t just some hayseed, chuckle-head

whiteboy who somehow wandered in

off the street into what surely had to

have been a dream but sure-as-shit

felt pretty goddamn for-real right then

and there and I was killin’ it, man,

I mean killin’ it big time, then

bringin’ it back to life; great God

a’mighty I was good!






When it all comes down to it,

are poets not just a bunch of

raggedy, gold rush tin-panners

sifting for whatever little bits and

nuggets of the big motherload of

capital “T” Truth and Beauty that

the old heads drone on so much about

from their rocking chairs and front porch

stoops, brown bags out and tipping 

between bouts of laughter and the

odd moment of tense debate.

And would we all not be better off

if we traded in our picks and shovels

for a pawnshop metal detector and

a pair of Crocs and spent the rest

of our days probing for our modest

little treasures down at the park or

maybe even a beach somewhere

a little more civilized?

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The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!