scatology

sometimes
in the mid-
dle of a
good beer
shit there’s
a moment
of perfect
clarity &
then the
blood rush
blooms into
light & dis-
sonance &
damn if
the slate
isn’t wiped
cleaner than
my ass

leaves sink
like cherrios
in oat milk
but what did
you expect

hi-ho silver away

hey if you got a few
bucks to spare
instead of another latte
or avocado toast or
down payment on
a new up-do maybe
treat yourself to
riding lessons since
you got a nice high
horse there buckaroo

self-flagellation

I tell
myself
don’t over-
think it
just go
with the
flow &
don’t
dissect
every
damn
thing
but
the mind
is a
torturous
thing
& it’s
like that
meme
you know
the one
that you
chuckle
at because
you relate
especially
at 3 a.m.
when you
have to
get up
at 6:30
but no
my mind
would
rather
do neuro-
surgery
on every
sentence
that bubbled
out just
for shits
& giggles
& isn’t
that enough
punishment
to justify
existence?

backhanded

someone
once told
me that
my poems
felt like
the bastard
love children
of Chuck
Bukowski
& Rod
McKuen
raised by
Weldon Kees
& Leonard
Nimoy &
that pissed
me off
because
this is the
first time
I’ve ever
used “sloopy”
in a poem
goddammit

fishing advice

the trick
to fishing
midwest
finesse
is to
tug the
ned rig
gently
on every
crank
of the
reel &
tempt
the bass
with a
nedlock
jig &
junebug
zinker
or green
pumpkin
goby
grub
with a
light lift
& drop of
your line
just so
& get
that swim
glide shake
feel going
with the
right fall
rate &
whama-
bama-lam
the fish
hit & hit
& hit &
that’s a
good day

like a bell through the night

the moon is
a fat ass
hanging out
the window
of a ’76
chevy monza
hatchback
fleetwood mac
blaring on
the 8-track
over my head
& ready &
raring for
rhiannon
& my mother
yanking me
back to
my seat
yelling
whatcha
think you
doing fool
& the girls
on their
banana seats
staring at
my pimply
cheeks &
that’s why
I never
had any
dates in
middle school
but I’m not
complaining
because fresh
air is good
for the soul