Category: Writing

Poetry, Prose, and Stuffso…

Superserialserious

A short walk,
Just talk, with me.
15 miles from home,
My intentions are mine alone,
She wanted to walk away..

First of the morning
When the light has yet to send its warning.
An ugly picture of man’s decent,
Faster I run to meet temptation.

Uniformity
When the light has yet to expose the enormity.
Scarcely a minute to breath.
Pick up your sin, then leave.

A dark discussion,
Just me and the mad Russian,
Disposition of love and hate,
Like steam from a city grate,
You can’t wash this away…

Acrimonious
Before these words, beyond harmonious.
6’s & 7’s, the blood, the bone.
Arguments best had alone.

Parsimonious
The greed outlives the symphony.
A brief cry for the cause,
Pick up your sin, take no part.

A simple dishonor,
Just you and the honor.
To locate the body,
Last seen in the lobby,
I can’t wash this away…

A short walk,
With me, just walk.
She was a silent giver,
I dressed her in the river,
She wanted to wash away…

Flesh like some

The twisting of the light while the fall,
I feel the weight of some, no all
How will you get around this day?
Someplace, sometime, someway.

The shaking of the light against the seam,
Witness the fire of the iron, against me.
How will I get over this day?
Somehow, somebody…some say.

The fading of the light into your skin,
Against the ghosts in line, so thin.
How will we get beyond this point?
Through here, through you, one coin.

Stripping your life by layer,
tearing your shame by fire.
Your flesh is not so simple to see.
The sun burning your flesh is me.

Midwest Memoir

Coffee and Whiskey
How long will you miss me

Big boned Minnesota women
Blonde haired, blue eyed demons

Truckers and silos
How far will this love go

Ames Iowa and KD Lang
Corn fields split by a train

White on Green road signs
Endless chain of highway lines

Songs about women and dixie
How long will you tempt me

Tractors for sale for hours
Weight stations and water towers

Mile marker 210
North or South you hit the wind

I came here looking for nothing
Found John Deere tractors rusting

Milo to bluegrass to concrete
From country to suburbs to main street

Stained Love

As our beauty abandons us,

You look over your shoulder with indifference

A self-centered sacrifice of little consequence

Come and go are strangers with no currency of significance.

 

You have been forced to love me,

so hate me now before motivation is lost.

This biding of time is insulting,

composed of conversations to convince us of civility.

 

Marking the beautiful as a wretch

Replacing the superficial with substance

Questioning the rational and emotional

How does one cooperate without concession?

The State I Love to HATE

I hate that our trips to TX require us to drive through Jokelahoma as nothing good seems to come from traversing the red dirt filled hell.  Or so I thought…

We needed to refuel our OverlandPark cruiser with petrol and Ardmore, Fuklahoma seemed as good a place as any, given the fact that the fuel light had been on since Fort Worth…

So I pulled the ol’ soccer mom-mobile into a filling station right off I-whatchutalkinboutwillis35.  Jill and the kids wandered inside to visit the local pisser, while I fueled up the car/truck/whatever a Honda Pilot is.

While I was standing there, breathing air that didn’t smell like sweaty feet sprinkled in shit, I made my usual survey of the surrounding area.  A mere two pumps over from me was a 1/2 ton Chevy shit-hauler painted that ever-so unique color…primer gray.

Standing to the far side of this blessed vessel was, what had to be a local beauty queen, circa 1974.  She was busy putting a $1.62 worth of 87 octane in the aforementioned 1/2 ton Chevy shit-hauler.  She glanced over noticing me watching her.  This was a sure sign of trouble.

She smiled showing me her methamphetamine created smile.  The gray of the four teeth she possessed elegantly matched the grey of the aforementioned 1/2 ton Chevy shit-hauler.  I could tell she was engaging her feminine charms.  She quickly straightened her sleeveless Dale Redneck Sr. NASCAR t-shirt, lightly brushing the bottom edge to whisk away the Burger King Whopper remnants.

She then turned her body, still smiling at me with her primer colored teeth and what I can only assume where her gums.  I watched as the sun caught the top of her pock marked inner forearm.  My eyes moved slow and painfully up her arm to what was once her bicep, now a skinbag decorated with a tribalbarbedwire tattoo.  I am not sure, it could have been a tattoo of I-35 from San Antonio to Wichita, it was difficult to discern as the fumes from the gas running on the ground were clouding my eyes and mind.

I can only assume she deduced her “feminine charms” were not working on me as I had not yelled to her, “Hey whore, lift your shirt and show me those chewed on dog toys.  Play with their noses some, it really does it for me”.  One cannot make too many assumptions regarding situations like these.  However it was clear she was switching tactics.

It seemed since her beauty was not to seduce me, the siren then tried to bedazzle me with her intellect.  Still employing the omni-present gray fleshy smile she reached into her left back pocket and pulled out a package of some sort.  I distinctly remember it was her left back pocket as a leather wallet attached to a chain that was subsequently attached to a belt loop, occupied her right back pocket.  I have no idea what was in her front pockets, but I am sure it has to smell like catfish bait.

I digress….

Oh yes, the package from the left back pocket.  I could tell she wanted to impress me with her Poklahoma intellect, something beyond the rudimentary reedin’ an’ rightin’ an’ ritmatick she had attained.  Apparently she wanted to demonstrate her knowledge of chemistry, likely something she learned from her kin.  The package she retrieved from her left rear pocket was a package of Marlboro Lights.   I am unsure if the tobacco product in question was specifically 100’s or menthols as I am not a smoker.  Nonetheless with the grace of a crackhead holding a bag full of assholes, she packed the smokes on the palm of her hand and tossed one straight from the pack into her awaiting gums.

Then came the impressive part…while tapping out the last $.13 of the aforementioned $1.62, into her tank, she simultaneously and notably with her free claw, lit her cigarette.  Noticeably proud of the fact that she successfully lit the cigarette with one hand (not to mention not blowing me, herself and 2 others into the wal-mart parking lot across the street) she flashed me a “ohyeahigotitgoingontakemetothetribalcasino” look.  Pfft tribal casinos…don’t get me started on those red devils….again I digress.

By this time I am praying Jill will exit the store and the gas pumping banshee would be afeared and flee.  To my surprise it was not Jill exiting the store that hastened the crones retreat, but the crones “20-something” girl friend.  That is right my friend, that old 1/2 ton Chevy drivin’, skinbag tattoo havin’, Marlboro smokin’, gas pumpin’ reptile was a lesbian.  A lesbian with a SMOKIN’ HOT “20-something” girlfriend.   At this point my hypocrisy kicked in and I admit the whole scenario was hotter than a monkey’s ass on the savannah.

With all my love,

Tony