2 new poems
When the color of
your hair is like
ash, I will wonder where
the time went.
You will be weary
and old, accustomed
to solitude; I will be
young and sexually frustrated.
We were born
but moments apart, yet
You have a wealth of
history; I am a pauper.
Where was it that
we first kissed?
Your grandmother's basement.
You were drunk, I was frightened.
I wondered if my trembling
hands betrayed me
The way that you would
in two short years.
When the color of
your hair is like
ash, I will wonder how
it is that I've forgotten you.
--------------------------------------------------
My Hometown
I looked in the eyes of
each drunk at the bar.
Every glass of beer hummed
like a lullaby whenever the trains rolled by. Outside, the
smoke from my cigarette
lingered around my head like the
remnants of a daydream.
Back inside, two men chain smoked
in silence
while they shot a rack of pool.
Some tired excuse for country
with slick vocals & right-wing-
Christian-American-nationalist lyrics blared
over the speakers of the neon
CD jukebox.
"These colors don't run" bumper stickers
adorned every pick-up and sedan
in the parking lot.
Two overweight goateed men
in Carharts, smoking Newports and Marlboro Reds,
drinking Coors Light joked:
"You know why dotheads have that red spot in the middle
of their forehead?"
"Yeah, target practice."
your hair is like
ash, I will wonder where
the time went.
You will be weary
and old, accustomed
to solitude; I will be
young and sexually frustrated.
We were born
but moments apart, yet
You have a wealth of
history; I am a pauper.
Where was it that
we first kissed?
Your grandmother's basement.
You were drunk, I was frightened.
I wondered if my trembling
hands betrayed me
The way that you would
in two short years.
When the color of
your hair is like
ash, I will wonder how
it is that I've forgotten you.
--------------------------------------------------
My Hometown
I looked in the eyes of
each drunk at the bar.
Every glass of beer hummed
like a lullaby whenever the trains rolled by. Outside, the
smoke from my cigarette
lingered around my head like the
remnants of a daydream.
Back inside, two men chain smoked
in silence
while they shot a rack of pool.
Some tired excuse for country
with slick vocals & right-wing-
Christian-American-nationalist lyrics blared
over the speakers of the neon
CD jukebox.
"These colors don't run" bumper stickers
adorned every pick-up and sedan
in the parking lot.
Two overweight goateed men
in Carharts, smoking Newports and Marlboro Reds,
drinking Coors Light joked:
"You know why dotheads have that red spot in the middle
of their forehead?"
"Yeah, target practice."