rain pours from gutters
as we huddle together
the dog wets my lap
Tag: Writing
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Shit Stained liars speak
Offering words of wisdom
The polls are open
Specificity is the soul of narrative – John Hodgman
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Signs clog the corner
Candidates on active show
The toilets are full
My block is full of signs for local political candidates. All vying for space admist the weeds, trash and flotsam. My dog pisses on them every time we go by. #goodboy
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Billiard Ball wouldn’t dare talk
To the cops about ‘Beansie’ Rosenthal
Eventually offering him a chance to walk
If he threw Gyp the Blood and Vallon to the wall
They all worked for top cop Becker
Rat King of Graft in Manhattan
Known to make ‘problems’ disappear
In his control of the crime-ridden metropolitan
They shot ‘Beansie‘ twice in the head
“He’s a goddamn coward and talks too much”
Convicted Lt. Becker for being the lead
Of the late-night killers held in the clutch
By DA Whitman who prosecuted them all
Becker and company electrocuted in Sing Sing
For their murderous conspiracy did fall
As the Underworld of NYC rejoiced reveling
True crime poetry sample. Mining the criminal cases of yesteryear.
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Hail hornbeak
Mud dweller
Wrapped in brambled kingdom
King of brackish dishwater
Iron backed elephant
Lord of the swamp
What honor and glory you bestow upon me with resolute parade
How you follow me, across pitted
Tarmac, ponderous steps in
Unison with my own
Exiled by choice on fealty quest
Gallant and proud, you rise up to meet the car that bares down upon you
Dashing Royal Colors against the common stone
Kingdom abandoned, smashed asunder
I salute
Your broken Grail
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car wheels on gravel
trunk weighed down with heavy loads
the graves are waiting
dumping in IN is common with landfills filled with all kinds of trash
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In tangled, well-worn threadbare mess
Heaters piled alongside harpied phone
Tumbled record players fumble to caress
Rusted acetylene tanks, open lying prone
My host a filthy leather recliner
Lying coated on the dusty slip wood floor
Packed next to mismatched broken china
Testament to my own vigor
I am not a flea market pawn
Nor white trash savior immune to scorn
My $3 sandals, books reshorn, worn
Waiting patiently to be borne
Home
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Loba is missing now
One Thousand Dollar Bounty
Dog fighting ain’t cheap
This town. So many dogs dumped, lost and thrown into fight rings.
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Mowing the lawn now
Childhood feels and smells of home
Corpses stay buried
Be careful to not cut the lawn too short
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feast that is poetry, feed me in mouthfuls of truth, bleed into my very self
this whirling feast sustains me like no other
Outlaw Poetry 