Sometimes situations sprout up like dandelions like pokeweed like returning columbines, draw a line to remind you what side you’re on. A rage rooted deep a basement buried under a thousand tornados mud swept by sideways falling rain, excavated and dragged under bright buzzing laboratory lights.
There’s no comfort in your favorite chair. No relaxation in a cold NA beer. No solace in the berry blast hydration infused water. But there is crunchy peanut butter.
And for the moment it has to be enough.
Category Archives: Working Class Literature
for the empty short dog in the river
Smoking my pipe near the north end of the wharf
my prayers waft skyward on tobacco smoke flatboats
burned by the big boiler setting over the lock.
Empty, we both float, having learned
this world melts for want of vivid dreams.
It all just makes for fond memories of the pandemic, ya know?
This heat brings out the crazy
it’s all fireworks, domestic abuse in the streets
shirtless pathetic rages on stolen children’s dirt bikes
silly kids wandering the wharf in search of phone charging stations
bloated tourists tottering along 1st and Market
Dear Georgi is this summer over yet? No sirrah no
pop up storms like drive bys
the rain are just evaporated bullet shards
this corpse we’ve built our cities on, a necrotic mess of a thing
even the mayflies don’t land on it
we are a colony of spiders starving in our spun machinations
this moment is one of a billion synthetic experiences
100 % pure sacred-inspired holograms
O moon O Georgi there are not prayers enough
for the shit storm waiting on the back of this heat