No, Millennials did not invent avocado toast
Millennials, your dream of being different, of never being like your parents, of rejecting money, of living as a wandering digital nomad, is nothing but an illusion shared by every generation that has preceded you.
Every generation rebels against the culture that preceded it, and there has never been any…
A blue feather stuck to the pane
Thundering slap against my office window
Scared the hell out of me
Almost dropped my wine
Bird crashing into the glass
A blue feather stuck to the pane
and a streaky smear
of bird spit running down the middle
Now stunned on its back
Glassy eyed, but still breathing
Reminded me of my drunken uncle
Walked into a sliding glass…
I will not be hurt or afraid anymore
We learn early to run away from what hurts,
to avoid ones who damage us
with their anger and hatred,
who seek to control us
with the power of their love
We are taught as children to seek the hands
of one who can make it all go away
Don‘t worry,
I won’t let the hurt touch you,
your…
Just imagine if I had never left him
He was fat, bloated face, deep wrinkles on a face tortured by too much sun. All this made my wife happy because what was left of him was what was left of her ex-husband. We were back in a town we had left for a family wedding for my stepson…
Are you one of us?
I thought the living dead
would rule the world,
now I believe hordes
of poets will outlive
the cockroach,
stalking the nights,
forever shouting verses
to the shadows of night,
sitting up in the wee hours
debating personal madness
shared in a poem
Every frustrated writer
is a secret poet…
This world means little to me without you in it
I stood at the foot of the grave
You’ve been gone now a decade
Your last months still a sharp edge ripping my brain
I lay awake staring at the ceiling
Closing your staring eyes again one last time
The final kiss…
but you were already gone
your lips already cold and distant…
I want so much from my poetry writing, but I know so little
I want so much from my writing, but I know so little. Bits of poems rattling around my head, the bones of decent lines peeking out of the darkness, but never good enough, never those few words that make the old women cry and drunken men sigh.
I came late…
Old is old, the reality of what living a long life leaves us
Old is old. Old is not young, nor will positive thinking fool your addled mind into believing you are young. Old is not a mere state of mindfulness, nor a condition of the mind where you scream to the world you are only as old as you feel. …
Angry at a world he does not understand and cannot control
Retreating into yesterday
Running backward in time
Today’s world too much
for his shattered ego
Tomorrow won’t save him,
he doesn’t believe in tomorrows
This one will kill us all he moans
I fear for my grandchildren he cries
How could we lose so much
He runs toward those days…
Some days I think I would rather sell drugs on the corner
You stand in front of the mirror, wondering who owns that face of misery staring back at you. What the hell happened to the one that was once you. Where did she go? Why did she leave, dragging the last tidbit of happiness out the door by its scrawny tail…
