Stinking pelt

Line 9
On the way home
The local tabloid
Spread on the floor
I pick it up
I read
This woman
87 y.o.
Was hit by a car
Jaywalking
Dead
This other woman
72 y.o.
Not crossing the street
Fast enough
Flattened
By a truck
This couple
79 and 76 y.o.
Crashed on the road
Were killed when
Another car
Hit them
Getting old
Is like a sinking ship
Water is cold
And you’re
Never sure
Where hell
Is coming from

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Alone on Mars

On Line 9
When hurling down with
The last train
The iron tracks screaming
And ghosts standing alert
You’re not exactly dead yet
But not
Exactly alive
Anymore
That moment in between
When you don’t
Have to think
Whether you’re
Dead or alive
Is comfortable
Enough
Somehow
You wish
It’d never end

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Black Magic Woman

There I was
Drinking on the bench
Minding my own
When this black woman
Rather young if not pretty
Comes and talks to me.
Her hands are
Tattooed all over
Up to the wrists,
Not her face
Body I don’t know
Just the hands
Tattooed like a beautiful
Work of art.
“Why just the hands,” I ask.
“I was at a wedding,” she says
As if that would explain everything,
“But it ain’t gonna last.”
“Nothing lasts,” I say.
She laughs
Shows me her hands
Let me touch them
And I can imagine those hands
All over me
Understanding
Not judgemental
Soothing.
Then she has to go
Of course.
I look at my bench
Someone had carved a heart
In the wood.
Old story I guess.

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Keeping honest

I drink beer, a lot of beer
And lots of beer on funky nights
In the morning, my beer shit
It’s Hiroshima and Nagasaki
With all due respect
To Sake and Lemon Sun.
People offer me wine
Or spirits
I usually stick to beer
I explain that with beer
I never lose control
No blanks
Where you wake up
Somewhere
Not knowing
How you got there
With beer I always
Find a way home.
But that’s not why
I like beer
I like its bitter taste
It reminds me
Of myself when I was a
Poor young fuck
In poor part of town
And beer, bad beer but lots of it,
Was the key to elsewhere.
It still works though
When on my bench, drinking
Still poor
Still looking
For elsewhere

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