thirty summer

carving words out of willows

The suicidal poet

I know of this poet
the real suicidal type
that writes these
little minimalistic free-form
full of depression
dark rooms
and dirty dreams –
Some of the best
that I have read in
a long, long time.
He is able to say in three lines what
it would take me in three pages.
I have read by him seems
closer and closer
to the edge of it,
scraping and skipping
across the pond
of hell
and each one just
a little bit closer to it.
I haven’t heard from him
in 5 days.


Broken little housewives

Broken little housewives
and songstresses of abuse
long ago — so long ago forgotten —
and they sing songs
and hang paintings of
proud and encouraging words
all over the walls.

They plaster these little
novelty-style murals
of out-of-focus flowers
and rhyming phrases
that sound like country songs
and probably are country songs
and they keep hanging them

hanging them
hanging them
hanging them

to get through the day
and to stay out of the sunlight
out of the bars,
away from the gentlemen
and away from the assholes.

They hide behind these
cheaply-framed canvases
and wait
for the next self-righteous
and the next go around
with more pictures
and freshly built walls.