103 - April 12 2024 - about the future

I’m writing about a future
some time
very soon from now
everything I imagined about my world
will be proven wrong
every friend is a wooden doll with an enemy inside it
every enemy contains a friend
and inside of those
roles flip again
and again they flip
until the doll is minuscule
it feels like a fleck of sand
a piece of grit I roll on my palm
and flick back onto the beach
friendships and enemyships are nothings
I am my own worst friend and best enemy
and I make myself into a nothing in the process
I get to be as empty as space
I get to be everything I want and don’t want
all at once
I twist myself open
and all the treasures inside me spill out
and they roll around on the floor
they roll under the couch
you have to kneel down
you have to prostrate yourself
you have to peer into the dark to find pieces of me
you have to reach your hand under the sofa
and try and grasp at what I’m saying here

102 - April 11 2024 - doghouses upon doghouses

doghouses upon doghouses, here I sit
collared up for my uncontrollable bark:
a menace who’s careless where he leaves his shit,
cavalier in my coursing around the park.

back on the leash, I imagine myself plain
my wants no more than a bone on which to gnaw
I feel I’m compliant, and easy to train
craving just a warm lap for my chin and paw

but this is an artifice, I acquiesce
to manifest time off for seeming contrite
and subject my mistress’s will to the test,
ere the gate swings loose and I run free and bite

093 - April 2 2024 - Wild Bill 2

one last sip from this long neck bottle, boys
before you escort me down to the clink.
I’ll go with no trouble, and make no noise,
if you’ll just hold up while I drain my drink.

yeah I shot him, yeah I gave him those holes
that leaked his life.  I made sure he was done.
so send me down to roast on Satan’s coals,
I’d shoot him again—with Lucifer’s gun.

090 - March 30 2024 - Lament of an Old Hunter

to every maid, in days days long past
who lay upon my bed
whom I lured in with lilting verse
and then ambrosia fed

each one, with coursing tears, I left
to hunt for other harts
for endless flew my arrow shafts
and true they slayed their marks

although these maids I made my prize
and mounted in delight
I find my quiver empty now
at twilight in my life

if once my words drew trance-like blinds
it’s magic I have lost
and where I stalked on summer grounds
I now exhale the frost

I wonder could they love me still
or have their lives progressed
to sanctuaries of content
no poetry can best