angry guitars wail

a snide voice, whiny and prophetic snarls about the government, or organized religion

maybe it is a love song

i stopped paying attention five or six songs ago

really paying attention

my toes still tap along to the staccato drum breaks

the bass line travels up and down my spine

late seventies punk rock

nothing says fuck you like a cold war and heated up punks in torn shirts and denim vests

tried writing to jazz but the words assumed the melody

became me trying to dance with one leg tied behind my back

and i’m not light on my feet

who has time for guitar solos

give me a thirty seven second song with a pulse and move on

if your album is longer than twenty minutes you had better be buying my lunch

at least that is how i feel right now

tomorrow will be filled with jazz to calm the words

but tonight is for insomnia and dulling the pain with someone else’s anger

my tank is empty

i checked with a rag stuffed into it and a lighter

there was no sonic boom, no flying muffler

just the textured ceiling and a million and one shitty poems

found out a friend died last night

another friend gone

been riding the fumes of grief and disbelief since

like a sugar rush

snorting ground up glass and breathing out a fine red mist

i am teared out

maybe this rush will be the one that propels me from mediocre poet to mediocre poet with a book of medicore poems to try and pimp to anyone looking to drown in insipid self actualization

maybe i will write the next great forty six second ballad

need to learn the guitar

playing the strings of fond regrets doesn’t sound as good through an amplifier

bet i would look fierce with a safety pin in my nose

and a denim vest with a misfits patch sewn on over a black leather jacket with studs

this one goes out to you bj

and to anyone else missing someone

i’m gonna sit here and tap my toes some more

write five or six more shitty little ditties

a one man circle pit

nothing but venom and piss and vinegar in my last uncollapsed vein