September Poem 43: Volunteer Day at the Old Folks Home

This is the beauty supply kit. And when

The ladies get here, boy howdy, are you

Gonna pull. Pull out a set of tweezers.

Pull out the stray hairs of all the crones in

Here. The wrinkled lips of Aunt Matilda

With that misshapen mole and the color

That bleeds out from black to purple to red.

The one that always has curly black hairs

Growing out of the middle of it are

Nothing compared to the five hairs from old

Ginny’s bulging goiter full with layers

Of jiggling fat and. The smell. Oh, the

Smell. The mothballs and the White Diamonds of

Old age. Oh, who could stand the old ladies?

July Poem 26: That Fucking Monopoly Game

Just my luck. A bank error in my favor.

More money than we could possibly have.

We went out for dinner and drinks before

The groceries and diapers. Wife ignored my

Mention the shorter line. God fucking damn!

Last minute cigarettes. The longest line

In Mississippi. The fucking tobacco line.

The “I ain’t got enough money to feed

My own kids, but I’m sure as hell going

To fill my lungs with tar” line. When the bank

Fucks up, they take back their money on their

Terms. Not yours. But that’s just it. Isn’t it?

Life is that fucking Monopoly game.

You just spend until were all fucking broke.

July Poem 27: Welcome to Huddle House: Let’s Eat

Come in and get some of our fresh coffee.

It’s only slightly burnt. Or you could try

A big glass of our famous southern style,—

Damn the diabetes—ice cold, sweet tea.

Thick enough to pour over your pancakes.

You’ll love the sight of an open kitchen.

Say “Hi” to the beltless chef and his crack.

His specialty is four strips of bacon

With bits of fried trash. One piece is rat shit.

And don’t forget to stay for the hearty

Heaps of handpicked and deep fried horses butt holes.

Nothing better than beer and buttermilk

Battered butt holes, Pounded until tender,

Drizzled to dripping in savory sauce.