Listen
have I ever told you
that dogs frighten me?
even now, the sound
of barking, makes my anxiety stretch its long legs.
have I ever told you
the blank stare you hand
out like flyers at a church
social, makes my bones ache?
you give me that “look” that says
you have someplace for me to be
other than here, while i’m stretched out in my lazy boy like on a medieval rack,
because that’s where I’d rather be other than across town picking up
laundry detergent, frozen
burritos or the industrial size
toilet paper. have I ever told you that being near you comes with the price of cigarettes at midnight or a mountain dew with a cup full of ice
that magically appears without you moving a finger? still, those dogs, with their bared teeth and their muscular legs loping toward me, thunderously pounding
the pavement, make me loose my shit, slightly more than you do my love, yet I’d go to the end
of the earth for you,
just not tonight.
The 4th
we are lined up like toy soldiers waiting
to be played with as candy flies
into the streets
where the children brave passing cars and trucks to pick up the ravaged
goodies that have survived.
my daughter wonders why there were no horses and I am sure it’s because
no one wants to be on shit duty.
all vehicles head for the legion field
where a free hot dog and a coke
satisfies the hungriest tummy,
those that are older are treated to music
that sours with the wind, wafting
toward our porch where Tylenol
is our best friend.
butchered songs hang in the air like hogs at the slaughter-
house, and we retreat
into our houses to save what is left
of our dignity for listening so long.
Gag Reflex
Fried eggs used to gag
me, send me into fits
of dry heaves
and denial, still, I learned
to exorcise that demon
by eating raw ones
in a glass so everyone
could see me choke
down pre-chick amniotic.
now, late at night, trapped
in a dirty motel room,
tits flying in my face,
I ask her to go down
and take what she wants.
”pay up,” she says
and as I dug the going rate from
the pocket of my acid washed jeans, I mumbled,
“lunch is on me.”
New Book! Presales end 9-27
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Only 17 days left on my preorders which end on 9-27. If any of my Prose family are interested, please preorder before the deadline. Books ship the week of 11-22.
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
Where Do We Go From Here
-after Alan Parson’s Project
death is a jogging track
a loop into nothingness
God in a track suit
setting pace, those that can’t
keep up aren’t fit
to enter the fabled gates
disposed like used gloves
hand sanitized and washed
with no regard to what comes
after
the genderless fog kisses my lips
like a mother, soft and giving
never leaning into the moment
but bidding us toward
whatever is beyond that slight veil
of a tomorrow we never
counted on or counted out,
it was just there
and we are bleating like sheep
to follow a slaughtered lamb
checking his Fitbit for steps
New Book! Presales end 9-27.
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Only 17 days left on my preorders which end on 9-27. If any of my Prose family are interested, please preorder before the deadline. Books ship the week of 11-22.
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
My Book
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Preorders end on 9-27. The link below will take you there. Thank you so much my Prose family!
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem
God is a flamethrower
I am his match
glistening with the sticky
leftovers of the melted
burn of all our liberties
out of control
the bright orange flame
of ignorance still burns
the same flame we as kids
warmed our hands to
banging the same drum
as everyone else until
that year when followers
drank the Koolaid because
sheep do what they‘re told
because sheep don’t move
when their necks are being
slit open