Working Both Sides Of The Street

in Prose Poems

What conjures more Hit-Whore than a Poet? The back-door semaphore of an Amateur Political Tout. Some Beltway bystander ready with last week’s drive-by in full auto-Pontus-pilot pout… with clean hands pickin’ the low-lying hoot and Hee-Haw of how Happy Days would be here again…and we’d all be fast friends…were it not for the poor, rich, young…

and those old & anachronistic … salt sugar cigarettes and same sex holy soda water drowning the free market and the flea market of small ideas with a big gulp of Gitmo guilt while too big to sail to safe harbor or Tora Bora and did W stand for wilderness or what the fuck are you blaming all this shit on my guy, says our tribe, and your tribe chants back while “we” bury another Spec 4, High School Sophomore, and a six year old from Sandy Hook, as Westboro Baptist gear up.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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