|
|
|
I started a revolution in my living room.
With four ounces of robitussin and black light posters
I wrote symphonies
painted masterpieces
and gave the power back to the people
but they didn’t have time for it anymore…
continued…
|
BUFFALO STILL ROAM
I started a revolution in my living room.
With four ounces of robitussin and black light posters
I wrote symphonies
painted masterpieces
and gave the power back to the people
but they didn’t have time for it anymore
they already had two kids and a dog.
Peace songs from the sixties
are now jingles for diaper commercials.
Bob Dylan sells Cadillacs
down on Desolation Row.
Red Cloud had the right idea
believe in actions not words
tell them what they want to hear
and burn it down along the way.
The buffalo still roam but
between electric fences.
Buzz white boy buzz
in parking lots
and parades.
I Pull back the curtains
my eyes straighten
pigeons drop dead from satellites
and the leaves are falling again.
Autumn like genocide
breaks so many promises.
The soft air has a death to it
as a new season learns to crawl
the moth throws itself at the light.
HERE TODAY GONE TOMORROW
I know a woman
who used to study mathematical equations
whose three children used to come first
helped with their homework
they prayed at dinner
and each had to say one positive thing
about their day.
She collected crosses
lotus flowers
and self-help books.
It took her an hour to do her hair
and make up.
She dreamed
and sometimes
they even came true.
I used to look in her eyes
and didn’t want to leave like
I was
wading in warm tides
in the South Pacific
the moon reflecting new lands
across the water.
I’d swim in those eyes.
Towards something greater than us.
Now they are two empty motel pools
in Bullhead City Arizona.
Boys in clown makeup
want to keep her a child.
She swore to god.
Every time I asked her if she was alright.
If you don’t believe someone
and they try to persuade you by saying
I swear to God
I guess first you must find
out if they believe in God
because if they don’t
you are back to square one.
Might as well raise your right hand
and place it on a phone book.
There are thousands of real people in there.
Her dreams were
found dead in a field
of wildflowers
with every other petal in her pocket
and the sun in her hair.
Flesh stretched from bone to bone
like a kite
caught in power lines.
MY BODY IS WHITE TRASH HOME IMPROVEMENT
I jerk off more when
my pockets are empty.
Like the free game that comes with a home
video game console
it’s not the most complicated
or the best graphics but
it came packaged with the game
so I take the ride.
Over and over
and once before I get out of bed
and once when I get in.
There are three precise moments in life
when euphoria happens
the two seconds during orgasm
the moment heroin hits the blood stream
and death.
Some day my body will be buried
in dirt flowers will bloom from my
chest like an old toilet
a tractor tire
a rusted wheel barrow
or a claw- footed bath tub.
I will be an accessory perched in a double wide
trailer’s tiny yard as Confederate flags
and windsocks wave above my remains.
And when my eye sockets become
ant hills that resemble scale models of
Mt. Vesuvius young punks will
still gather under the neon drone
of Shell Station lights burning into nothing.
Old men will talk of war weather and lawns
in barber shop chairs VFW bars and yellow
plastic fast food restaurant booths.
Murderers will still stare through razor
wire skies and wonder what it would have been
like to sail across the Tropic of Cancer or just
sail through life without taking one.
Babies will be born and some will
die before they can walk
and some will grow up and get married
and some will have everything they ever wanted
while an amateur gardener pulls weeds
from between my ribs.
(Published in Denver Syntax)
Jason “Juice” Hardung is a late bloomer. After years of trying to live the junkies dream, he decided that junkies dreams never come true. He went to rehab and shook the insecurities out of his head and decided to pick up the pen again after a ten year hiatus. Since then he has published work in various places, both online and in print. He has two chapbooks forthcoming and readings across the country. He is an editor for Matter Journal, Front Range Review and managing editor of the Great Ecstatic Reporter. Jason is also a member of the Beards poetry group with John Dorsey, Lester Allen, Dan Provost, Mike Grover and Jacob Johansen. He resides in Ft. Collins Colorado with his cat and they watch mountains out the window. You can visit Jason and his work at www.myspace.com/juice73. |
Recent Comments