A McPoem, Plain

Laid on top, to make a play of ease, poor art,
the bread and sometimes butter.  The first thought

laid open when the cover is lifted (never cut it),
is how the meat still drips and still is steaming,
broiled and broken, still is breathing,
still dreams of freedom and the sun on grass,
like a poem can never last.

Ends with a bite, that lingers, holds,
Ending fast, still growing cold.

But sometimes a burger is a god damned
mess, a humble event loudly announcing
itself to be falling apart.  Catch it, catch
everything that tries to run away
the momentum keeps you close though
melting in your hands and tickling down
your arms is noticed then ignored

until the last bite brings you back
to the desolation and blasted poetry of a full stomach.

Another WIP

The detached confessional:
Fuck you, father, I have
No use for forgiveness.  I have
sinned in these dusty wooden halls
where people eat with bowed heads and I have
spit bloody, chipped teeth into the communal begging-bowl
for dessert, having
never been sent away, hungry or otherwise,
to this room with soft walls, I come with what I have.

MEGA Bus-Freewrite

A twenty-five minute rest stop feels more like a prolonged gasp for life
and everybody’s waking up with two hours left of bleary black outs.

I feel sorry for the poor bastards staring out the tinted windows
looking as black as the highway looking in.

It’s better to sleep then with rocking headphones.
Waking up from the monochrome of closed eyes every so often

that you might as well be blinking the miles away
and finding sleep behind the black wheels spinning

like so many cd’s — more or less obsolete and silvery
black rumbling about losing icy minutes to skipping

scratching and stuttering.  Eventually it stops worrying.
Eventually we all stop worrying.  Flip the bus

Over and over and round and round.  Round and round.
Somehow anticipation drives faster than resignation.

Somehow this driver goes faster than the riders.