Sunday, June 1, 2014


Shadows vs. the Sun

Bird hates me. I am a poet.
He says, “I don’t speak
an ass lick of truth.”

“Settle down.” I tell him
and pass the flask
of cheap whiskey.

Bird’s laughter roars
as he takes a chug
of my liquor.

I am hopeless to him.
Bird pitched an idea
for my chapbook.

He suggested I wrap
my poetry around
empty toilet paper rolls.

He looks at me and says,
“It’s going to be given shit
anyways. So why not?” 

I laughed. Bird teases
he’s an asshole.

One of the finest
I know. His talk
is encouragement
to prove him wrong.

Now, I reach for the Sun.
Yet I am still a prisoner
to the shadows and Bird
died this morning.

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