Slow Ride

Dying slowly
keeping me
from living.

I would take
quality over quantity
every time.

Shoot on Sight

who are you
to sneak up on me
like that?

like some back-alley phantom,
drunk on holes.

and here I am
a sponge,
every morsel of you.

why do I let you in?

when I should slam the door,
break the nose
on your smug face.

when I should have
barricaded my entryway
in the first place.

when I should shoot you on fucking sight.

fear, you just keep
feeding on holes,
leaving us both empty.

Contradicting Muse

it’s late.
I’m reading Bukowski’s poems,
drinking wine.
the head of my 3-year-old daughter
rests on my lap.
I’m enjoying every morose page
feeling buzzed,
not on the Pinot noir
but by caressing her sleeping head,
running my fingers through
her sweaty curls.

and I am happier than Chinaski
at the racetrack
with women in one hand
and whiskey in the other.

life is full of contrast.