Dead my ass.

Poetry never died

just the poets

and even back when the genre

was hot

only a handful broke the mold.

In bed reading Prose. and thinking about the famous phrase, whether used bitterly

or

ironically for gain

-Poetry is Dead-

Lying here in bed

reading some damn good

poetry by "unknowns"

lying here minutes from Mexico

the mountains out the window

cold and bright with sun

at their peaks

the sound of the street coming

alive with tourists

thoughts of coffee

of poetry

the new poets

reaching for me

touching me

through a screen

on a phone

bookstores down there still

sold out of Cummings,

Eliot, Plath, Neruda, Frost.

Bukowski's corpse still raking

it in.

The magazines and online

presences of poetry

the new blood I read

on Prose.

The novelists, scribblers, story tellers, bloggers, beginners, professionals, old and salty writers pervasive across genres,

and,

yes,

the poetry:

as alive as it ever was

or more.

new writers

cropping up

with just as much

to say as the heroes

or more.

the mountains

out there

breaking through

the low clouds

reaching through

haze

to touch

new

light.

You know what?...

Forget it.

Just...

Forget I found some joy

in hoping I saw brilliance.

Forget lighting up my eyes with tasty treats.

Forget the clever things you told me and

about how we're all the same really

I should have known them already anyway.

I just think,you know...

Forget it...

Forget that we had a lot more in common than one thing like liking Breakfast at Tiffany's

(Forget making fun of the song by the way)

so the differences didn't really matter.

Just,you know...

Forget it.

Forget that I cared too much to know when you were joking about being hurt

I really should catch on to life's subtleties

Just,you know... forget it

Forget that I walked through the week in a fog

When you got too busy

Then I was too busy

And we both moved on separately.

Forget I wrote this too.

Just...you know,

Forget it.

Redneck cowboy, shit-kicker boots.

Pickup trucks... The bigger the truck, the smaller the dick.

Southern drawls on heavily make-upped women, fake salutations and greetings met with condescending glares.

Po-Po doesn't have your back unless you are white, Republican and rich. Boy, am I in big trouble.

The music, Jesus help me, it's every where; that God awful new pop country garbage on rotation... Where is my ole friend

Willie Nelson? On the Road again?

149.4 miles to Crawford, Texas Nazi death camp.

Damn... I gotta get outta here.

I sipped coffee and looked out the curtain. The Strip pulsed and flashed, and it undulated with the idea of Vegas beneath it. Lucy walked over and rested her chin on my leg. I leashed her and we sneaked out. My head was throbbing mildly. Should have been worse. Lucy did what she had to do. I watched the night of Vegas. I was a married man. A cop on a mountain bike was chasing two skaters. Limos rolled up and emptied. Back upstairs I drank my coffee and watched the street again.

A light tapping came from their suite, and then stopped. I walked over and opened the door. Their light was on, so I walked in and closed it quietly. Amanda was in the bathroom. Billy sat by the window in front of the hot tub, “Well, this is bullshit. 8:30 p.m.”

“Morning for Vegas. Weeknights don’t count here. How’s your head?”

“I’m not thinking about it. But it’s fucked. Still hitting the town.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Amanda came out. I smiled at her, “It…is…ALIVE.”

She laughed, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Look at it this way,” he said, “we’d be a lot worse off if we hadn’t slept past sunset. I’m actually alright, considering my blood is 93 percent vodka right now.”

Amanda fell across the bed, “I’m not giving in, we’re in Vegas.” She screamed from the bed: “SISTER! Get your ass up!” She put her head under the pillow, “I would go get her, but that involves motor skills.”

The door pushed open and Lucy came in and jumped on the bed. Amanda talked to her from under the pillow, “Lucy Luce!”

Lucy pounced on her and nuzzled her head under the pillow.

“That’s right, Lucy,” I said, “give her big kisses.” Billy smiled.

Christine walked in drying her hair and holding a cup of coffee, “Hey fags, we hitting the town or what?”

I looked at them, “Exactly.”

She walked over and kissed me, “Morning, husband.”

“Hi, Mama.”

Amanda talked to her from under the pillow, “How are you not hungover?”

“Not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”

Billy looked over at the hot tub, “Haven’t even used it yet.”

“Tomorrow, Annie,” Amanda snapped. I laughed. Christine handed me the coffee. “Papi?”

I took a sip and handed it back. Billy looked at me, “Right now it’s Papi. You’ll be Annie in seven years.”

“Bullshit.”

He walked over and slapped Amanda on her ass. She shrieked. It had been awhile.

“Fucking pervert,” she said.

I grabbed Christine’s hand, “I’m taking the old lady down for espresso and a muffin. Back in awhile. Watch Lucy and get your asses ready.” I squeezed her hand. She finished putting her hair back in our room and we walked out. We heard Amanda raise her voice: “I can’t believe you DID THAT! What’s gotten into you?!”

We walked. Christine sighed, “Great. They’re going to be fighting now.”

“Those two are about to fuck. And those two need to fuck.”

“Oh?”

I caught the vibe from him. He’s hungover, away from his problems, in Vegas. He’s a man, and he’s burned out on being passive with her, and she’s just as burned on it as he is.”

We waited by the elevator. She shook her head, “You’re wrong, Sigmund. I know my sister. You think you’re so smart,” she jabbed my stomach. The elevator opened. It was empty. We stepped in. She beat me to the lobby button, “Trust me, Papi, she’s freaking out right now.”

I pressed the next floor down. It stopped and I pulled her out, hit the up arrow and folded my hands in wait. She laughed, “Yes?”

“I’ll make a bet with you. If they’re not fucking, right now, I’ll go down on you on the balcony.”

“And if they are?”

“Then I’ll go down on you on the balcony.”

The door opened. We stepped in and went back up. She folded her arms, “I like the odds in this town.”

We walked to the door, keyed in our side, and I hushed Lucy right away. Not that I had to. Amanda was screaming over the racket of the headboard and frame: “HOLY SHIT! THAT’S THE SPOT! YOU’RE FUCKING HITTING IT! OH MY GOD FUCK ME BABY! OH FUCK!”

Christine’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth. I waved to Lucy and we left like thieves. I stared ahead, “You were right, she’s freaking out.” I pressed the button and we stepped back in. She looked at the doors as we started down, “Wow. He was really giving it to her.”

“He’s had enough sexless bullshit. I don’t blame him.”

She leaned into me, “I’m so fucking hungover it’s insane.”

Sun basking whelps

preen their silvery scales,

eyes glowing bright as

perfectly presented treats,

are placed before them.

Cupcake flambé so fancy,

wild caught Orc steak,

plus a napkin for palate.

The final treat divine,

piled on a platter,is not devoured,

but relished for relaxing aroma,

a plate of well scented socks.

A pleasant smell to dragons of certain taste,

Some whelps may find it acquired,

these enjoy them post-haste!

Maybe it's the holidays. Maybe it's the holidays that make a usually responsible girl turn into a closet wino once the kids are asleep. Maybe it's being left alone too long that causes a girl's vagina to replace her brain in a constantly sex-starved, 'can't think of anything but bouncing on his dick' state of mind. Maybe it's that he's traipsing across the continents, 'playing music for people's enjoyment', while his girl is home, lonely and miserable, settling for second fiddle. Maybe it's a celebration. To raising their middle fingers, saying 'Fuck you, I'm better than this' to the men and expectations who have held them captive too long. The pain, the sorrow, the burst of invincibility, the relapse. All drowned in secret, classy inebriation. But then again, maybe it's just the holidays...

Nebraska. Interstate diner. Feels like a bad song. Kid behind the counter has glasses even thicker than mine. Greasy little prick's probably the one who called the cop. I paid for my coffee. I paid. Man like me gets the dick in public no matter where I go. The beard and the age, the backpack. I get it. No point in dancing around the obvious.

The little shit pile glances at the cop then talks at me while he wipes down the counter, "Cold as a fuck out there, mister. You got a place to stay?"

"I'll be alright."

"Close in 15," the cop says. Fat piece of fuck, this one, "And we can't have you lurking around here, buddy. Jail's closed for the night, too, just so you know."

He nods at the human shit behind the counter, smiles at him, walks out. Car door closes. He sits there. He'll be sitting out there in 15, too. The kid walks in back. Out the window there's a full, crisp moon, but it ain't no moon, it's a fuckin' burden. Time blurs. I'm sick. All my people are dead. The kid flips the sign in the window around and opens the door, stares at the fuckin' floor and waits for me to go.