rum, assonance of a pigeon
by Roger Mugs
when struck just right
these chords create sounds
not notes
and disunity makes music
or something like it
bird shit if aimed right
a symphony if in colors
an opus if when drunk
when struck just right
these chords create sounds
not notes
and disunity makes music
or something like it
bird shit if aimed right
a symphony if in colors
an opus if when drunk
Cut, dried, salted.
My mouth salivates at the notion.
I’d be the leading skeptic
To anyone arguing that there’s a better
food than bacon.
Day by day, I’ll grow new leaves
I’ll change into a
a sturdy existence for someone else to lean on
As I sit on my bed, I am barely dreaming
my blood mounts, but my face has changed
I was unhappy as a child
I was unhappy as a teenager
as an adult, all I have left is potential
for unhappiness, I have grown up
joy hits me with the 3rd bottle of wine
It’s a great big jungle,
out there.
Just past the windows
of an all-protecting minivan
you can see the riff-raff
wandering the streets, begging
for someone else’s hard-earned
coin, and sleeping behind trashcans.
Everyone knows it’s tough out
there, that’s why everyone
tries to stay inside as much
as they can.
And before I die, if I have a
child, I will raise him on red
meat and good sense. I will
teach him the collected works of
Miles Davis, and show him
the ropes, or how not to get
caught up in them.
But mostly, and most
importantly, I’ll demonstrate,
with kind words and closed fists,
what to do when the riff-raff
comes wandering by,
for crack money.
the way i remember it
we sure as hell were not thankful
that first november
ah but the gravy
you got that part right
how many questions must arrive
who upon the earliest to rise
found no falling leaves or scents of such
but the sweet odors of nights dewly dust
the spring has returned with no flower
but beautiful none the less
as we adjust to our new bodies and in
feeling for friends,
grope around in the dark
backs of neglected cupboards
