Author: Roger Mugs

you should fear what i have

poetry

lines in the sidewalk give the blind
direct through their shoes providing
bumps which lead forward to more
bumps giving a rhythm to the voices
in my head

remind me of better times
where words were my best expression
before i found you

i warn you thus
never pursue the One i found unless you’re willing to (forever forsake) your muse
for once found
your joy will take your sorrowful words away

into the ether your pen writes
happy line after happy line
and the only thing you’ve left to lament
is the loss of your lamentation

i sup prose you will again

poetry

because if you wake me just one more time
to rub your legs to keep you from whining

know that you should not tell me what to do
or i’ll do it

and as my thumb grips your ankle and
my fingers your calf
though i’m seething inside
you’ll finally be quiet
and i’ll get that sleep we once knew
before you me knew me and i knew you

(and children were the natural awkward
physiological scientific result of
said knowing)

yea like back then

a little about you – with some help from a old family friend we called websters but whose real name also included a merriam

poetry

you are exalted or worthy of complete
devotion as one perfect in goodness and righteousness
of, relating to, or proceeding directly from God
you are having great power, prestige, or influence
you are great in deed or exalted in place
you are marked by stately grandeur and lavishness
and exceptionally superior in kind, quality, or appearance

shmampire

poetry

my condition shows itself not
lest the axis of the earth should be
slightly altered to the left

for then the

moon might shine through these
trees at night and illuminate
my once pale thoughts

my mom says i don’t toot… she says if i average a 9-10 on a scale of 1-10 it doesn’t qualify as a toot… its just straight up a fart. i think she’s wrong. i can toot if i want to. i can leave those farts behind. because those farts don’t fart and if they don’t fart well then, they’re no toots of mine

poetry

this milk makes me toot
and forces me to eat
yogurt on my cereal

a prospect just fine on paper
but so sour i’d prefer to toot

so i’m reintroducing
the bugs my body hates
slowly day by to day
to win the battle i lost so many
years ago

not bitter

poetry

squeezing behind a wheel for the first
time in about a year
i held the grip and shifted gears
awkward with the ease of an automatic

backing out more quickly than i anticipated
and looking to my right (not the left)
i ran plastic into plastic
(cars dont use metal so much anymore)
and paint into paint
a two second
minor scratch

worth 1300 beans to some crapface at a dealership

[sic]

poetry

your faCe in the
throws
of magical attic Rooms
we hid from A
vue
hoPping things might
turn out better than the
flopPing crawling sniffling
you turned out to be
a big dissapointment to most
who knew You

so puh lease return from whence
you came from the pull down
ladder steps up to the hidden third
floor where moth and rust live on FOREVER

this is not a sexual reference

poetry

they wrapped it up and stuffed my insides like a burrito
layering tortillas then chicken
(dark meat)
and pounds of black beans
before the barbecue sauce around my midsection
topping it off with cool silantro
(you can never have too much)
they layered in some sour cream before my esophogas then reached down
(below my belt)
and pulled the tortilla up around my ears then back down again and i
would be a lot more comfortable
if you’d unwrap my foil shell
and devour me

.

poetry

cant do what you cant do unless
you’re powered by something bigger
than a claimed 9.5 hour battery life
which keeps going and going and going
until 9.51 hours at which point you will
die perfectly without lasting even a second
longer than you’re measured to do that’s what
you’re like when you try to do what you cant
do

stick to what you’re good at

the validity of this post should be evaluated and re-considered

poetry

the way my lips touch the ground on return home
should feel better than this but carpet
blocks the soil from beneath me and i
lack the wherewithal to again bend to my
knees and kiss the dirt beneath my feet
when i finally reach the red soil of my motherland

here the wind blows harder
than you might remember
though you’ve probably never come

and here the people are meaner
than you might expect from such
kind faces

and so i’m tempted to bend my knees
and press again my lips to the ground
and screw the dirt that grits between my teeth