Author: Roger Mugs

cusp

poetry

pride fills my lungs (not air)
as i descend these steps (no elevator)
holding stacks of books (no backpack)
at arms length
at waist height
thinking how much i’ll learn (i know so little)
if i can plow through these (likely I wont)
line after line (not page by page)
of language i dont understand (its all tahitian to me)
as i write
as i read
lacking comprehension
eternally standing on the cusp of brilliance

never jumping

keeping you healthy since 1980

poetry

old wives tales
heading advice we know is garbage
and choosing to wear sweaters
just because our mothers are cold
eating apples obsessively
because of embarrassing rhymes
unworthy of even the worst poetry
books
and brushing our teeth for three
whole minutes for reasons we remember not
but surely have something to do
with some sort of film of black and white
cartoon
narrated by our grandfathers
but forgetting all along
our bodies (be they ours or someone else’s)
still end up in dust
and mold eaten by that which even
we would not dare to eat
whether you help us out or not
we’re only postponing our inevitable
trips to that eternal golf course above

because you disgust me

poetry

cant find the thoughts i left
in the room next to your kitchen
which i hesitate to call dining
or even den given the state its in

and the disarray is distracting
at best knowing i should have
written on something more robust
than a napkin thus making me
downright mad i was interacting

with such a face as yours
in such as house as yours
over such thoughts as yours

kiddo can crawl pretty good now

poetry

your finger finds the puff of
lint fallen from my pocket aged to
perfection through long hours
tumbling round my fingers gathering
tiny pieces of paper and fingernail
fungus never resting even
while being washed seeking lint
from new shirts gathered over
time slowing nearly stopping
aging growing happily
knowing full well it will escape
to my carpet and become an
object of crawling causing
desire for my daughter

good news

poetry

of sunshine in the years to come
because we cannot control the weather
but we can choose where we live
and on what we’ll sleep
like memory foam

it also comes in the form of a
grade after a miserable test
you think you’ll probably fail
but the days after that test
and before that grade

on memory foam
looking forward to sunshine

those days are good

an ode to my future home

poetry

on top of snake mountain
prayer flags wrapped on stones
raise hopes to false gods
friendship is discussed
basked in sunshine then
our knees rattle
the whole way home
taking us shaking
past restaurants serving
dog hoping they dont
beat them before they serve
them to soften the meat
with adrenaline as we’ve
heard
knowing snake mountain
is headless
as it failed to devour
the city

lost again?

poetry

choosing between two
perfectly acceptable alternatives
leaning to the right but never
knowing which way right
will lead because i feel the need
to be committal without knowing
how to commit

and the ground, like my thoughts
slips slowly out from under my feet
as though i’m not walking down this
sidewalk but its moving under me