Author: Roger Mugs

i think it’s the brisk clean air i miss most of all. (hoping i wont one day reminisce about today’s reminiscence)

poetry

the sunshine reflecting from the snow
on a saturday with nothing to do
stale, repetitive breakfast spiced with chalula
i try not to stare at the pine needles
so much as to let you know they’re more beautiful
than our your conversation

and we stroll

its cold out, but too beautiful for anything save a t-shirt
my feet cool and dry in my shoes and a jacket
a little too tight
breathing the crisp air you talk about your guitar
your hopes for a band we both know will
never materialize

we pass over grass we know we’ll leave soon
and dream of a place better than this
(dirt made mud filled snow now slush)
knowing full well we’ll later dream dreams of this day
recalling the cool brisk air and the joy we feel
knowing we’re soon to be overcome
reminded we cannot beat the cold

more needles and pine trees and squinting through fall
the beauty of spring – the life of so many things
and the death of our shared plight
a place we’ve found so comfortable

balconies where we pledged to smoke at least one bowl
of vanilla black cavendish
friends we were sure would never fall in love
places we were sure we’d never leave
and times we were sure about which we’d never
reminisce

my beerlema

poetry

i really want a beer now
but i dont want a beer now
because i also want a beer later
and i cant have both a beer now
and a beer later
two beers in one day isn’t a problem
except that i want two beers everyday
and two beers every day isn’t a problem
except that then i have three beers every day
and when i have three beers
some days i want four beers
and five beers is really too many
so i have to refrain from a beer now
for feer of beer too beerquently

back when we slept on rocks were they called Rock Bugs? (this is for you Ned)

poetry

there was a man – once who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with fireworks (one exploded on his foot)

now i’m awed by a man who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with bugs which choose to grow in beds

but i admit as a child i was haunted by the
thought
asked my father “from whence doest they come?”
to which he replied “he who doth not wash his sheets”

so every friday like clockwork
i laid in bed and feared what might happen
should i choose not to get up
and swap out those threads on which i lay

aside from the letter eh?

poetry

aspired i (to)
acquire one (who would be)
aloof until (he was)
alive at last (and then)
altogether lost (at which point bumping into an)
acquaintance of (the former clinton)
actors who (played politicians)
accepting those (they never liked)
answered that (which)
applied to (when they had)
arrived at (the place they)
asked of (those whom)
attacked with (great zeal, but)
agreed not (to ever)
achieve the (goal which they once)
aimed for

inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury

poetry

mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
– together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you

muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you

salvation by breakup and road trip

poetry

for a weekend out
in a borrowed car
we roll up the windows
put the cruse control at 65
and stay in the right lane

cranking the music
we prepare for the best
and drive until neither can
keep an eyelid peeled

stopping only once we’ve made it
to las vegas
new mexico
aka hell on earth

giving up on the camp ground
we settle for a inn with a smoking room
and light our pipes
and turn on the tv to snow

in the morning we make it to the sand dunes
and roll down hills to implant ourselves
face first snow angels in the side of each hill
forgetting our camera we make the trip twice

trying a camp ground again
this time we’re caught in the snow and find
our canned soups only light thanks to duralog
and our final match

turning north we return home at 5am
to refreshed heads
and clear hearts ready for the upcoming
loss which will save me

if we could only learn to focus our minds… then… perhaps… we could do anything (i love this town i swear – i think)

poetry

sweeping roofs and grey skies
dragons, tea
bad kfc
striving just a little more
to see you romantic ‘lly

acid rain,
wet tiles squirt
up the sock i’ve worn
smiling people
spicy food
brakes so loud i need no horn
striving just a little more
been a romantic e’re since
the day i done been born

humid air,
suns mistook for moons
at high noon!
striving
please
just a little more
romantic
romantic
romantic
i can bend that spoon…

going places, are you coming?

poetry

shocked again at your absolute
lack of direction and call
slugging through life
as though near drowning
flailing and gasping for air
hoping to hold on just long enough
for one more breath
then descent
to the deepdark
only to quit and look elsewhere

by 18 lebron was making millions
and all you have to show
is a hiccup of a resume
and a hickey from the last ‘friend’

but more than that
i simply cant understand how a tree
can be so lost