Author: Roger Mugs

because sometimes we think microchips and nukes make us pretty tough

poetry

your torrential downpour –
wash us clean from our pride
to remind us
of things we cannot control

your voice alone is the thunder
your grace alone is the rain

no matter the price of gas
you will not cease to send your rain

people dying in earthquakes
those who will drown today in oceans
they’re as real as this house
this street, this page, these words

and my wife.

you created life
we try so hard to harness
you alone create.

how small i am and how big you are
to strike down,
create
destroy

remembering that you are not safe
but you are good

your rain
so thick i cannot see
you remind us who you are

and who are
we.

things that made us famous, but you’re still nobody

poetry

all too many people
shy away from the topic of poo
out of fear of offending
their mothers reading
their works when they finally
publish their own book
someday

the sieve can address it all
from rape to cannibalism
when we want to say pants
we say trousers

if i say trunk, i mean both
the ass of the car
and a garment to cover your ass
whilst you swim

i have boldly gone where you
have not
the deep has never challenged me

hover, and hold
squatting will keep you from having
to squeeze

but dont fall in
or you’ll become famous
you nobody.

bearded freaks, i vote ratstache

poetry

dealing with bearded
folk is like dealing with
chester the molester
(who clearly is clean
of chin but mustached)
who is no molester at all
but rather a man of extreme
listlessness
confused because he has been
single for much too long

but the man with the beard
married (as usual) but completely
living like he’s single
these people are the antithesis
of what we call
“whipped”

and while they see it as freedom
they’re wrong.

on working with a bunch of incompetents

poetry

you’d think they’d give a rats
bottom but then you’d be wrong
the only bottom they’re going
anywhere near is the bottom of
the pile where they’re all sitting
around and not writing poetry
like good little english pub chips
if that means anything to any of
you maroons out there. so here
i’ll just keep afloat everything all
nine of you were all so passionate
about just two weeks ago. to the
point where we had to ask you to
back the freak off. but look where
that got us now? as the french
say les incompetant or something
of the sort. but who likes Macaulay
Culkin? (I almost called him Hulk
Hogan – which would have been a
funny mistake to have made in
print – even if electronic) afterall
anyone who looks that much like
a girl at 19 should not be respected
in the least. or so says this guy
who didn’t get the memo
about how we’d all stop writing
on the same freaking day and have
a whole 24 hours of down time
something never done in the history
of the sieve. the heck with it. i’ll
crush ya’lls heads like Hulk Culkin
if you dont get off your slacking burros!

punkin (a balad in d minor with no metre)

poetry

I want to kiss your belly button and
hold your toes
give you a backrub while you
blow your nose

to rub your feet with lotion
so at night you’re leg-cramp free
and wash the dishes for you so you’ll be
extra sweet to me

but sometimes I just want to
lay my head on your thigh and
together we can turn to the evening
and wish it bye bye

im happiest when im loving
you
but i wish that you’d just take
it
when im overwhelmed and tired
loving you helps me make
it

you’re not the reason I live today
but you sure make do make it better
you’re my love and my joy
my favorite ever ever

roots

poetry

maple leaves
strewn across brick porches
wooden rocking chairs a’creekin
brats on the grill
beer in my hand
a tornado warning

the cold preceeding torrential
rainfall and seagulls flying by the
wind of the great lakes

my german-wisconsin heritage
maple leaves and all