pipe

beer, pipe, poop, lard

poetry

as the rings rise and hold steady
slowly thickening the medium that is the air
making it harder and harder to see our friends
sitting across the table as we hold a beer
and thumb over pipe after ring blown
through ring talking beer and then poop bad
idea after bad idea returning to already argued
points again and then once more simply to remind
us that none of us is anywhere near to the perfect
we’re glad we never dreamed of and then
it’s off for a midnight run to the arches of gold
where they say if satisfaction wasn’t found in the
beer than maybe it can be found in a quarter pound of
lard

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