Drunk Chicken

The Revue is out, and while I’m represented as a photographer in this issue, I’m prouder of my poem. I think it’s pretty good. I got permission to share it here. This Revue was about food, drink, and entertaining, and included recipes. The goal of the editor was to have a poem for each recipe. Being a helpful sort of guy I looked over the recipes and the title ‘Drunk Chicken’ whispered sweet nothings in my ear.

So I wrote this (reproduced with permission of the publisher):

Drunk Chicken

Drunk chicken
shoots her gun in the house
“You’ll break the eggs!”
Drunk Chicken don’t care.
She’s got more.

Fuckin Rooster gone, long gone
Out in the yard
shouting to the rising sun
“I banged Henrietta last night!”
Drunk Chicken don’t care.
Not so you can tell.

Deep in her nest
Drunk Chicken looks right and left
takes a swig of rum
pulls from the twigs a bullet
strokes it, whispers its name.

She kisses it, as gently as
a drunk chicken can
and puts it away.
Six cylinders
Six ordinary bullets
Rooster don’t deserve the special one.

Two Cops

Two Cops. Donuts, barbs.
One is the protagonist;
the other is dead.

3

Machine

I am a machine
opinions and facts, without
the heart I once had

1

For my Sweetie

For My Sweetie

birthday tradition
visit to the candy aisle
heart-shaped box half off

3

I met a guy once

I met a guy once

I met a guy once, a big guy his skin black his teeth white his eyes red his laugh came from deep in his belly, and “who the hell are you?” he asked me.

Burning Words

Burning Words

There are words in my head
“fifty-six” I said just now
out loud, for no apparent reason
“Marconi”
“samurai”
“bivalve”
They are sounds, nothing more
disconnected
They bang about up there
ugly tourists

If I smoked
I’d write each word on a cigarette
and burn it
hear it crackle as I inhaled
watch the paper glow and draw back
“transcendent”
“ninteen”
“maybe”
the numbers most of all must go

Road Haiku

Road Haiku

Mile post fifty
Night monsoon flash and grumble
Mile fifty-one