a month of Sunday poems...

dining on conventions and pocket knives

mentions of a beauty queen

that liked it rough once

no one knew she wore

the crown, somehow

we all pick up the pieces

of what beaten bones

Hunter S. Thompson stole into

the death of the American dream

smells like gasoline and unabashed go

we still dream

here in America

but it ain't

the same rasp

against soft skin

asking for a salve

that it once was

those of us here

bleed freely

paying price-bandages

designed as death’s clothing

weary, might we be

we allow mouths

to feel our edges

sledge-hammering velvets

rampart wildebeests and

blind lemming drives

to oceans waiting

thirsty as we are

salt will not save us per se

but it will keep tomatoes

in a jar all winter long

a soul is buoyancy

essence preserved

shell, albumen

and yolk

a light lunch

a little radicchio and endive

a little green onion curry

stirred into the eggs and

please toast the muffin lightly

the tomatoes I’ve stewed gently

with some Riesling and roasted garlic

chiffonade of lemon basil

as a finish and presentation

somewhere a betty boop-esque cigarette maiden

is offering me iniquity, I smile and tell her

I prefer the naughty girl blow job routine…

EJR ©