Sitting Under the Poetry Dome

Poor unhappy soul,

(you haven’t found where it is hiding, but be reassured,

it’s there, because they found him and gave him a good hiding…)

whatever gets you through your weary day…

Is OK,

for you somehow made your way home

staggering as you do

now dwelling

for a short while

in your creaky thrift store

pine rocking chair

reading, flipping pages

(a bit too nobly, if I may be so bold as to say so…)

 sitting under the poetry dome.

But, this is how we are…

A Psychologist can suit you fine,

that mixed drink was swell

another time;

But, petting your kitty

to get the answer you dare tell

in the party zone was worth that

call you made that used to cost one thin dime;

but, it

made you a very silly boy…

you keep searching,


there are no answers

for you


when you are in desperate need

parsing the low road to hell.

That’s why you unpredictably

High kicked your Uncle in his hanging ass

because you’re goanna puke

if he lights up one more of those bastard step child

corner liquor store cigars.

And, you pound down that beer

you bought on sale

(and, you didn’t know uncle just left minutes before

in his old nineteen fifty nine four door black Caddy hearse. But, as your lungs filled

you knew in your heart you smelled his scent on a concrete trail which swung past a gut feeling…)

where he bought that same rotten outdated cut rate cigar.

in the blink of an eyelash, you escaped from you, a while…

you know you did, at least,

In the back of your own mind

you had a plan

to come back

together again

with all your puzzle

pieces in tact

from your trip to Spain

breathing that fresh air

on that dry arid plain

where it always rains

one last tear drop

of lonely pain.

yet, you are there, aren’t you

one fickle child of the sixties?

and, you cannot refuse to ignore it much longer

sitting there with a tall fine glass of fruity Sangria in your hand

as you pluck that party colored

Cocktail Parasol Drink Umbrella

up and out flicking it on the ground


you swizzle it down

(that delightful drink savored by Spaniards!)

spitting out half melted ice cubes


with your two slender straws.

You are a man now, that’s where the real

Sangria is…

in your belly where it belongs.


(German beer is good, but why are you wearing that Bavarian Alpine hat with a feather in it? Don’t you know

Germany was on das boot?)

you are

still you


because you want to be someone else,

don’t you?

You are emerging

as one dull son

of someone you thought you knew,

because you worked damned too much

and all that time you were saving up for the big one

slipped by

before you woke up

and decided to take another left turn changing direction.

(Don’t you wish you wore round blue sunglasses like Ozzy?)


sitting there with your buzz on,

you feel it slightly wearing off.

It has cast itself off because it knows you are going away, again.

Before tomorrow, you know you have to come back and plant your plain old familiar feet firmly on the ground,

once you feel like getting out of that bug ridden bunk bed

in that fifty cent motel room

that you have to take a sharp right by that cactus

and a left turn by that cracked window that old lady

looks out and closes the red drapes as soon

as you see her

wearing those horn rimmed glasses

with a cigarette puffed in her mouth

so you can get to the orange wooden paint peeling door

that you do that tricky knock

with that cruddy old brass door knocker


and then they let you in

and they pat you on your good ole’ boy

back with a couple of slaps

as you look over your shoulder

to make sure

some A-HOLE isn’t behind you trying to beat you over the head

with a bat and steal your wallet

with no dollars, except the

debit card.

Because, you have to start walking

home, and begin heading to where you live

wading in the pool of that gravy boat

that brought you there

with those overgrown toenails

growing like bear claws

through your floating flip flops.

But, if need be

a rope is last resort,

be it

sometimes, the first

and the best,

unless of course

you stop feeling like you usually do

because someone decided to push the start button

for responsibilities neglected

and self worth formed like a sponge once more

because someone else did it

and gave it,


under the poetry dome

once again

Hawaiian shirted

listening to broken record Jimmy Buffet

blaming his own brow

the millionth goddamned time wondering where that tattoo

came from

he woke up to

as you

arrive on shore

(one more drag on day

biding time standing by the water cooler with a collapsible paper cup in your hand looking up at the clock on the wall above where you stamp out)

to that job that pays no dividends

so they don’t find out who

it is we are hiding from.

you are me and I am you and we are all

one and the same

and no one’s different

but all are paltry thinkers

looking to become something else


we know we can never be

because we saw what was scribbled on the wall

of that secret room

sitting under the poetry dome

behind our own human nature.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s