Back To The 50 Cal.

Poem By O.S. Brooks

You wake
try to shake the funk off
It's early
But later than
you wanted to get up
The mirror reflects a sort of
washed-out has-been

It can't be you

Your buried within
A three day old beard
Stale demon-breath
and an entire night
coming out of your pores


Your late for something
and you can't remember
if the person beside you
is dead or alive


It's raining some where in Pittsburgh
The chat rooms, full
The conversations, naughty
Some one is
showing off a tatoo
A married woman is flirting
with a man from Denver
He's lost his pants
And the cyber world
Doesn't mind

Go! Dancing Plumber Go!

It's a crying shame
The way
Life has turned out
A voice inside your alarm clock screams
making you want to throw it out on the lawn
with a few other things

There's movement from under your sheets
There's a brush fire somewhere on the western coast
And you don't care

You walk to the kitchen
pour a cup of salvation
your standard
sugar or creme
and wait for the zombie to ask for a cup

A mutated bird
is dancing outside your window
Taunting your lazy feline
To try to at least act like a cat
and not a piss-stained rug

You say
'Good morning'
In your best attempt at cat language
It knows you by now
When a sharp lie is approaching

It has learned
to die inside
and not listen to promises
of a better life this year

There's a roach
riding it's back rodeo style
Whispering something
in it's over-grown ear


This Can't Be Life

You lizard crawl
back into bed
And wait for a missle
to strike your entire neighborhood

It never comes

So you must get ready


You are a four letter word
And the bishop is out to take you

You look
For a reason to slit your wrist
with a twist tie from the bread bag
But the coffee talks you out of it

Tells you;
Get going
Tells you;
keep chipping away
at what ever the hell
your trying to do
In This Crazy World
you've come
to count on

the world
through your viens
and it's a two day detox

to jump out the closet
scare you to sleep
the longest of dreams
the bills
won't get paid that way
They'll just get
passed down
like cloths
to your
younger brother

Your thirty something
Not old
but not fashionably young
The world looks like a mystic waste land
through the blades of your ceiling fan
The world is changing
You can not catch up

It's raining
Somewhere in Pittsburgh
and you
feel it
under your skin

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