Tag Archive: bad poetry

When you can’t live up to your license plate

and your taco’s the color of burnt sponge,

your subscription to Beard Man’s expired,

and stray women in Kansas unfriend you

the empty Cheeto bag holds no response,

the deflated roadside doughnut gapes in vain,

no two red vagrants lean at the same stance

and small mammals expose drab rearward views,

the state is not the low road that you know

but another with less yellow and more stone

exposing legless fish to winter sun

and flattening viable cops to crumbs.


And then    it was ten-fifty-seven

When her man stumbled through the door

Repeating the paper towel, recasting the ashtrays and counting all the daughters.

“Is it for the lack of a moon that you followed me

where the parked cars… Wait, is that the latest issue of American Male?”


But it was her lost moon,

the toothpaste on the cabinet and the

discount beer that splayed around.


He wasn’t the only prone guy she’d found,

Only the latest.  With a shirt to match his intelligence

And that old rabbit trick that no one enjoyed.


“Don’t brush that mustache.”  She threw her bottle on the floor.

“I like them Western.”

My Bad Poetry #14

The Smell of Poetry


Is that bacon burning in the frying pan?

No, dude, that’s the smell of my new poem.

It smells like words, searing in your brain grease

Droplets of chunky metaphor fat dripping through your neurons.

Can you get a slice of fat-free turkey bacon instead?

No.  These are gristle-packed, thrumming sizzling phrase strips

Globules glistening with dense significations, marbled murkiness.

This poem smells worse than an overheated, oil-soaked carburetor?

Is that what you said?

Some people have useless noses.

Someone left a dainty mango slice on the placemat.

They must’ve mistaken it for a haiku.




Meanwhile, the grease is pooling on the kitchen floor, oozing into coagulations of truth.


Bad Poetry #12

It sucks living with a self-satisfied singer

Who sings about fields and wide open lands

Grows limp facial hair and has on his wrist

Two homemade bracelets and three friendship bands –

Who works part-time jobs at tiny thrift shops

Eats dry oatmeal for lunch and kale for dinner

Wears torn, worn out T-shirts about rampaging cops

And plays beer games with a needle and spinner –

Whose legs are more white than cod on the sand

And whose face is more milky than a vanilla shake

Who whines about how bosses don’t understand

And rent is for losers who live for work’s sake.


Check out my story collection Space Command and the Planets of Doom: http://amzn.to/atEZo9