Garden Tools (or How to be a Misogynist)

The sharpest tool in the shed
was some rusty and dull hoe,
a former rake
that needed replacing
because the garden was full of
dead leaves
fallen from old bushes.
You need a shovel,
though,
if you want your gold dug.

GARDEN TOOLS (or HOW TO BE A MISOGYNIST)
7•22•14
SAK

Frosty

Assholes drive Escalades, 
unless they’re poor,
then they write poems
that make little sense
save to themselves or
those of an inability to discern deep truths
foolish enough to ask
what it means.

I don’t know what the fuck it means.
It just came out that way.
Came out like an atheist comes out,
playing riddles against themselves,
a rock, paper, scissors ménage à trois 
with a snowball’s chance in hell 
off winning big at the slots.

See that?  Profundity.

I knew a snowman
whose snowballs never dropped.

FROSTY
7•22•14
SAK

A Song for Babylon

Could I sing
sing would I o’er animal-gut twine
merry musings for the mother of prostitutes and
abominations
and she, as Luna doffing miracle and omen
and donning Helios’ nonpareil tee,
would chafe the eye and, too, the mount Continue reading

Death, Taxes, & Jam

I’m certain of death.
Of taxes.
Of road work and the inevitable
traffic jam.
Smucker’s Traffic Jam.
Spread over moldy bread.
I mean, the government is as bad with money
as any Negro with a platoon
of illegitimate children.
I’m certain
I work for nothing.

Death, Taxes, & Jam
7•18•14
SAK

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