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Welcome to Fresh Meat Fridays

Alright, so I’m a day late and a dollar short. Tell me something I don’t know.


Here at FMF, you will find my latest, uncut creations fresh off the fire-hot grill of my mind. These are poems that were written earlier in the week but which have not yet been workshopped/refined. I hope they will give you some idea of what goes on in the mind of a poet (or at least this poet) who is attempting to create a piece of art from the ether of artistic creation.


The 0300

Not sure what it is

about the 0300 hour

that causes such a stir

in my rectumless gut,

rousing me from my dreams

for the short, slipperless walk

to the can.

Perhaps it hearkens back

to my drinking days

when I’d awaken next to

the RR tracks as the 3am

freightliner barreled on by

on its southernly route,

or when the day laborers would

show up for their summertime

work in the strawberry fields,

their “La Cucaracha” horns

signaling their arrival,

their muddy boots gently kicking me

to make sure I was still breathing.

Or maybe it’s a leftover alarm

meant to warn me that I had best

get to showering and drinking some water

so as not to puke all over the spinning sheets.

Or could it be that my muse has been awake

all this time, stewing over an offhand comment

I made while out drinking with the boys

some number of years ago

her anger slowly rising as she tries to sleep,

my snores and drooling finally setting her off

as she sits up in bed, flips on the light

and gives me a swift one to the belly?

No matter the cause,

if not for the 0300 hour,

whatever would I have to write about

and when exactly would I find the time?


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