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?