RAND-
y po-
TAto POets taste
tart but not 2 FART-
y TEAspoons of
grown wild goat
bot goop.
In my deaf and time-closeted
pockets unpack pockets,
string bags hang under the closed eyes
of all-seeing watchers.
Eulogies for the living
are etched on wet lips and kitchen towels.
Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to flute their mournful why, what,
and who’s.
The edge of IF, is most hard to see;
‘if’ is a lobster pot full of moonlight
woven to waylay and trap the long drowned.
Gutters coughing in a midnight summer
these glad me not,
yet are kept like the sly smiles of devilish women.
In my book of lies
there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on their own graves.
The drunken gallimaufry of head-games
left unfinished
pace back and forth,
yet here I am, the one person,
still blinking my way through a black-light sky,
while majestic wings hover over
to grab me up;
yes let them come,
for all glad gods have wings.
Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.
One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.
In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.
Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.
Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.
Did I hear someone say, “is he for real?”
You betcha, this is me, the real damn deal
No airs, no facade
Just a simple old sod
Happy to dish out giggles with my highfalutin spiel
If you should hear Tom Selleck spout
His irritating, "It turns out..."
It isn't a fluke
Just gobbledygook
Intended to smother your doubt
Did I hear someone say, “is he for real?”
You betcha, this is me, the real damn deal
No airs, no facade
Just a simple old sod
Happy to dish out giggles with my highfalutin spiel
Trump Spiel On Weapons Conceal
What Trump has said was a short spiel,
On why all weapons we should conceal;
Dormant brain,
Without a grain,
And amendment we do need to repeal.
Jim Horn
Did I hear someone say, “is he for real?”
You betcha, this is me, the real damn deal
No airs, no facade
A simple old sod
Happy to dish out giggles with my highfaluting spiel
8/10/17
Be careful what you ask for
Next thing you know it wasn't all that great, or you want even more
This isn't the same old spiel
I'll tell you something real
Everyone has an 'Achilles heel'
Speaking the truth, life is rather short
Don't be a poor sport
The ball is in your court
You are really barking up the wrong tree
If you think you're godly
Compared to everybody
Only here once
No ifs ands or buts
All eventually bite the dust
It's not all make believe
From A to Z
Others will always meddle
I don't care if you believe in god or the devil
Better grasp the nettle
Instead of trying to always settle
If you want to reach a higher level
Again
I'll hit the nail on the head
Don't get misled
We all wind up dead
I'm going to call it a day
But not going to throw it all away
Speech and Speel
Have heard each politicians' speech and spiel
About them how are we supposed to feel
And do truly believe in without a doubt
Understanding what they are talking about.
There has appeared to be so much wrath
And in all of it we will be taking a bath
While tooting horns and on them blow
On your patience they do grow and grow.
Trump is sitting in his tower hour by hour
Over everything he has control and power
And sometimes you may hear him stammer
May have glamor but uses poor grammar.
Room for him to improve must be found
Listen to Trump's voice hearing each sound
Whether far away or can be close and near
Hope we hear him distinctly loud and clear.
Jim Horn
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