A Jazz Quartet Life

I hear a tight jazz quartet
smacking out lead-bottomed bass
tinkling a shaker, with a half-open hi-hat

some soft-fingered ivory tickling
peppered with a gritty groan
and cigarette smoke

I sit, and listen, and
I think to myself:
why can’t life be just like that?

-BSB

Of Turtles and Birds

quiet-pond

They walked to the pond
and the sun was warm,
it encouraged them to sit on a bench
and they sat awhile and talked.

A turtle sat on a log that lay
like a waiting crocodile in the pond,
while herons tred in outward arcs
in search of primordial nourishment.

“True enlightenment,” he said, “is a turtle sitting on a log.”

“Yes,” she said, “but reality is birds pecking your face.”

-BSB

It’s How (and If) You Play the Game

This isn’t my game anymore
I was told to go home
I kick the ball around once in a while still
But I stopped playing the game
They don’t want me in
Unless I follow the rules
And make a line for the pros
But it’s not my game
I’m no pro
I don’t follow the rules
I shouldn’t play
It was good that I got out
Before I got injured
Or worse; got really good at playing

existentialism1

I have a new gig, a new game
One with fewer rules
No coaches, bosses or teammates
This is my game now
And when though I’m still a loser
I’m winning

-BSB

Gnashing Teeth Outside the Chained Gates

Suck dog water, you itchy scum.
I can’t believe your kind have survived this long.

You probably hold not a clue how reviled you are,
cushioned in your own delusion by a skull thick with illusion.

I hope you choke.
You fucking toad.

You won’t get away with your hateful game too long.
The wolves will hunt you down, make no mistake.

How you made it this far, you tainted scrap of humanity, I haven’t a clue.
Shouldn’t you have died off with the seven-legged mud crabs and trilobites?

epeyzkuk

You’re scum.
You’re worse than malaria.

Exile would be too kind.
What you deserve is incineration.

Death by massive fire-blasting until your hair crisps and skin curdles.

Your blackened crust will feed the urchins,
and any fortune you and your wretched ilk
will sink into the murky mire of obscurity.

When each of you swine meet your demises, I will dance and sing.

BSB

Not Yet

Quit? Ha!

Have I quit yet?

Even when I lost my ID, and my money?
When I didn’t have a home?
When I was sleeping in a train yard?
I didn’t have a dollar, or 18 for the ferry
card-board signs and spider-bites
heartbreak and assault
Haven’t swam in the Atlantic
or eaten a scorpion
or swung on a trapeze
but I’ve lived a life
and I’m not afraid to keep on living
so

bring it on

because I’m not going anywhere

BSB

Make Believe We’ve Solved Everything

maybe we can get together for coffee
I can throw up all over you
and the little china cups, and cream, and tablecloth

you can sit there covered in bile
and tell me a story about somebody
you used to know

you can feel like you’re helping
it’ll be good for you
I’ll feel better for a while, knowing I
helped you out a bit
but your look is still sad

you’ll get the check, and I won’t fight
we’ll hug, and say fantastic things

“Call me anytime”
“I’m always here for you”
“I wish you well”

and then
I can go back to eating poison

and longing
for someone to care

BSB

A New World Will Rise

After the bombs, the riots, the protests, and all the rest of the excitement finally subside, all that will remain will be rats, roaches, and ruin.

artlimited_img407260

That, and those winos on the corner.
Still trying to scrape together enough for a bottle
– even though the liquor stores’s gone.

When the shakes from detox subside and clarity returns, they’ll either die drinking gasoline, or they’ll form a new society.

BSB

That Which Takes the Dark

insomnia_by_agnes_cecile-d462xxl

4 a.m., and sleep seemed a thing impossible.

The mottled face of the ceiling was like that of the moon,
pale and barren, and offering nothing.

His eyes moved to the orange strip of street-lamp glow
cast across the bedroom wall by the window.

He watched the steam from the sewer drains
wash and dance
like ripples across a mud puddle,
before once again glancing at the hands
of the Big Ben clock at his bed-side.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

It had made its appearance brief, and seemingly
had moved on, leaving him to yearn.

Now, he did yearn,
but attempted to stop, for he knew
such an act would yield nothing.

-BSB