poems by Yossarian Hunter


holding onto tattered remnants
fragments of a dream gone awry
the plan becomes a list
of things that have not happened
and the reality of the situation
becomes a tangled sort of fiction
the wind howls through the gutter
a reminder of another time
when the rain fell unnoticed
and the cold didn’t bite
so hard
having been martyred
hope finally punches the ticket
and slips quietly between two parked cars
into the night
three winos gather round a burning barrel
and shudder
knowing full well the consequence
and finality
of the loss of hope
they pass around a bottle
shrouded in the brown anonymity
of a grocery sack
and while away the night together
yet perfectly alone

crafting a muse

one night I crafted a muse
out of brightly colored scraps
of cardboard construction paper
gave her a patchwork skirt
and yellow flowers
in her long black hair
but later
when the candle burned low
she was gone in an instant
slipstream bound
in a storm of smoke
and ashes
burning a sheaf of
empty dreams
and three or four
battle scarred memories
to boot
later I crafted another
complete with three
cubes of ice
and a splash of
purified water
but with it I fared no better
as the drink blurred the words
and the ink never dried
on a thousand crumpled
cocktail napkins
and the back side
of an unpaid tab
one time I even fashioned
a muse
from flesh and blood
and a warm
bought her drinks
at the aqua spirit lounge
brought her flowers
for her own locks
of light
and trusted her completely
to tear it all apart
leaving a bitter empty longing
and a desperate kind
of quiet
which is probably more in line
with what I should have crafted
it the first damn place


woke up this morning from an unremarkable dream
with something like a freightliner
or maybe a peterbilt
running amok
pedal to the metal
through my synapses and neurons
couldn’t stomach the smell
of my morning scotch and rocks
so i put on a little clapton
rolled a hefty number
and retired to the porch for a bit
but slowhand sounded like the blues
recycled through a washing machine
i’ve always liked my music
a little rougher around the edges
and the sound of last nights rain
drizzling from the decrepit remains
of the once brazen fall foliage
proved to be song enough
for riding out the aching head
whiling away the morning hours
in an old wooden rocker
and wishing i could make the steel strings sing
half as sad as the man
whose twenty-four track love child
i had previously rejected as inadequate
and wholly unsatisfying


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