IRONY BY THE ROADSIDE

The crippled old vet
sells American flags on
the side of the road
a ghost to the cars
with stickers saying
to support the troops

I hang out my hand
slipping a bill into his
dark calloused fingers
he hands me a flag
gives thanks returning
to his solemn march

I gaze at the cheap
multicolored cloth on a
thin plastic flagpole
before tossing it
into the floorboard
littered with debris

empty cigarette packs
crushed cans of energy drinks
old lotto picks and
other fragments of
the American dream
_________________________________________________________

SUBTLE GESTURES

Most of us die
without having
made wave

Less a scream
more a whisper

But there’s a
lot to be said
for subtle gestures
and secrets

Silent still waters
are clearer than
raging tides while
the simple man
sees his hand in
front of his face

And what
greater freedom
than dying
comfortably
in ones own
skin
__________________________________________________________

I’LL KEEP DRIVING DOWN THIS ROAD

When I was a dumb kid
scribbling words in notebooks
I imagined smoking
hashish on rooftops of
the world I saw poetry
as a rock and roll show
even then I couldn’t
have been further removed
from academias
sterile halls and further
from truth I was armed
with bottles of wine and
a thirst for women and
words ready to shamble
down the path of the crazed
and lonely poet not
knowing the poets way
would take me to a good
women and fatherhood
suburbs and factories

Not knowing the road of
the poet is the same
road of everyman
the same path going just
one way from cradle to
the dead end of the grave
only difference being how
you see it and how fast
you barrel down the road

The capitalist looks
at the road and imagining
toll booths while the beaten
proletariat imagines
a different road with
a better view but the
poet looks at every
crack and pothole every
single bump and every
subtle curve but in the
end a road is just a
road and they all lead to
the same place all here is
to do is keep driving