THE LIE WOULD BE
the lie would be to pretend
that it wasn't a part
of me
the ballpark
the racetrack
electric sex in the window
of my living room
i haven't built this thing
i only am
i'm a night-shift
at 3 am
& the eyes don't want to look at
the product anymore
i'm an early morning drunk
before the bars even open
sweating and
puking on
your couch
waking with an urge and
a hard-on
i don't know why that is
i just do what needs doing
the light bulb
the trash
or you
when you come calling
i like the odds in everything
every bet
the sour taste left behind
of a quenched desire
the soot in my throat
- i cough with no repent
for my ways
finding strange comfort in
the gutters of
failure
avoiding the need to
brand upon my ass
banker, lawyer
writer,
plumber
do good or just
do nothing
worthless, lazy
malcontent bum
have money or
have none
nobody bothers me
and i like that
it's all i need
part-time feels like over-time
to me
how's the shit feel to you?
TRAIN RIDE
looking out
from my window seat
at the hilly green
madness of this earth
tied up in fences
and strangled by telephone lines
the scars of blacktop
permeate it's once pristine surface
the concrete tumors
emerging
from everywhere
the tiny mites
burrow through
creating fresh sores
on its skin
everything beautiful
becomes ugly in time
it is apparent to
me now that
this world
is no different
Lester Allen
is a part-time postal employee.
Lester works as little as possible
and likes it that way.
He enjoys getting disoriented as often as
time allows and spending time with his
dog, Jackson.
When those obligations have been fulfilled
he writes.
