brown paper bag…

no needs
for you
to be
staring
at me
i’m old
and getting older
and
i don’t
like much
of anything
in particular
you
you got
your fancy words
dressed up live doll
and pretend happiness
me
i got a brown paper bag
filled with liquid happiness
and a warm place
to sleep at night
but you
you got powder
up your nose
white ashes
from burnt bodies
in mexico
and the streets
of la
oh i know
i’m just
a street bum
but you
are me
without
the street

bereavement kit…

sitting
alone
her
eyes
darkened
lines of
too many memories
beneath them
chain smoking
as if such clouds
could bring her
closer to god
she
a one-time soldier
now draped
in a tattered flag
blood stained
the stench of death
lingering in every fiber
so
another drink
to kill war’s nighmares
another cigarette
to mask the stench
living
only
to wait
for
the next
drink
while wondering
who really
died
that
day