Simple as That
Son, looking at the world
with unique glasses--
Writing down all
your faithful observations
inside the trusty notepad...
Get published, believe you're
an exclusive event.
Then think...the world is
looking at you?
That's just plain
wrong.
The Champ
Digested men
vomited into her
pill box…
--screaming souls--
Begging to be let loose—
Never to be heard…
Dire deaths for
lost claustrophobics.
***heh, heh, heh***
Troy Forgot His Walking Stick
It was within
these tribunals of
blank, engulfed stares
that Troy tried to find unity.
Unity with what?
A tugging of the soul, a disagreement
through morality?
The big disconnect with the
mobs’ accomplishments?
He failed to
comprehend.
Troy just knew “something” was there…different from
the “out for an ordinary stroll to clear my head.”
Beneficial, frightening, morbid, surreal-- all words
others used to announce an existential moment.
A hackneyed term for sure,
Seems most thinkers have a thought provoking
breakthrough,
chalked up as a life crisis…
Troy viewed options in various
books he dared to read when
identity was desperate.
He just did not want to sound like others who have surged
before.
Trying to abstain from self-absorption.
Trying not to fall too far.
Give the pain a name.
Give the pain a name.
Give the pain a name.
Give it life and
girth… with wives leaving,
dogs dying, and the lonely
starving…
Dark days offer no sense of priorities when you have little to contribute.
Better to wander off by yourself, where people didn’t know your being--
and could care less who you are.
Sad Sex Trade
He tipped the
ladies—
A third for
suffering—
Never mentioned school eyed
jokers---
TV cameras cued on mentioned
luckless—
Slurping through themes of love and
hatred—
All salivated when the chains were
opened—
Private positions debated in the
fear of sanction---
Final papers relived in
mention—
Salutatory band in
friction—
You saw the jesters
further space eaters---
Meltdown, fucked among the
seekers…
Subject for Future Research
I have found God, but he is insufficient
--Henry Miller
Matadors kill the
bull in a scripted
contest…
Saints are “face” bellringers.
Sinners are loners and drifters.
Loafers and lifers trudge
along, shouting “My God,”
continuing worship with those
who remain strict in crucifixion
belief.
Where do you fit when
the lost is found?
When is the view outside
considered a scam?
What is the jaunt around
town—covered in a 3 XXL
overcoat trying
to accomplish?
Wish You Were Here, David Gilmour
once sang…
No, not really.
BIO: Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print for a number of years. He is the author of eleven books, his latest three Under the Influence of Nothingness released by Kung Fu Treachery Press, Rattle of a Realiser published by Whiskey City Press and One of the Crowd Always Bleeds from Alien Buddha Press are available via Amazon and Barnes and Noble. He also had a chapbook published in 2020, The Curse,by Roaring Junior Press and another work, The Green Room—available in early 2021 by Analog Submission Press. Provost has been nominated twice for the Best of the Net and has read his work throughout the United States. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura, and dog Bella.
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