“Try Some, You’ll Like It”

real life Mitch Kramer
The Candy Man
hesher baller
from Flatbush

played basketball in Puerto Rico
after tinklepiss honkie Dodger execs refused to sign him
b/c he was an unapologetic stoner
having showed up to tryouts in a tshirt
w/ pot leaf, captioned
“Try Some, You’ll Like It”

6’7″
3.33 lifetime ERA
1673 Ks
Pitched No-Hitter Aug 9, 1976
World Series Champ 1979

*smoked mad weed*

The Nutmeg Eaters

 

2 Tbsp nutmeg

1 Tbsp turmeric

1/4 c maple syrup

1 c sweetened vanilla nutmilk

(whisk thoroughly)

 

warm orange astringent belches through the nose

flannel mouths sip cool water

sometimes faces burn

fever needle ears ablaze

 

first timers crumble

under flu-like feels

 

pendulous kissing betwixt marijuana

& opioid bodyhighs

 

not much is known about this olde thyme inebriant

trill lifted shrouded fringe,

archaic lean of

wormwood’s longlost

tapping soma

for now-writ ancient poesies

 

 

 

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini

From a Window Overlooking Centre Avenue

November’s naked trees

are frozen fits

dancing delirious

(or)

wooden nerves

for wooden teeth

 

brown vines climb

castrated phone poles

perpendicular to power lines

connecting yellow brick block flats

 

under a slate white sky

bright grey,

where a few smudged clouds

bear bruises

 

above all the little, little people

down, down below

grinning within

their smoky din

 

 

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Paris of Appalachia

 

 

of those veins

run rivers

Allegheny

Mon

 

merge

then  Ohio  taketh away

 

to port, to port

that cargo Coal

fuel for the  BLAST

besting Hades

 

flame for licking flame

 

Paris of Appalachia
Paris of Appalachia
Paris of Appalachia
Paris of Appalachia

 

 

 

 

 

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Pittsburgh Season Poem

Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall

 

Winter  

 

frozen weeks

weather in the 10s

(feels like minus 4)

 

windchill

creeps in my old house

old windows

creaking doors

cold floors

 

as I type with dumb numb pink fingers

nature lets my hands know the score

between me & it

__________

Spring

 

paper streets

take shape

blossom wild

tangled city steps

 

kids smoke spliffs in glass bus shelters

 

like buds budding

__________

Summer

 

bugs

everywhere bugs

a chorus of cricketing cicadas

everybody gets up on every hill

high enough to see over

sometimes seems like sea  if you squint just right

 

hills aplenty

as many hills as bugs or bridges

__________

Fall

 

Gold Son reaches

over East Liberty

peeks

over hills

to spill onto the streets

in bursts

 

rust pink orange

all vibrant in their death,  the leaves

 

smoky air

breath becomes a ghostly little wisp

wet air coats all weeds

windowsills

 

& the fiery rivers run away

 

 

 

 

 

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Janytor Raconteur

dame d’vert in a cup

the cleaning of a president’s bathroom

 

johnny mop and viruscide

99.9

hiv crablice salmonella

clean the johns like teeth

murphy’s oil pants

burn the midnight

(floor) glow

saints, scary Marys,

and bloody Jesi (pl)

 

yellowing butterfat cherubs

breathe fresh under the tarnish

20’s wood

and nuns

monsignor wears designer fragrance

chapel brown

tit ceiling

the old oak bend’d toward the nipple

baby superman

spiky starray design

 

holy holy holy

crap

fishwine (after, pizzawine. msb)

 

confession wire

black profiles

stoicism in robes

 

Myrrrrrrrrrhlin wizardry

(from Wales, y’know?)

criss cross, brains balls…

holy Christ rib cake

 

bloodwine

ashbrowed

fat Tuesday

Wednesday’s child

 

 

 

 

©2007, 2016 John Thomas Menesini

metapoesy

it’s grey here in Pittsburgh, shroud covers the city in cold, wet cloth
sticks pick the sky’s bellybutton, belly hangs drooped and resigned
mist moist flaps of sacks
stuck to small of backs
        hobo tramp stamps
        (clown porn?)
block glass distorted crystal ball scry
bright white air
screed tight screen door dime store novel
        (this poem has wove itself from it’s tracks)
detours are fine amid these minutes as ideas are conveyed
from one to others and furthur, the connection, spark, one-ness
as the satyrs
scratch their jizzy poems
in our scalps

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini