xmass pome

dreams of distorted geometry
cuddly spiders
making gingerbread
doing laundry
drinking brandy
kissing Klaus & your Mommy
under every mistletoe

“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”

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


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





then  Ohio  taketh away


to port, to port

that cargo Coal

fuel for the  BLAST

besting Hades


flame for licking flame








©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Pittsburgh Season Poem




frozen weeks

weather in the 10s

(feels like minus 4)



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




paper streets

take shape

blossom wild

tangled city steps


kids smoke spliffs in glass bus shelters


like buds budding





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




Gold Son reaches

over East Liberty


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



& the fiery rivers run away







©2016 John Thomas Menesini