xmass pome

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

Advertisements

“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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Pittsburgh Season Poem

 

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