The Gates of Heaven
Good god the snarls
keyed with scows and shining
toad lickers with horns to boot
remember those sack tuggers?
took the bait for slugfest
now it’s vacation vibe down on the farm
communal showers baby let freedom ring
how’s that endgame research working out?
ethnic space rays delousing the populace
piss drinkers anonymous roaming the sector
dumbest humans ever squeezed through a tube
with blown covers on display
making hay for judgment day.
Stabs On the Rise
Sidewalks aren’t safe
a length of blocks soil the depths
memory works dodging cracks
those pumps stuffed with rumours
a field of rust collectors
mistaken credibility and throat murmurs
too long spent in the boonies
leaving town swells the odds
name changers all the rage
there’s heaven in the stopgap
born thieves and mass anglers
give’em the slip your fury’s botched.
Travelin’ Dustbowl Blues
Shield sign talk with bandannas
turns out a joke too far
the Man knows his shit
no sense in nonsense
high plains investigator its ins and outs
in the flatlands it’s said mostly is
like riding with the king in front room chatter
listen close another diamond will form
kept swagger to himself the way it is
these meetings rare to embrace
hold that pose the audience in trance
a Slinger at the helm comprende?
so scoot the mutes out the door
there’s miles to consider
and the sky’s getting heavy
keep that distance in the crosshairs
a straight shot will steady the sight.
Disguise Meant to Mumble
Chance encounters dissed the act
found who wears the pants
balk talk with lambast
tune out bound for knocks
got the mind for what isn’t
peripheral side-step down pat
hysterics mined for confidence
consumed in a din a savage velocity
silence stumbles at the root
rumble that cage then plead the fifth.
They’ve digitized the spittle cocks
machined the deep to ratchet the rackets
elevated emotions to barren complexities
experimentations withheld for future approach
mass loathing patrols the slips
crush benders and organ fray
how they croon for crust flats
hard on laps with pall traps
give it a block and watch the tugs
incoming cycle those duds will bloom
lights primed for deliverance dumps
it’s smoke in the haunts dumbing the drub
we’re near the margins burning brine
contact cleared for drain flush
bottle that guff for lip fringe
pike bulge has bloodied the stumps.
Randy Barnes has published far and wide in magazines and anthologies nationally and internationally. He has published three slim volumes of poems, now long out of print. Was awarded Lifetime Historian/Beat Poet Laureate, Washington State, in 2020 by the National Beat Poetry Foundation, New Hartford, CT.
Love always, your poems have such deep meaning ❤ReplyDelete