Saturday, August 1, 2009

Joseph Veronneau

School's Out

On a diet exclusively
to regain thin memories involved
fault line of dancing
falling off plans
tables shredding
legs exposed
to humble complainers
side road
lost on a dime
dust cloud
catching the lonely
light climbs down
an ivory tower now exhumed
all students free way in
immediate shouts of discontent
soon to be

Day Poem

Holding the key
exiting the house.
Bottle pops in neighboric faces.
Trail mix litter hands, a dog kept
his promise of pissing my yard.
Short talking mailman disintegrates.
I grabbed a handful of grass and ate
with the dog for an indigested day.

The Splintered Truth

Passing in sequined luxury
he cleared bi-focaled dust
magnificents reminding him of a tapping
toe that may or not have carried relevance
in a 60's loft. Parking lot,
where is the light
to find a flower when needed?
To a great friend, I never noticed
how long your linens were
until you passed. Accept
my fairest attempt to give you
my battered sight, accept these broken
glasses that have done me wrong,
and allow me to shift my gear
so we may find an Autumn or so to peruse

-all three previoulsy published at Ditch Poetry

On the Avenue

Kansas City midwest heat in April
outside the old barbershop
the vending machine was
just for looks now
it's pressable plastic coating
cracked like the San Andreas.
Across the street
she walked leggy
one stride direct straight
after another
a Firebird passing
couldn't help himself
double horn blast
she never lost step
or turned
and flipped him the bird
his glare hung a few extra seconds
rearview checking
in case she changed her mind
I regretted being in heavy jeans
that day.
Light changed down
at the corner
she disappeared behind
a well-graffitied wall into
sweltering heat.

Seeing the Future

When the kids come through
the warehouse
we aren't just storing shipments,
they are shown
what happens
if you don't continue with school.
No one tells them this, but
a few sense it.
Some are fascinated,
driving around the lift,
placing crates into ceiling high
metallic shelves.
The constant herky jerky settling
tires screech
and a few chuckle.
A few feel potential here
that they haven't before.
If lucky, they escape it.
If not, the best they can hope
is to be able to write about it.

-both previously published at Black-List Magazine

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