Letter ~ by Ol’ Bastard Rain

Ham on Rye,
Trash can hands.
Heat from the subway grates warms my bed.
Newspaper sheets, card board pillows, fine apple wine soaks my guts.
I lost to America.
Didn’t realize it was a game until The Uncle took it away.
But I don’t have to pay taxes.
Nor get raped by a rancid Pope.
Ham on Rye, Hope and I.


Ol’ Bastard Rain

© Carlson 2013


Her Clove

It was a dark and gloomy… Ha! No it wasn’t!
It was sunny as fuck and “nothing bad happened today”
She said as she stumbled pulling off her skirt.
Pancaking herself onto the bed she looked of Marianne Faithfull’s long lost daughter with her thrift store perfume’d T-Rex Shirt and wine soaked halo.  She lit the clove cigarette
that ceremoniously dangled from her pink lips… the flames danced in celebration and somehow the clove was not falling and crumbling to it’s death from her failed pirouette.
“It was art” was all he could think.
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek; with the smell of cinnamon and Sangria swirling through the haze she yelled,
“Why can’t all the dayz be filled with nothing and everything can be beautiful like when everyone and everything dies yet still amongst the willing, knowing and feeling and loving and never giving a fuck about the Lord or the Devil and the left hand helps the right masturbate with grace and we sing and dance while kicking the flowers always smiling and crying and we all fall down down down down and never have to worry about being caught because we’d all be drunk with wine and we’d all have wings and we’d all be free free free free fuck me and we’d be free!!!!”
She then stood on the bed and jumped up and down cigarette still pursed and the bottom of her silky breasts peeking out from the bottom of her shirt and he waited patiently for her to take flight.
“That’s happy” he thought…

“Why can’t all the days be filled with her nothing?”

© Carlson 2013


Early morning pangs with every new inhale.
Taking in the mornings fresh offering of dewy air with a sore asshole from last nights drinks.
Face down, smashing fingers into the phone while the dog soils the grass and barks at the Buck standing in grace.
Not taking it in. Forgetting the earth. Ignoring the gifts that are laid out before him. Hating THE everything that is bouncing across the screen with every status update. Silence trying to awake.
The dog barks. The pain in the ears is violent. With a shaking fist and a seething black heart the phone finds itself in pieces gasping for one more “like.”
The grump now human again and free.
No one exists.