15 February 2023

Three Poems by Joseph Goosey

No Time To Party

         Time to choke
         on the waning aftermath.  

The guidelines state
                “I” must
                      mean “we”

                      if I’m to be considered 
                      worthy by the arbiters
                      of working class tragedy.  
                      Holler if you hear 
                      the directions out.

                                 Fuck yr guidelines
                                 & the natural order taboot!

How loathed those jams!

             Interminable as a death
                                   in which I was expected
                                   to dance.
                                  Could’ve been sadder.
                                  Could’ve married an Italian
                                                       who demands
                                   SUNDAY FAMILY TIME

Week after
week after week
after week after -

                            WHO’S THERE?

                                      What an ultimate dunce
                                      I’ve been since the start
                                      to ever even think
                                      options lived here anymore.

The Liquor Store Maidens Know Me Like A Cancer

The liquor store maidens know me like a cancer.

           one’s place is cemented.
                        Beneath Colorado mulch, maybe,
                                                    where it’s legal
                                                     to be at peace.

                                                    What I’ve said?
                                         Yet to be seen.

                                            Laughing all the way
                                             to the plasma bank!

                               Spent the preferred
          portion of a night
             praying to a god
             who’s no longer
         reading unsolicited
            sacrifice. In total
                                      I’m one bled doggy!

Under the magnifying heart – a carcass.

                                  Smolder me once.
            Catholic shame on me.
                       Murder me twice.

Pith Trap

         A pride parade
of tragic figures
              from Smeagol to DMX
     has had it worse
                 & better
          but it’s tough  
     goings & circumstances
                 got me cowered
in the uniform closet
             where we used to make out
          on the fascistic clock.

$25 a pop.

      I pop.

Instant regret
             floods the mausoleum.