Begin Again
When the plane crashed down, there were no survivors.
Survival implies rescue and a return to normal life.
We who lived were born again, in the truest sense.
As if expelled from the womb of a giraffe,
our landing was bracing, messy, but we walked away.
Between the strata and the terra, many found God;
there are no atheists when plummeting ten-thousand feet.
I believe those who found her, must have expressed zeal to unite —
the only believers, the corpses that chose their Valhalla.
For when we collected the living, there were no deities between us.
The Last Scene of Struggling
I know where it is.
I know where the bottle is.
It’s in a bag, taped under the lid of the toilet tank.
And you know what’s in that bottle:
Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey!
I quit drinking for the third time, last week.
My wife cleaned out the liquor cabinet, the basement cooler,
even the shoebox in the attic that I didn’t think she knew about.
But I snuck one by,
because I knew.
I knew that THIS ASSHOLE was going to go 30mph in a 55mph,
for fifteen fucking minutes!
I was mad when I realized it was a no-passing zone.
I was livid five minutes later, when he hadn’t turned his blinker off.
When I got close enough to see the cell phone in his hands,
I was ready to kill.
YOU MISERABLE, ARROGANT SHITHEAD!
I’m not a bad guy. I get angry, but hey,
I don’t beat my wife, or set the neighbor’s cat on fire.
But if God himself doesn’t drop an asteroid on this prick,
I swear to Jeebus, I’m gonna grab that bottle,
and I’m gonna pour myself a drink.
And then another. And then another. Until the bottle is empty.
And then I’m gonna buy another. And another.
And some fucking pills too, Lord.
And I’m going to sit on my toilet, and I’m gonna drink,
I’m gonna swallow pills, and I’m gonna smoke.
Yeah, I almost forgot that!
I’m gonna drink, and smoke, and swallow pills
until I go out like Fat Elvis.
Because it’s either him or me, God:
you can’t have us both!
Either you drop an asteroid on this prick,
or me and Jack are checking out.
Tick, tock, Lord.
Tick, fucking tock.
This I Believe
I believe in one true God the father almighty dolla dolla bills y’all come back now ya hear me now believe me later days and days on end of time to play the game on to the next one more night and day trip over extended line of credit where credit is due west of the city slicker than oil and water cooler conversation piece of my mind your own business time of our life is beautiful bastard child of mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the dawn of creation of man I’vegotta get away from here is gone forever and ever and the Rock means ever had your ass kicked by a black man before and after market value our time out of the way of the Do Do bird call me anytime at all together now hear this is it is what it is that all or nothing more nothing less than perfect circle of trust me when I say these words can’t express check out the rack on her daddy must have been a thief in the night knight! Her honeydew is overdue for the things I would do. Oh how I would slide- slip, slip-slide, slip her the tongue and breathe into her ear a tale of
fantasy blasphemy mastery imagery sugary fiery watery intensity density sensory battery
flattery dastardly tragedy bigamy (Big of me? Big of you!) whataboutme (What about
Raven?) holy gory glory finally idly carnally direly directly wiry travesty
for her pleasure.
For her plea, sure.
I hide my love in the hyphenated vortices of Jupiter’s rings, my heart emulsified.
I nail myself to the cross of dreams to be crucified.
Put one hand here, and with the other hand, hear.
Here, hear the music we’ve made.
She says that the echoes of despair leave no imprints in darkness
as they travel on their way to nothingness.
I love her brain, and for fifty bucks,
she’ll blow my mind with no diminutive verbiage.
We say thank you to the stars — can we do it again?
We surrender the superfluous, we renounce the facetious,
and abate the reprobate within.
Josh Smith isn’t sure if he’s followed poetry, or if it’s taken him. In either case, he’s been with it to eight states thus far, not including: dysphoria, glee, or ennui. There haven’t been millions of dollars,or scores of salacious fan interactions. However, there has been publication of his work by the likes of Rampike, the Buffalo News, and Ploughshares.