A Long Line
Like a ravenous
cannibal, I tear
into my food;
a sausage and egg
& cheese sandwich
I take a sip of
my coffee at
Starbucks
I watch the coming
and going of
people traffic—all
in a hurry for their
purchases,
but not me—I’m
patiently waiting
for the world to
end,
and everyone
else can get
in line
for
that too
Pawn Shop Towns
Children are overdosing
on heroin and they’re
not much older than 14
The parents hit the street
panhandling for money
to bury their deceased
And after one look at them,
you realize that poor child
never even had a chance, and
you start to wonder if it’s
all just a big hoax
You never saw a pawn shop
town with so many tattoo parlors,
liquor stores, churches, bars,
and police stations—on the
same damn street
But there’s a million of these
towns that are like factories,
breeding hate and fear that only
the fortunate will never meet
And these zoomed up
kids die like saints, for
someone else’s
dollar
© 2012 Volatalistic Phil White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story
Baby, We Tried
Against better ideas and the empirical odds,
we were scathed and drifted the naked halls
Destined for something, to find an answer,
a soft cry, a reason why, for something to try
We found each other—you and I
As quiet as the soot black gorgeous midnight skies,
and hidden deep behind the safety of the palisades
that were lined with decorative crystal vines—
Like a bloodhound, you sniffed on by,
and lit up a trail of smoke, like an S.O.S. cry
Denying the diva of a new way,
I cut across the darkened freeway
I lit flares to defy the empty skies,
deep into late hours of hazy red eyes
This cowboy went to the saloon,
singing and marching to his own tune,
already drunk and not even noon
Make way for me, make some room
A mind’s infected screams and cries—
Bone rot, organs of blight; I continued,
and drank me and my wallet dry
You continued to reach for the stars,
and you continued your carpet ride
Stole parts of me; lost you in those nights
Our ignorance was never considered
a given, nor a try for admittance,
and we didn’t, we didn’t, we didn’t
Instead, it was through our reluctance
that we discovered our bleeding wounds
We couldn’t be found in consonants,
because we were laying in vowels,
but mostly just ‘u’ and ‘i’
and we both know, love,
we know the reasons ‘y’
But at least we can reflect
on what was, and say we tried
© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, Jet Lag
The Drug of You
If poetry had a taste,
it’d taste like you;
sweet and sour,
but still sticky like glue
And if you were a pill for popping,
you’d be blue;
because you bring me up,
and let me down used, not abused
I’d get a prescription for
60 MG of I don’t hate you,
and stay limp,
staring like a statue
But you can’t be any of those;
yours is from a needle not meant for tattoos,
and mine is sold in bars
from 11 am ‘til 2
And on street corners,
bought with I.O.U.’s;
writing poems;
being dealt a deuce;
you, me, and drug abuse
© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story
Burnt Spoons
She left a burnt spoon
with a milk stain stink,
on the kitchen’s counter
next to the sink
My face fell and hit
the poorly tiled floor,
when she locked herself
behind a brown bedroom door
Now, getting dolled up to
go looking for a score,
but hits me up for cash
because she said she’s poor
When did loving her
become a chore?
When did my love,
become a revolving door?
© Volatalistic Phil 2012, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story
Dirty Laundry
Grey overcast sky above,
cool breeze, headphones on
I’m watching and I’m walking,
like a stain in a sea of women
who smell like fresh laundry,
looking for bleach
Languid and hungry, we slog
forth, waiting for a laundry day
that never comes
We are all such
damaged
people
Clean your hands
on my shirt,
before you leave
(From the 3rd book in my unpublished poetry series)
Burned to Death
The fan cowl for
my Nissan broke &
my car would overheat
without it—so an electric
fan was a cheaper
temporary fix,
but I didn’t know
much about cars
and wiring
I ran the wires
direct to a toggle
switch and to the battery,
with the wires
going behind my
dashboard
My passenger
window was broken &
wouldn’t go down,
and the door wouldn’t
open from the inside
On lunch break at
work, I went to the
Burger King drive-thru;
I was waiting in the line
when all of the sudden
I saw smoke coming
from behind my dash
oh shit! I thought as
I looked around trying
to see where it was
coming from
I turned off the car
and the smoke continued
I tried to turn off
the toggle switch
but it wouldn’t budge
and was melting
before my eyes,
burning my fingers
in the process
I was fucking trapped;
the only door that
would open, couldn’t
open because I was up
against the wall of the
building’s drive-thru
& I was far too fat to
squeeze through
the window
The whole time as
smoke filled my
car, I was praying
& shitting bricks—
thinking I was going
to burn to death,
thinking there was no
way I could ram the
car in front of me
out of the way;
no way to back-up,
no way to turn
the car to the right
in that alley—
no escape
By the grace of God,
I was able to get
at the wires running
to the back of the
toggle switch by
breaking a part of
my dashboard;
I yanked on the
melted wires & had
luckily pulled them
off of the battery
To date, those were
the best fucking
hamburgers I
ever had,
let me tell you
Phil Volatile 