the alchemist

Three hundred years ago,
I’d be burned at the stake
for witchcraft.

I’d be led out
in front of God
and country,
bound and blindfolded,
and set ablaze,
as a bright
and shining example
of how to avoid damnation.

Today,
I’m just a fucking welder.

Nowadays,
fusing two pieces of steel
into one
gets you
nine bucks per hour
and skin cancer.

I am the Alchemist,
and they ask me
to sleep
upon straw.

I acquiesce,
as straw
is softer
than gold.

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no, thank you.

I told her
I neither had,
nor wanted children,
and she told me
I was crazy,
I was missing out
on the better things in life.

I looked down
at my wallet,
it was full.

I looked at the counter,
it was fully stocked
with bottles of better booze,
good cigars,
pictures of girls I’ve loved,
some I had just met,
and a small collection
of lesser-grade explosives.

At the far end
of the counter
was an alarm clock,
ten years old,
still in the box.

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the breakup, american style.

This may seem
somewhat selfish,
and/or cowardly,
but I don’t think
I’d be willing to die
for my country.

I’d die
at the drop of a hat
for Mom or Dad,
my brothers,
Hubert and Ryan,
any of their kids.

I’d die for Skippy.

I’d die (or kill)
for Grandma Irma.

I’d die
for all of the Tiemeyers,
(Kyle’s a Tiemeyer)
any of the Lupher clan.

I’d die for you,
if need be.

I just have this sinking feeling
that my country
wouldn’t be willing
to return the favor.

It’s a toxic,
one-sided relationship,
and we need to start
seeing other people.

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two birds, one stone

She danced
a lovestruck dance
across the motel room,
chugging my whiskey,
covered only by
the tattered rags of darkness
and the lupine moon.

At that moment,
I would have killed
for a sunny day,
but we all know
that the best moments
rarely happen
on a sunny day.

I pulled her close,
my mouth to her lips,
my mouth to her hips,
and finally,
she put the bottle down,
two birds,
one stone.

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