lunch money blues

I’ve been living on hot dogs,
waiting on a paycheck.
I drink harder, trying to pass out
before I grow hungry again.
Hungry, I can handle hungry.
It feels pretty good, sometimes.
Hungry is a cheap high.
I take a big pull from the bottle.
I’m not rationing the liquor,
that’s always in the budget.
I peek through the curtain
towards the bar across the street.
I should be a good boy, and stay in tonight.
I walk in, order a Bourbon,
and sit at the far end of the bar.
An angel in blue jeans asks me to buy her a drink.
I oblige, and pocket the peanuts
when she isn’t looking.
Tiemeyer. 2015.


come harvest

We don’t get storms around here,
the way we used to,
when I was young.
The thunderheads
have been neutered,
and the tornadoes
tend to gravitate
towards towns
that would have died soon,
The mechanic and the grocer
walk outside,
see their impending destruction,
and say to themselves,
“It’s about goddamned time.”
The taxman grinds his teeth,
and Death counts his money.
It’s a little short for Spring,
but it’s gonna be a bumper crop,
come harvest.


as good as it gets

I haven’t made
a good decision
in my life,
but there is no regret.
Regret would infer
an intention to change.
I don’t want to know
what would be
if I had followed the other path,
if I had taken a left
instead of a right.

If I could meet the other me,
the one who made
all the right calls,
I’d probably be
more disappointed,
than jealous.
to find that all
of my poor decisions
were the right calls,
all along.


factory installed

I used to think
I was a good person.
Even when I would do something wrong,
I could always convince myself
that I was doing it
for all the right reasons.
It took a while to figure out
that the evil that men do
comes factory installed.
The men and women
that suppress these urges
deny everything that makes them human
in the first place,
so one could reasonably suggest
that the good ones
are broken.

distill life, poetry

all for naught

And after the latest unilateral decision,

an executive order

striking down a previous victory

for civil rights,

Manos decided

that he was called upon

by the good Lord above

to strike down this scourge,

the Governor of his home state.

He went into seclusion,

and began meticulously studying

every possible detail,

every nuance,

every outcome that could diverge

from his endgame.

He put himself

through rigorous physical training,

forging and honing

his body into a living sword.

After planning and obsessing

over all details

spanning a two year period,

the report came over the wire.

The governor had passed away

peacefully in the night,

surrounded by loved ones,

likely natural causes.


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