kicked me like a dog
broke my middle finger
the one I could have sworn
he didn’t see
as he hooked his hairy arm
around the bleach blonde
with the melon tits
swinging like two balls
at the back end
of a bulldog
finger’s swollen now
like my pecker was
when melon tits was tiptoeing
her candy apple nails
up and down my shoulder
but where’s my manners
me & Mitch
since juvie hall
guess I owe him a beer
when he gets back
he will rise
with the fire
of ten thousand
in his gut.
Scott Wozniak is a poet, short story writer, and chaos enthusiast. His works can be found both online and in print. He is currently working on a book of graphic poems titled, “Clawing the Wind,” that he hopes a publisher will roll the dice on. For more info please visit, about.me/swozniak.
I’m tired of being polite to the impolite.
No call is ever for my benefit.
The sound of another’s voice is like fingers
roaming the extremities of my wallet.
Even with friends,
I’m more likely to let the answering machine
do the dirty work.
To be honest,
most times friends are just like another kind of telemarketer.
Except in their case,
they can put a face to the number they dial
and not just a name in a database.
Everyone it seems
wants something I don’t have
in exchange for something I don’t need.
The phone just rang again.
It’s only a stickup if I answer it.
Slightly intoxicated by 3PM
In my defense I was having a bad month
Constantly broke and when we stumble into
Crumpled bills and battered coins
We swiftly trade them for a little food in the refrigerator
And cigarettes that don’t seem to ever last between our lips
Feeling lonelier than a divorced interstate truck driver
Who spends starless nights in cheap roadside motel rooms
Charging the blue channel to his morning bill
I think I just crossed the county line into not caring anymore
Its dangerous territory
But I’m familiar with the terrain
Nicotine-stained fingers crossed I can ride this one out
I really hope I can
I really do
Ah, such music.
The twang of your song
trills with destination,
flows in and out of my ears,
soft ears deftly teased
by the bop-de-wop
of warm breath, the hum
of moist secrets riding and sliding
on the tip of your tongue,
of dark hands strumming chords
on the backs of my knees,
fingertips touching all the keys
as lips trumpet on drum-tight skin
all the way down the spine bass-line,