#112
Yesterday I was sad.
Today I’m just mad.
Pissed off actually!
How dare you?!
We had it all and
you listened to that cult leader…
Sacrificed our happiness and
followed him into the jungle
for a cup of grape cool-aid
and a ticket to his fake heaven.
Leaving me here
to sit shiva with the cat…
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
24November2024
My brain,
is a three on the tree.
A six banger with a thrown rod.
My thoughts,
vacuum based
speed up and slow down as my foot
plays with the accelerator.
There’s no lead in my gas anymore…
No seatbelt to tuck me in and never was.
Double clutching my way down this old hill
is my only option.
If this keeps up
I may have to thumb it
back to the garage…
Elvis called today
He said he saw me at the window
watching the clouds in the desert.
I was dreaming and he was driving
when Joseph Stalin went floating by…
Elvis slammed on the brakes
and the motorhome skidded to a stop
at the corner of disappointment and vine
where Larry Geller’s jaw dropped
and the motor-home motored on
while Uncle Joe transfigurated
into Jesus on a lollipop…
and Elvis, like a puppet on a string
finally saw the face of God.
Mark W. Ó Brien
28February2024
May the Psychopomps find you on the bedpost before you lose your flavor:
Oh my dearest Elvis,
Keeper of my youthful hopes…
Conductor of my forefather’s souls…
I am sore and these are my afflictions:
for I have become derelict of dialect
and feral of barrels…
I struggle to understand
and my heart remains elusive in it’s searching…
Oh Nightjar! Oh Goat sucker! Oh New world whip-poor-will!
I can’t help it Elvis you know I can’t…
You tell can me it’s a shame how much
pleasure I take from baseball but
I gotta find solace somewhere…
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
10January2024
An email from you so long ago
One year to the day before you died
“Your email is too long.” you said
Years now I come across this
It’s been too long since we spoke
I transport back
Once I hiked a mountain in the snow
24 hours after I’d gotten sunburn on the beach
The wind- The snow- …biting my cheeks
Distances…
…between
I miss you tonight
Send me a long email
Please?
~
05December2023
Markle-
#107
The wind blows away.
and an umbrella lasts according to its quality.
Down the street an organ grinds away melodiously
as Jackdaw Pete marries Freelove Jones.
What is the answer to the third question?
Is it destined to take the place of kluge in your mythology?
If only by way of information
I’m at a loss for words the typesetter said.
The irony of a piece of the floor where Jesse James was shot
winding up in the dead letter file is lost in transliteration.
The way of the wine is a path to follow.
The way of the outlaw is a way to a dead end road.
The way to sleep they say is to think of nothing.
What are you thinking of now?
~
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
25July2023
My Nana was withered at the end.
A fragment of crêpe paper caught in the wind.
My mother, much the same at that age
had been the picture of strength in her youth.
I recall Nana wrapping me up in her rollie-pollie arms;
smothering me in talcum powder and kisses.
It was a shock the way Nana transformed after Grandpa died;
as if all of her being had already gone after him ahead of her.
Mom, even in her grief, even in her sickness, was strong.
Don’t get me wrong, Nana could be a tough cookie.
She had to be, she was married to my Grandfather.
But Nana had a weakness. A laceration of sorts.
Nana never got over the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn.
Mom on the other hand, like Grandpa, was a Yankee fan.
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
11May2023
