Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Craigslist Gist, or Squirt Guns – Some New Some Used”




“Craigslist Gist, or Squirt Guns – Some New Some Used”

Antique bureau

Sofa bed

Free kids step stool

Free Hooked on Phonics Master Reader

FREE moving boxes (approx. 15+) & some packing materials

Beach umbrella for free!

Canon PowerShot Digital Elph for Free!

Free 26” bike

Free Skeleton Bride Girls Halloween Costume – Size Large 12-14

FREE Countess of Darkness Child Halloween Costume size 8-10M

Twin heavy duty trundle bed frame


Free Mattress

FREE couch

**curb alert***

Aero chamber plus

Box of computer stuff for free!!

Sierra Designs Clip Flashlight for Free!!

Maca Powder

Two Air Mattresses and Pump for Free

Badminton set for free! (no shuttlecocks)

Super cool mid-century side chair

Free wood!

Upright Piano plus $50 cash

FREE Wood for chicken coop/shed

Free ladder and fire pit

“On The Water” magazines

Gym type duffle bag

Gold Fish

Squirt guns – Some new some used




Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Charging Wanton”




“Charging Wanton”


Awoke at the back door.

Forearm all numb.

Dried drool-crust pillow,

opposable thumb.



Attacking the shower.

Urinate in the drain.

Fogged mirror opacity,

bookmarking past pain.


Remote rusty razor,

catching my chin.

Bleeding profusely.

Original sin.


Pop-Tart in the toaster.

Rogue gallon of milk.

Watering plants,

on the back window sill.


Equivocal ninny.

Starch in my shirt.

Rainy day Thursday,

escaping to work.


Bus rolled up slowly,

seemingly packed.

Went to rear door,

and squirreled in the back.


Through ornery osmosis,

no proof of receipt,

I squeezed through the mass,

and staked out a seat.


The station was buzzing,

a new shuttle fleet,

trains going nowhere,

due to hurricaine-felled trees.


Grumbling masses,

anxious and nervous.

Commuters are used to,

substandard service.


Bookend commutes,

holding up day’s hurt.

Eight hours of torture,

that some label work.


Away to the depot.

Awaiting a ride.

A trolley romantic?

Few people inside.


Stalking dark tunnels.

Shifting on tracks.

Premier destinations.

Taken aback.


Key in the keyhole.

Disrobed clothes on chair.

Curling up, into fetal.

Giving up to despair.


Moonlight makes madness.

Sleep is a task.

Another day over.

How long will it last?


How long will it last?

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Lap Belly”


Chris Christie-https://mps110.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/chris-christie.jpg



“Lap Belly”


Port, sherry, lap belly.

Rigor mortis, snort.

Spider plants, slow dance, corporate Voldemort.

Dill pickle, Cole Trickle, Scientology.

Breastplate, sulfate, all apologies.

Checkout line, unrefined, disability.

Congress, unimpressed, lacks integrity.

Blowup doll, on-call, skinny jeans wedge.

Neo-nazi punks turning tricks beneath the hedge.

Lance Kiffin, Dunder Mifflin, full-court press.

Kaitlyn Jenner, Marilu Henner, wore the same dress.

Dull lecture, pure conjecture, impotent rant.

Pup tent, back rent, five yard slant.

Disco dancing, rogue romancing, Walmart line.

Restroom doom, vape plume, running out of time.

Environmental, supplemental, chaotic weather.

Oligarchs, low marks, keeping masses fettered.

Revolution, extant pollution, building to a burst.

Time marching, apathetic, humans are the worst.

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Train Stations & Reparations”


“Train Stations and Reparations”

Young man! Young man!
Entering the train.
Play me a song of a piano man.

Is it possible to turn up the volume?
The folks in the first car can’t hear your portable speaker.
Even though, we all can on this car.

I’ve never witnessed such impotent rage.
Collected and strained.
The old gent across, can barely escape.

Do you think it strange, Mr. No Name?
Assigning full blame, to patrons of trains.
Systemic lines, were built long ago, before we stepped on.

That old gent across, he wants to slap that music from your hand.
He wants to engage, filter rage.
And assuage, his gaining discomfort.

But, he is afraid.
Voice stayed.
He will go home and scream at his wife, instead.

You, are a threatening phantom to his mind.
A dementor ‘neath a hoodie.
You are nothing but a representation of something else, to him.

Your pain exists, but is veiled in your contempt.
Speaker speaking volumes.
Falls on deaf ears, angers and stokes fears.

Deafening apathy, perturbed by your attempt to be, heard.
Exceeding socially acceptable limits?
Its rather rude, guy.

Some eat hardboiled eggs.
Some clip their toenails.
But you choose to share misogyny and N-bombs.

Riding the rails.
Humanity fails.
No one, says nothing.

That, says everything

Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Open-Air Gondola”




“Open-Air Gondola”

Open-Air gondola,

we’re really quite fond of ‘ya.

You get us from base camp to peak.


Your views are transcendent.

The sunshine, resplendent.

My fifth trip up the mountain, this week.


With climbers courageous,

tour parties engage us;

explaining all that comes into view.


The conveyance has crested,

with passengers, restive.

Looking for something to do.


The crowd soon spills out,

and wanders about.

Vertigo, soon gains a foothold.


Once we are able,

the views become stable,

and beholden horizons unfold.




Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Teenage Wasteland”



“Teenage Wasteland”


My first real taste of beer,

happened at seventeen.

An apprehensive sip,

from a gloved hand,

on a colder than usual fall night.

Huddled in the concrete bivouacs of the Warren Prescott Schoolyard.


It presented itself oddly,

from a familiar yet friendly hand.


The crackle-crunch explosion of the air and carbonation,

escaped from the can,

encouraged me a bit.

A masculine sound,

I had come to associate with my father.

Although, he preferred Miller High Life.


My adventure wrapped itself in Budweiser Red, White, and Blue.

The thrill of underage drinking electrified my nervous system.

Wrong felt right.

Communal crimes created camaraderie.


I blew the head off the can, as the others did.

Brought it to my lips.

Effervescent ozone twinkled on my lips.

Tickled my tongue.

Teased my throat.

Tastebuds registered tinny sweaty metallic pumpernickel sour.

I didn’t like the taste, as the others did.

Repetition of each chalky mouthful ensued,



Warmth permeated my being.

Unlike any other feeling I’d ever felt before.

Stretched me out.



A feeling of float.

A high wire traveler.

Warm in the cold.



Empty can crushed, tab pocketed to keep score.

A new can was passed over to me.

More crackle-crunch explosion of air and carbonation,

escaped the can,

further encouraged me.

Thoughts of masculinity.

Dad again.

Floated up out of the concrete bivouac bunker off of Bunker Hill Street,

in the shadow of Breed’s Hill.


Bred new vice.


Kept tabs in pocket, as the others did.

Chatted up friends.

Outrageous claims.

Reindeer games.

Pulled up, on the reins.

Had to be home by ten o’clock.

Dad couldn’t know.


Bladder full.

Zipper pulled.


Bladder emptied.

Steam rose from the brick wall,

as luminescent urine dappled the tarred ground.

Zipped up, and off.


For a time,

all motion slowed,

reality warped.

Chased after myself.

Chased home

Chased the buzz.


Fast forward to five years later.

Floated along an interstate.

Not buzzing, but buzzed.

Too drunk.

Last stages.

Trust forever in friends,

to get us wherever we needed to go.

Combat zone to hustle honeys.

Consumed sin.



Salisbury Beach.

Summer jaunts.

Impaired by liquid bravery.

Made it easier to chat up young women.

Chased the buzz.


The backseat window opened up,

a crackle-crunch explosion of air and carbonation,

rushed in,

further encouraged  me.

A collective of masculinity,

cruised down the highway.

Father knew best.


Highway lights: the pulsing metronome in my peripheral vision.

Night precision driving.

And then…

A song exploded onto the scene.

Sonic boom.

Vibrant vibrations.

Guttural guttersnipe guitar,

rang the shriek of death out of life.

Displayed an affinity for thumbed noses at death.

Fretted away frets,

fret by fret.

Strung along.

Strung out.

Wielded plastic pick.

Further encouraged me to ride half-assed, half-cracked, and half-baked into the void.


Eyes closed,

arms open.

Rhythm delivered.

Speakers bounced.

Baba O’Riley transformed the horizon into a teenage wasteland.

We lived in it.

It lived in us.

Outer and inner reality forever changed.

The crescendo made us feel like fiddlers on the roof.


Rushed, no, buzzed.

Buzzed into the warm embrace of things being okay.

Budweiser beer okay.


A crackle-crunch explosion of air and carbonation,

sailed forth from the speaker,

further encouraged me.

Opened containers, as the others did.

Thoughts of masculinity


I didn’t want Dad to know.

But, Dad already knew.

He travelled that road before.


We floated on, up, and out.

Buzzed like bees on a breeze.

Budweiser buddies.

Beguiled, bewildered, and bamboozled by youth.

Spent frivolously against life’s ledger.

Debt incurred.

Passions spurred,

further encouraged.

Tabs kept.


Man, those were some great fucking times.





Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Seasoned Traveler”



“Seasoned Traveler

Bon voyage!

Crashing waves wash away your permanence.

Chasing away the inequity of man.

A transplanted farmer’s tan, lingers a touch longer.

Tide us over until the New Moon.

Like squeezing water from a rock,

me like a hurricane.

Solarcaine pain.

Coppertone drain.

Summer’s last days.

Diminishing rays.

Wind picking up, in a serious tone.

Leaves leave trees on a leisurely breeze.

Fall down deep and crisp the soil.

Dog droppings play hide and seek among the yarmulke yellows, rosacea reds, greedy greens, and broken browns.

Air feels fumic on the lungs.

Naked trees reach up into the sky.

Clouds push down and leer at the hills for their obstinacy.

Plastic bags caught on power lines flip, flap, flippity-flappity. 

Solitary traveler whistling past the graveyard.

Traveling toward the final embrace.

Numbness, sweet airy buzz.

Apply the thing that makes it stop.

Reverent resonance required,

batteries are included.

Winter will come,


Poems · September 2017-TBD

“To Do List…”

“Lost List” © C.P. Hickey 2017

“To Do List…”

It is said that St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.

Does that include lost shopping lists?

First thoughts upon finding an abandoned shopping list include, but are not limited to:

  • Who’s getting married? Did they make the right decision? What bakery will bake their cake since they are a same-sex couple?
  • What kind of bread is needed? Rye, pumpernickel, French?
  • 9-volt batteries fit snugly into fire alarms.
  • Cheese gets moist and runny if left to its own devices at room temperature.
  • small tomato sauce is, small.
  • string beans are either delicious, or taste like nothing.
  • Why “paper towels only”? Wouldn’t a box of tissues be nice too?
  • tuna? oil or water?
  • salad, fruit, onions (are these separate items or is it a salad of fruit and onions? also, tomatoes are fruit.)
  • only one thing on the list was crossed out.


What happened to the person,

that made this shopping list?

Abducted at the storefront,

before items were missed.


Did the table at the wedding,

notice they weren’t there?

Did a fruit and onion salad,

suddenly appear?


St. Jude’s been checking Google Maps,

for traces of this soul.

A crumpled list was left behind,

requesting a paper towel roll.


We can’t discover what was done,

or, all that’s left to do.

The inconclusive list shown here,

provides the slimmest clue.


When next I go to corner store,

I’ll check the carts to see.

Perhaps, the cart’s items will show,

the list’s author to me.




Poems · September 2017-TBD

“Planner, or Pantser?”


“Don’t Daunt Dear Derring-do” © C.P. Hickey 2017


Planner or pantser?

A romanced, tiny dancer?

Depends, on which way the wind blows.


One thing for certain,

esteem will start hurting,

unless you try writing by rote.


Lines and quick phrases,

come down in phases,

only when ass is in chair.


Quit your complaining,

I’m clearly disdaining,

your self-propagated despair.


Writing’s not simple,

despite your snarked dimples.

You talk about, but can’t follow through.


The strength of your art,

will come from the start,

when you are finally committed to.


Lines are imbued,

on readers who view,

that which exists in this realm.


You can’t convey meaning,

without conscious streaming,

and driving it on from the helm.


Nothing is probable,

unless held accountable,

one must to it, post-haste.


Explaining why,

the word well is dry,

begets a contemptible waste.


You’ll find no respite,

from writers that get it.

No, you can’t ask for my sympathy.


You’d do better, dear writer,

to create and inspire,

than make excuses endlessly.


Wasting one’s time,

is a capital crime,

in the world of creativity.


If much the worse,

perhaps you change course,

and leave writing to authors like me.