Poem One About Last Night
Two poems By Kingston Rivera
Tonight there’s a cold spirit calling from the canopy
You could call it a graveyard wind,
The way the rattling tousle will test my patience past tonight
Tired doors moan tomorrow, fer god sake
Let’s hope for better weather after sleep,
While Eastern hours wain, I slip the day wide awake
At odds again with the demon of incursion,
As he kisses my cursed lips, they take my name from the registrar
He points a slippy finger in my direction,
Then begins to pen his confession
More power to you, dark deathwish
Don’t you get the bony loneliness?
Sinking into the hot tub and closing your eyes,
That’s the curse of recursion
I say, write your lost book already!
All day long returning to the same words,
Some people just need a new way to put it,
Not their father’s depressive output
I sense the classics aren’t enough
You can write all day long and unless you make new words,
You’re just preparing an etching
That is just to say, after all,
Well I ate no plums, and I ain’t no leyline pilgrim
But in my respectful opinion,
make your changes and send them to the fucking editor!
Poem Two About Today
About Last decade,
How should I phrase this?
Pain comes easy when it’s dosed cheaply
Administered as standard procedure
Your learning curve is a killer warning
Make a call in life and grip the system
The fraught gospel is that any truth you project may fail,
That’s how we check our souls and balance ourselves
A ton of close friends are murdered every day,
Meanwhile lucid sleepyheads are en masse relinquishing their dreams
How are you any different?
Kingston Rivera is a California resident spending his time in lockdown tending to his goats, playing card games, and fixing fences. He writes about memory, generation loss, dreams, and digital lives