Welcome To November
The sky's a bruise
on a fat girl's thigh.
The days are squeezed
like drops from a greasy rag.
Something primitive & holy
draws us closer
to our deaths.
C'mon kids
lets roll with it.
Cough up the bones
in your throats
& let's give thanks.
*1st published in The Pittsburgh Quarterly
& in my chapbook Send Flowers from Shy City Press (1992).
Four More Lines
It's the everyday that kills you
not the once in a while
when I'm gone, will you love
my lies like I did?
blues
by bart solarczyk
Peshekee River Poetry
Tom Blessing, Editor
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I play guitar, live in Pittsburgh with one wife, two cats, one dog. Been around small press since the early 80s, etc. I've slept over at Ron Androla's house.
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