Nothing casual about it

I know very little about what
       most would claim to be
            pertinent information
                                                              the state of the
                                                   stock market or correct way
                                            of doing most anything
                                            instead I am caught constantly stumbling
                                 over the fine-print written in
                                    to this pact I've made with the
                                                                           stars       while wishing
                                                                                                     on time
                                                                         that it might     somehow forget

                                                                      to include me in the final draft
                                                               leaving me rummaging through
                                                             dumpsters in
                                                                      the alleys of
                                                                         dreams    satisfied
                                                                            with the sweet smell
                                                                               of my
                                                                        fingers &
                                                                                   that sticky feeling in
                                                                         my brain

                                            I punch tickets for train rides
                                                           to places that don't exist
                                                    & you think that
                                                                        I think    it will somehow
                                                                           make me better
                                    while snorting the souls of
                                       unborn orphans in
                                                          your sleep

                          I miss people that I've never even
                                                            met     you tell me
                                                         youíre proud of me   just for

                                            knowing all the while that the cupboards
                                            of my soul are empty and this part-time
                                            employment of dreaming
                                            isn't going to pay the rent
                                        you feel this puzzle is one worth completing
                                            while my guilt slithers like a snake
                                                     into the garden of your smile    knowing
                                                                          that there's too many pieces
                                                                             for that to
                                                                                 ever happen

Dependence Day

you can be anything that
     you want to be she said
     if you'd only put your mind to it
I want to be the ferryman on
       the river of Styx    I replied
   working the split
                   shift with Charon
maybe then   I could
       understand    why people
                     cry at funerals
why old ladies cling to
             their copies of
Harper's Bazaar like
oxygen tanks for
     emphysema or what
a mother's touch truly
           feels like
and all the guts
inside Fort Mc Henry wouldn't get
Washington across this river any
quicker than a wooden
                smile    with Molly Pitcher
                   there    dressing
           for a Mr. America
              pageant    now she had
       style     too bad she couldn't
                 be here to open my
       head and inspect the
contents before shipping them
              off for replacement
maybe then I could
write an Independence
Day poem that would
make our forefathers
                proud    but my heart
is just too involved to
           have me believe that
there isn't some truth
to the saying    that nothing in
               life is free and in looking around
       I'd have to say that
               Francis Scott Key mustnít have been much
                                       of a writer

Lester Allen has been slinging the ink for as long as he can remember. A
full-time writer, he has released his first chapbook titled "the days
carnivore" and is hard at work on another release titled "back dooring the
muse" to be released by tainted coffee press. He travels the country to
attend readings and has had many of his poems grace the pages of the small
presses. When he's not writing he enjoys; horse racing, billiards & drinking
Guinness. Writing bios in the third person doesn't quite make his list.

You can find him on MySpace or contact him @ lesterjallen@gmail.com

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