A Bar Room And A Broken Heart

Alone in a bar,
drinking Johnny Cash,
listening to gin
on the juke-box,


I devise the future
on cocktail napkins
and piss poetry
into urinals
each and every hour.

Each and every hour.....

reeks drunk and stammers.

Each and every hour
knifes my gut.

Each and every hour
is a shallow grave,

dug in haste
for an old stray dog
splattered on the side
of dead dirt road.

Dog Poem

My dog reads histories
in urine soaked tree bark,
drops prayers on the lawn,
with a sweaty grin,
bowing his ass to the east,
spies omens in feces
he rubs in his face,
reeking like a dead dog,
buried beneath the table,
whimpering hymns to Anubis.

In Memory

I woke up
and found
that your love
has gone
and slashed
all four
of my tires,
and if I could,
I surely would
rip the spine
from my flabby
and send it
to you
in a cardboard
wrapped in red
paper skin.

Jim Peck is an industrial slave, born and raised in Providence R.I.,
currently living in Modesto California. Recent work has appeared
in Thunder Sandwich, Heat City Review, Third Lung Review,
and Spent Meat.

2005 Underground Voices