10 Degrees on Main South
Welfare mother bundles up
her six kids-readying them
to taste the brutish wind
that blows the fallen
snow over steps of harsh
booze and drug addictions.
The faces on Main South, all
red and crispy; look away from
my car with jealous disgust…
After all—bad habits
should not be shared with
one who’s playing Steppenwolf
songs on the CD player.
My watching them is a cheap shot, an
unmentioned kick to the groin for those
walking, freezing and scattered along the
depravity of Worcester.
This is the island of misfit
junkies and winos of the city
on display…living, but having
no place to go.
I drive away…crying for a second
and leaving no forgiving trail
for those I might never see again.
Praying to the lord for any soul to keep.
Unfinished Poems and Short Stories
Unfinished poems, short stories…thoughts about life and death fill this page like $3.99 graffiti…the socially accepted go off and hate; jobs, school, affairs—anything that kills eight to ten hours a day. So I adapt by sitting at my girlfriend’s apartment writing these thoughts in cursive…anything to live another 24 hours before the burning leeches come eat me. Out in the sun where the men with the big triceps work, I witness alone; align with the homeless and so called losers who walk and mutter to themselves. I don’t listen to the cool music anymore…just the old stuff to remind me of better days. Damn the unfinished written stuff bothers me. I can get flowing with a few stanzas then the greatness falls off into mediocrity then just plain crap.
Drinking is just an excuse to forget for a while. End up filling the juke with fivers listening to the Who, Skynyrd, Alice in Chains and other usual suspects. I become an avenging angel with the devil’s grin…observing what is being said but not really caring about bar soap operas. I usually wither into myself…wondering quietly when my time is near…when these voices will fade away like a bad cartoon.
When the ground becomes my home? I can access instant death while walking to the bathroom…giving the tough stare to the attitude pool players who see me as a bother I as breeze past them. I see a fat guy sink the eight ball—another minute to proclaim himself king of the table.
We have all died twenty million times a day…we just never know it. See it when you cross the street or take an elevator up to room 2 hundred and nothing.
Unfinished poems and short stories ride the empty rainbow…walk into a broken taxi…you are going nowhere every day.
The word of
the day is
Pause a minute
decide to run
Every day is
a struggle to keep something alive.
Dan Provost does not write for fun. He describes his observations while fighting the inner struggle that lurks inside him. His 9th book On the Wagon…On a Binge has been published by What’s in the Bag Press.
Allison Goldin is an artist living in Cambridge. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles. She is currently studying Illustration at The School of Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.