My “O” poem listening to the Bosstones

Frozen poet in the snow writing as fast as he can go at least on an iPhone, here we go…

The flow so low and uncontrolled
Stories told and hands cracked and cold
Golden snow
Can’t feel my toes
way too cold

warm up to my flow
In a world where we own our truth and sell pound for pound to the radio
Sound Waves and speakers control my soul

And on and on it goes
Where the beautiful and bold attack
With lightning bolts
And stone cold cats slow
And low
Watch as the groove grows and grows at Bosstones shows
To the skankin’ poets in the fifth row
Hell of a hat he’s wearing
hear the trumpets blow

Will my style with the stylo go?

I don’t know maybe,
someday I suppose
but the rascal king
remembers toxic toast
and wears the crown at the hometown throw down.
Roast my herbs going solo
To the loco side of social
Stolen back to where I’d like to go, some where warm like the Congo back to the present
Broken backs and shoveling snow
This feeling inside grows and the blood flows fast from head to toes
Go down the rabbit hole
Where the silence is golden
Kinder words were never spoken
Put down the pen so hot that it’s smoking
Choking on ink that flows
Indigo like the rose i knew so long ago.
The most high on the evening news
Flows seem quick the words I choose
Never underused and not confused
Not broken maybe bruised
Cowboy Coffee in the hand that I hold
And the cold subsides in the mind of one two eight and more listening in my headphones
At the laundromat folding clothes
Will I be remembered? This toxic toast of pro’s prose
I don’t know, maybe

Someday I suppose.


Bosstones Logo


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.