Little Bill
standing 4 feet nine
a hundred and two pounds
the king of the psych ward
dominoes tournament
fistfuls of loose
cigarette winnings
wig askew on his head
murmuring a raspy stutter
shouting glory hallelujah
he was dodging the bookies
with a staged suicide
hiding behind the
fresh linens and
lithium tremors
of these fluorescent
hallways
seventy years of stories
and failures
and only two
hours before
his release,
he crumpled up
his phone
number in
my free hand
and said kid
let’s go
play the ponies
sometime
Plague of Fear
widespread panic
people shivering in
all corners of the world
alerts that cause them to
hide underneath
shading eaves
televisions blaring
talking heads
warning them of
the doom in the hearts
and minds of
men pulling the strings
of fear, that eternal
black art form of
angry magic
that causes societies to
fall to their knees
and for all wheels
to come to a standstill
heavily breathing
these wide masses
embrace themselves
and implode
year after year
infomercials and politicians
empty their wallets
these silently weeping souls
drown in pools of lost freedom
while Chia Pets bloom
in this empty world
of broken promises
Shut-In
hiding in a suburban cave
on a ravaged easy chair
in long underwear
stained from
a dented can
of chili
with obscure old movies
lighting
piles of scattered dog shit
alone and avoiding
the fractured energy
of small talk
and the anti-cinematic
nature of the plastic
menace of
the ugly world
beyond the front door
the black and white
worlds reflected in
ashen eyes
the swollen moonshine
nose knob hucksters
egg headed dames
and dead celebrities
keep me company
on demand
Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Underground Voices, The Camel Saloon and Carnival Literary Magazine. His chapbook "Burn Through Today" is forthcoming from Flutter Press.
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