Keith Wesley Combs- Three Poems

trying to wake.

early morning
alone in this motel room
every thing, everyone else
sleeps
except for me and my rotten teeth
my cigarettes that wait
in my pocket
my half empty vodka bottle
sitting so warmly
wishing I'd wet its nipple
with my lips.
I am somehow locked here
in a psychic trance
waiting for the normal people
to awake-
for the flowers to open their legs
to the world
hoping for a honey bee
to come spread a little more
of their love.
I am dying-
decaying here
in Oregon, Idaho, Western Washington
wherever it is
I am working this week
this month, this year.

late afternoon
beer, whiskey, rice wine
good conversation
in some sushi place
life seems better
if only for the moment
and when I open my eyes
to a lonely room
I will at least be able
to start remembering
the great times
with friends and co-workers
then jot them down
in a notebook
titled:
fucked up times working
on the road
with callused hands
and a raw swollen cock.



for the love of the port.

the port wine
starts to take effect
as I light the cigarette
that I already lit
just a few seconds ago.
my mind
is racing as my body
is wasted.
I crouch by the fire
waiting for the flames
to awaken me from this stupor.
what a life I live
going from bottle to bottle
from flophouse to flophouse
from whore to crab filled whore.

the port wine
starts to take hold
and my mind begins
to teeter
on the edge of insanity
creating illusions
delusions of grandeur
building a wall
a wall between me and reality
that in the end
will be too tall
to leap.



forming a new deity.

fire burning in the back field
friends gathered around
conversing
drinking
making love in the dark.
she glimmers
across the flames from me
a dark haired charmer-
a siren
enticing me to dance
thru the embers with her.
to climb the hills
and float into the heavens
waltzing amongst the pillow soft clouds.
to die in her arms
is to die a genial man
stroked by the goddess herself.
the goddess of love
and purity
molded into one great being
sent alone
to nurse me back
to the honest man I use to be.


Keith Wesley Combs is a union painter. He likes to write poetry and short stories in his
spare time. He likes to fish, barbeque, and watch the ladies while drinking beer down by
the river. His work has been published in Main Street Rag, Blue Collar Review, Cokefish,
Poetry Pacific, Record Magazine, The Homestead Review and many more.