May the Three

freestyle sonnet on bench seats (word to Matt C.)

smooth masculine maneuvers sideways in parked cars

were made easier across long leather bench seat,

but we live in a time of cupholders as change jars

not man and woman (or whatever) making sweet

beneath the stars; in fact where the fuck went the stars

clouded out by overcast reflections from street

lights clustered all civilized around homes and bars

and stores and shit and filth but cleaned to neon neat

beacons of sustenance but quickly falls apart,

much like the vehicles of today, buckets dumped

full of failed humanity, lacking unclogged heart

yet full of self-importance, flabby chests well-thumped

with pride for the slide into decline and despair,

in a clean plastic ride, where only eagles dare

freestyle sonnet on New Coke (word to David D.)

the old traditional ways are classic, never

forget them (nor end your support) but the greatest

thing ever created throughout our endeavor

to bring you some great shit is also the latest,

and it’s certainly mostly the same, so it seems,

but also totally different completely,

trust us, see we’re splitting one game into two teams,

and maybe more, so that any choice discreetly

goes back to one source, one sole provider of shit,

and you’ll be so stoked to ingest our crap you’ll brand

yourself unable to accept alternates, lit

in the brain with identity attached to stand

proudly with one debilitating choice above

another, two (or more) the same, one hate, one love

freestyle sonnet on Grampage (word to Chelsea M.)

old man of Chernobyl, after eating homegrown

vegetables for twenty years, developed powers

magnified by internal fission of his own

molecules, altered by the iodine showers,

thyroid devoid of standard man limitations

until he stormed like a tornado through locales

across east Europe, creating devastations

across multiple borders, destroying morales,

disgusted by modern morals, or lack thereof,

waving his radioactive cane he’d hand-hewn

from a twisted juniper bush his life-long love

had planted, before tumors took her far too soon

for his liking; in his anguish, he decided

to smash all cultures where atoms are collided

freestyle sonnet on moonflower vines/luna moths (word to Nathan S. & Sean T.)

moonflower vines intertwined with wrought iron where

I recline as sunshine goes dark while the earth turns;

moonrises are less regular, I sit and stare

at stars’ bright light, which through “heavenly” fabric burns

navigational maps for both man’s heart and mind,

whether crossing oceans or making decisions

of more personal natures, yet also inclined

to follow lunar calls once the moon has risen

is the perfect white blooms of the vines on my porch,

attracting the attentions of magic, large-eyed

moths flocking to these blossoms as if a fire’s torch;

the scene pollinates my thoughts, with truth I commune;

glorious vine, moth, and I, all slaves to the moon

freestyle sonnet on M.C. learning to drive a stick shift (word to Matt C.)

restricted license afternoon crawl in Datsun

late model, longhaired driver not wearing seat belt,

fuck that, tortured rock-n-roll genius rides shotgun,

they pass fat-gut cop fishing for citations dealt,

blue lights flashing, pull over into loose gravel,

“license and registration,” “sure, here you go sir,”

cruiser snitchbot reports back that driver’s travel

is legally limited to work and back, “your

aware of blah blah blah Mr. Mack?” “yes, of course,

can my friend drive us home?” “well... I guess that’s okay,

but if I catch you again, you’re fucked with full force,

get out of here, consider this your lucky day;”

I’m back in passenger seat, saying, “let’s go... quick,”

my friend looks to me and says, “I can’t drive a stick.”

bonus freestyle sonnet on self-publishing I guess I don't know (word to Raven Mack)

self-published sucker existing on the edges

of respectable decisions, not knowing when

to clutch at safety’s comfort, pull back from ledges,

“you don’t what’s too far ‘til you’ve gone there,” I’ve been

motivated by madmen, both by blood as well

as environment, born cheap beer-bent and hell-bound

except hell ain’t real, just fairy tales old folks tell

to keep my wild ass in order, calm the sound

of fury internal, I’d burn the whole world down

if I could - scorched earth, start over, reset caveman

molecules back to the essence, when life was brown

not green, not a falsely sustainable gameplan

where “righteous” fuckers decide what constitutes health;

y’all can wait to be told, I’m doing it for self.