Two Poems

It will get stranger and stranger

as we become older

and our dear dead friend (St. Matthew)

puffing squinty-eyed on cigarettes

Head thrown back under 40’s

So stoned in photographs

this hometown godhead

is still just a kid

so unsure of himself

And it pains me to admit

that some of us will remain

trapped like him (St. Matthew)

just like kids

so unsure of ourselves

____________________________________________

Sometimes I come back

and feel damned near enlightenment

in the comfort and peace of my parents’ home

Other times I can’t help but see

a bizarre hoarder’s palace

and I feel a sustained disgust

There’s something going on here

a number of things

that I don’t want to think about

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