Freelance writer living in Brooklyn, NY.
We walked through the lobby of the Hotel Jerome.
a ram’s head was mounted on the wall. it stared at us
as we made our way to the J-bar.
By Andrew Arnett4 years ago in Poets
It is a human bazaar. a showcase for bizarre
humans. the freaks.
the warlocks and hustlers on
We had spent the day trudging through an abandoned
ghost town, in the Rocky Mountains.
but there were no ghosts to be found.
We arrived at Woody Creek Tavern in the late afternoon.
Sophie and I sat at the bar. there was a large oil portrait of
Hunter S. Thompson hanging on the wall.
The car wound through the Rocky Mountains.
the view was devastating.
a 1000 foot drop hung
over the side of the road.
mountain peaks scratched the clouds above.
Toxic factory spewing chain smoking ashes in
throw a wrench into the machine and see
fun times in the field of land mines.
I was working on my coffee
at the coffee shop and three
young ladies were sitting
nearby and I overheard
one of the ladies telling
It’s not bad, the way of the mushroom.
living low, below the radar, out of sight
from the blistering sun.
hanging out in the cool damp
People don’t care for the nice guy.
like the saying goes, nice guys finish last.
they much prefer the butcher.
and the dictator.
Watching the televangelist
on a Saturday morning:
“Keys to success are found in
the principals of Christ,” he says.
most satanists, I’ve found, follow the
The dead air
like the shoe of
the world waiting
the building creeks
and a baby squeals
in some distant corner.
I like to get to the airport early
especially these days with
all the paranoia that
hovers over a place like that
and the new automated ticket agents