By Joe Sonnenblick
I’m on the bubble,
The bubble is on the choppy sea,
That ocean is full of spilled oil,
My feet dangle from a barstool after I survived another day
I don’t believe in humbleness,
Never did anything for anyone except cater to their soft hands,
When I let them know of my singularly pointed dauntlessness…They bawl a fist.
Radios playing air raid sirens,
Films are just old Leni Riefenstahl propaganda,
Turning out my pockets when you say so,
Showing my papers,
It’s a hand drawing of my casket.
Can I create?
Can I talk to you in this dark room and raise my voice without coitus or the cops being called?
It’s all a snarky remonstration,
Pretending you are Saul Bellow in a camel duster and they are scoring your life as the snow falls,
In reality you are that coffee that you need to get through your day,
You are your crutch,
Get walkin.
Joe Sonnenblick is a Native New Yorker who was a regular contributor to the now defunct Citizen Brooklyn magazine. Joe has been featured in publications such as In Parentheses for their 6th volume of poetry and The Academy Of The Heart And Mind, and Impspire Literary Review, The Bond Street Review, Spectra Poets Issue 01, Throats To The Sky, El Portal. Joe has read up and down the east coast and is shopping his first full book of poetry around to publishers.
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