VERSES BY AND OF MARK BRUNETTI
A th e is m
Why don’t they have a church for the Atheist?
A place we can go to praise the non-existence of him.
And we’ll give ourselves titles and ranks,
that determine just how much we don’t believe in him.
We’ll accept donations, have pie sales,
and even play bingo on Tuesday nights.
We’ll have holidays for those extra days off,
and at annual town fairs
run a booth with raffle tickets.
Our prophets will be the best of the best
from Nietzsche to Sartre,
their books used as bibles.
And the people of the congregation
will gather on a much better day than
a Sunday or Saturday. Maybe a Tuesday night
can work, everybody seems to be free then.
I first attempted to be homeless when
I was 7 years old living in Jackson, New Jersey.
I packed up a comic book and a jacket
took some cheese and crackers from my moms fridge
and walked to the clubhouse in my backyard.
It had its own imitation kitchen with a stove
and plastic red doors. I stayed there
for at least 4 or 5 hours looking at the pictures
in my comic book trying to find things to do
to bide my time. The cheese and crackers
were gone by evening and it got dark quick
and I was scared of the dark.
Now I’m 26 years old and I have a car
and a nice state job with benefits up in Cranford.
Because my car works I’m considered to be
an upper class person without a home
and since I’m pursuing my Masters Degree I will have
plenty of things to do to take up my time.
When I was younger and homeless I went back home
because it was dark and my mom called me in.
Now I have a flashlight on my keychain
and I don’t think I’m gonna listen when she calls
because I want to see the sunrise thru morning dew
windows and that means really see the sunrise
before I get old.
Walking in a Field with my Friend Evan
I was walking in a field in my backyard
With my friend Evan.
And if there’s anything he knows it’s
A shitload about birds.
And he explains only the interesting
Things about the birds
Like the mourning dove and how
The sound it makes
Is actually coming from its wings,
Not its throat.
Or the Grackle whom can make
Two different sounds
At the same time.
Who gets all excited before singing
Puffing out its wings
And breast spazing uncontrollably.
We talked of Wallace Stevens
his 13 ways to describe
And than we finally decided
That every bird has a poem to it
Especially the robin
Who jumps around
Making it sound
To the surface only to face
Their inevitable fate
Being pulled from the ground
That keeps them alive.
credit WALKINGENGLISH.blogspot @20001BCE