For M.
Lucky Bird
JCD Kerwin
You say trail mix
looks like
something the birds
would eat.
Well,
maybe if I chow
enough raisins and seed,
I’ll grow feathers
and fly us
away.
(Sept. 2014)
Category Archives: writing
Blink This
Not particularly well-written, but the idea still delights me.
Blink This
JCD Kerwin
I often dream
about the so-called
“Rise of Machines.”
I picture blenders
and ice machines
flinging food at passersby.
I imagine
the computer reaching,
wrapping chords
around my knees.
I bet the coffee pot
has got
some built-up steam
toward all us
impatient, cranky beings.
I confess I adore
the image of
automatic doors
sounding like Hal.
In any case,
I sort of wish
these robots would
amass and attack.
It’d sure explain
why everything I own
runs like shit.
(Sept. 2014)
Dangling Modify This, You Witch
See what I did there?
Dangling Modify This, You Witch
JCD Kerwin
Spoon.
If you haven’t a clue
how to do
my job,
then don’t pretend
my occupation
is a waste of your
consideration.
It makes you look
like an arrogant fool
(and frankly,
an asshole).
It also puts me
in the annoying position
of having to dig
through your mountain of bull
with only a
(Sept. 2014)
Bayoneting Sustenance
This is non-fiction, fiction.
…Figure that one out.
Bayoneting Sustenance
JCD Kerwin
I stay up all night,
watching the History Channel tell me about
all the presidents and what made them
(or didn’t make them)
a great leader.
It’s a marathon,
a marathon of watching me
grow more apathetic with every
click of the goddmaned
ticking machine.
(I hate that clock…
I guess I don’t care—
enough to get rid of the clock,
I mean…)
I live off coffee and cigarettes
like some teenage model with
anorexia.
But I’m content,
to thin, and
sink farther into upholstery.
Maybe by the time I emerge
as a tattered little butterfly,
the world will be long-gone.
Maybe I’ll find an unused stick
of cancer
buried in these cushions.
Worth a shot.
Or two.
(Sept. 2014)
Vomitus
It really grosses me out.
Vomitus
JCD Kerwin
I’d really like to know
why all these people
feel the need to eat
ten different times
a day.
As I sit in my cube
(a classy, simple drab-gray),
all I hear is crinkle,
crunch,
gulp,
and munch.
Makes me nauseous
when I think
they’re insides must be saying,
“Slow down, please!”
How can you really
completely digest
the oatmeal and bagel
from breakfast,
in time to inhale
a pound of leftover
lasagna?
(Remember to sneak it
in-between
your snacks of
chips and cottage cheese.)
I can’t help to wonder
what the hell they eat
for dinner.
No wonder this country
can no longer fit in its jeans.
(Sept. 2014)
J.C.D. KERWIN 