One of my short stories was rejected. On the Fourth of July (which was awful in its own right). I wallowed in my woe-is-mes for a while before throwing back a Jack and shaking off the dirt. That’s that. Now it’s forward again.
Anyway, here’s a poem from Aug. 2011
Made for Nomads
J.C.D. Kerwin
And now I’m a wasteland:
a landscape of sparse vegetation
and temporary fires
for the world to pass by
and forget I was,
once,
an ocean.
Is it weird that sometimes when I’m at work and I’m stressed and I have a shit load of stuff to do I just want to scream “It’s raaaaaw!!!” in the face of the next person who asks me to do something?
Yeah? It’s weird?
These fake horns are rahhhhhwww!
Rhodedendronneverendon
J.C.D. Kerwin
At midnights, I’m drunk-staring,
caterwauling captions to my nightmares
and keeping ghosts from trampling down
my front door.
I’ve got that bad disease called heartache and
there’s no cure for the self-inflicted catastrophe.
I’m hopeless.
And a wreck.
Still got your number
tattooed to my eyelids so when
I close my eyes I can blink-dial your smile.
It’s better than scraping razorblades
across the photographs of us.
I’m dreaming of you
[and drowning.]
You’re not dreaming of me
[because you left me to empty bottles and worn-out recordings.]
I still remember your name.
July, 2011
JUNK-A-TRUNK
J.C.D. Kerwin
Now there I go again
falling over my toes and
make-believing like I’m dreaming
I’m not really staring at the carpet.
I’ve got a smug little smile on my face
like I’m someone different than
who I see in mirrors.
(I look a little thinner but
I’m still the asshole who can’t
turn pencil sticks to cigarettes.)
I hold out my finger and pretend to pull the trigger.
Got headphones on my ears because
when I got the swagger
I think I’m something better, as if
the pen flicks I carve in paper
will stick around like cave paintings.
I watch them fade like electrical storms in the desert.
I got a twinkle in my eye
like I can see through walls but
I’m no superman and kryptonite
is my breakfast of champs.
(Can’t even spread my cape and fly right;
I just fall like a frown.)
[I dream the dreamy hero tales but
each time I’m named the winner,
the big bad wolf comes howling through the picture,
and my world comes crashing down like I’m bad
and Little Red’s got a shotgun full of tacks.]
Skip-trip over my shoelaces
and suck down runny eggs
while I contemplate my fate today.
Another hardcore meeting while I discover
which way I’ll fade away and how
I’ll kick my feet to keep my head above the water.
In my younger days I ran with Mario and Link.
I drink black coffee from my irises
‘cause I stay up late and walk, slow-motion
through the places I created in my mind.
(I’d lay out the welcome mat but
you wouldn’t find the way through jungles
without a machete and a map.)
I’m shooting for the Somewhereland I won’t ever find…
Now there I go again
falling over my toes and
make-believing, make-believing, make-believing
like I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming—
PS, post this:
I imagine I crush the world
when I clench my fists;
I set the world on fire
when I recite this script.
May, 2012
J.C.D. KERWIN 
