If, then

If laughter is the best medicine
and weed makes you laugh

then weed
is good medicine.

Pieces of Pride

Pieces of Pride

My little pieces of pride

what’s left of the whole

will see my ass to hell.

I should have left it all

buried it in the trash

the same way I’ve buried

so many other delusions.

I get so het up about the inconsiderate nature

of human interactions.

It’s as rare as diamonds to find someone

who will offer a human response.

They’re busy, they’re busy, they’re busy…

They’re assholes is what they are

and there is no other explanation

for their crude and crass behaviour.

It’s as if they think I’ve never been busy.

The other day I sent a poem to an editor.

I didn’t expect a response

and I didn’t get one.

A couple weeks later I get a knock on the door.

Shit! Who the fuck is that?

I ask myself.

I get up and answer the pestiferous thing.

There’s some wizened little guy with a shaved head standing there

he’s got a little gold earring in his left earlobe

and a Masai stretched plug thing in his right earlobe.

Very unimaginative that

the little shit.

He’s got tattoos smeared across both his arms

and who knows where else.

Doesn’t he realize that he will never experience nudity again?

Who the fuck are you?

I ask.

I’m Nate Miller

Artistic Editor of The Weed & Scratch Review.

Ah, you…I reply.

You’re the guy who doesn’t have the common courtesy

the common decency

the simple respect

the team spirit

the union with fellow

artists

writers

musicians

the poor and reviled

such as myself

to spend 30 seconds of your time

on a single line response.

Get the fuck off my porch asshole, I hiss.

But I have something to tell you, he says.

Get off my fucking porch before I fucking put my foot a mile up your asshole!

I lunge out the door at him.

He skedaddles down the steps

sidles across the grass

sidestepping the birdbath.

We want to publish you! he shouts

as he backs off toward his bike.

I don’t hear him though

I’m simply sick of it all.

Damn!

I say to myself

it’s too early for a beer.

The last little pieces of pride stick

like spikes in my side.

I’ll be a monk yet,

someday.