this fragile nightmare
fifty years into this
fragile nightmare
an old bottle of whiskey
hidden under some
dirty clothes
another lost girlfriend
texting madly on the
phone
not accepting that
everything comes
to an end
and here i thought
eventually, shit gets
better
maturity comes about
they don’t explain to you
when you’re younger that
money plays a much larger
role
i suppose they don’t want
you dying until you make
someone else a rich fuck
$11 at the grocery store
supposed to snow like
the end is near this
weekend
i’ll make a sandwich and
watch the snow as i slowly
drink the hours away with
some gin
———————————————————————-
your turn to talk
the muse called from germany
at three in the morning my
time and needed to talk
this is what happens when
you learn to listen and not
just wait for your turn to
talk
she told me she loved me
at the end of the call
i told her i love her as well
we both know it doesn’t
mean what it could have
twenty years ago
but time has brought
a different place at
least
put on an old morphine
record and think about
when you were cool
nothing but laughter
i often wonder when it
all turned to shit
was it when the cocaine
went bad or the music
stopped selling or when
the women stopped liking
the dirty jokes
loneliness does have some
perks
dinner doesn’t cost as much
———————————————————–
happy birthday
i put it out into the
universe that i didn’t
want to be alone on
my 50th birthday
the universe responded
and told me to go fuck
myself
there has to be some
point where i no longer
have to chase shadows
where the mountains
will relent and allow
me to breathe
i am also sadly aware
that the opposite is also
happening at the same
time
if life is a series of choices
how many fucking times
can you lose before the
walls break and all hell
is about
apparently, i’m stuck
fucking testing the limits
and here my grandmother
thought i was going to be
president one day
———————————————————-
everything is the next one
winter storm coming
the sad neon blinking
across the valley
between the ice and snow,
the stores were running
out of everything
this is what we do
since the pandemic
everything is the next
one
sadly, they are hardly
ever right
the worrying fuckers
and the ones on tv
doing the weather
having remembered
what it was like before
everything got fucked
we’ll get some snow,
the plows will get out,
life moves on
there was a big ass
blizzard when i was
an infant
i have no memories
of it
but i do remember
a cold stretch when
i had just started
working at the
airport
nothing like driving
equipment at -40
degrees
————————————————————–
find god
the simpler times cling
to me like a ragged old
shirt
chasing pussy was fucking
easier when it didn’t hurt
to walk a few miles
time doesn’t heal shit
liquor doesn’t either
i have a collection of bent
spoons that would like to
have the floor to talk about
a few things
and there is always some
young beauty that will tell
me to find god
i kindly ask when was the
last time you were told to
go fuck yourself
when she gets offended
i know i just gave her
the first lesson of life
but this generation doesn’t
know shit about minding
your own business
so alas, it is fucking useless
i’m sure the next one will
be laced
hopefully
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last 30 years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Crossroads Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. J.J. is a 3 time Best of The Net nominee and a two time Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find more info on his latest book, to live your dreams, by going here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/245883678-to-live-your-dreams