i stand under
my words eager
to please,
but my lips
numbed by

a careless walk
brought me there.

a friend of a friend
of someone i never met
suggested that
i come read
my willing words.

open mic, he said.

open mic.

i fumble through
scattered sheets
filled with an idiots


since ive nothing
new to say -
no bright light
shining through
scattered clouds
slapped atop
sheltering skies -
i dig deep,

back to passages carved
before i cared or knew better
or tried to sling anything
more than the miasmic
shit that cluttered
my simple mind.

utter nonsense
line after line after line.

you get my point, right?

nothing sticks to my
gritty hands, nothing
springs to life with more
than a sputtering cough,
oozing puss,
open wounds that never scab,
never heal.

under the half light
i part my lips,
as if to speak,
as if to begin,

but i stop

step down
and walk out the door.

no sense in wasting
their time
when my time
has been wasted

from the start.

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About Jack Henry

7 9
jack henry lives and breaths in southeastern, california in a shitty small town of toad suck, where he is poet laureate because he was the only one in a population of twenty-six that could spell, write, or speak without drooling. jack prides himself in writing about anything and everything, subsequently mastering...read more nothing other than the waste and destruction of natural resources via excessive paper use. further, jack is devoted to the preservation of the mojave tail clicker, which is a small bird that continuously flies due to not having feet and is endangered due to the destruction of it's natural habitat by a truck stop.
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