Angry Young Man
An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.
Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.
Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known
What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.
Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.
Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.
Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain shitter.
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.
Dipsomania
He can already taste the vomit
As he feels the flop sweat drip off his forehead
And wipes it away from his frowning, flushed face.
The smell of stale beer
Glistening green bottles
And shiny silver cans.
An old, discarded pizza crust
On a greasy paper plate
The garlic still lingers in the air.
His hamper overflows.
Those blue jeans attempt an escape
Down to that dirty, filthy floor.
He feels his head heating up, about to explode.
His hot, stinking breath feels like fire
Shooting from the exhaust of a vodka fueled jet fighter.
Reverie of Ruination
I
Surrounded and submerged
By Darkness of the deep.
Berserk, I bounce below
Under the wild waves.
Distraught and in distress,
Making manic movements,
But before blacking out,
Emptiness envelops.
Finally free from fear.
Such sudden, silent sleep.
II
Poison penetration—
Assaulted and abused.
Violent violation—
Coerced without consent.
Demolished and destroyed.
Damned and dehumanized.
Growing god awful guilt
And losing lust for life.
Sexual survivor—
Dead and demoralized.
III
Tunneling thumbs dig deep
Inside my eye sockets.
Blood burst and starts to spurt.
Pupils pop—soundless scream.
Shaken, shocked and startled.
It’s finally come true.
Catastrophe confirmed.
Loss of light, lacking life.
Misty, murky milieu.
My domain of darkness.
Creeping Contempt
**********
A pen precariously
Placed on a podium
Rolling rapidly, falling fast
**********
Or held in the
Hard heavy hands
Of a glorious golden god
**********
Poking painfully
Toward the tender torsos
Of thieves and tricksters
**********
Fantastic feeling, fixated
Ferociously and frantically
Carefully crafting clever cuneiform
**********
Poni Blanco
The sweat drips from our foreheads
Resembling a leaky faucet
With our clammy palms and pit stains—
You’d think we were in the jungle.
Clock on the stove reads four a.m.
Time to lose the shirts—
It’s wife beater o’clock.
Teeth clinched together tightly
With the friction of new brake pads.
Nostrils sucking back the snot,
“After I get back from the bathroom,
You wanna do some push ups?”
“Fuck yeah, maaaan!”
And continue this pointless conversation
Until the sun comes up
Or we run out of beers,
Whichever one comes first.
Riding on the rails
Trotting down the trails
Atop the white pony.
Steven Weckeman is a full time student completing his final semester at SUNY Orange for his liberal arts degree, focusing on education. He currently resides in the Hudson Valley in Upstate New York. He wrote sketch comedy at the Second City Theater in Chicago, Illinois. He has a hunger for life and a thirst for craft beer.
