Punching the Clock

Three poems
by Patrick Jordan
 
Where To Find Me
 
Down at the end of the bar
on an old wooden barstool.
 
Up at crack of dawn
hauling a full load to market.
 
Behind the counter
handing out the tickets.
 
In bed late at night
sleeping another one off.
 
In the very back seat
on an old greyhound bus.
 
Laying in a cold jail cell
the third night in a row.
 
Rushing the kids off to school
each day of the week.
 
Punching that time clock
at 6:30 in the morning.
 
Out the door in the evening
to take the late night shift again.
 
Behind this machine
pushing these small little buttons.
 
That’s where I’ll be.
That’s where my spirit will stay.
That’s where my heart will live.
That’s where I’ll be.
 
That’s
where
I’ll
be.
 
 
Something
 
Take your hand
and shove it
down your throat.
Reach down
as far as possible
and pull out
something beautiful.
Something original.
Something bold.
Something special
and Fantabulous.
Turn it into wings
and let it fly.
Let is soar up high.
Then let it spread
and wash all the
souls clean.
Drink from it.
And it will
be forever.
Forever.
 
 
A Horribly Drunk Night
 
Too many spirits.
Fell asleep
completely wasted
at 6 a.m.
Two hours
later
I’m awakened
by a
painfully loud noise.
 
Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrr
 
Holy shit!
I opened my eyes and looked at the time.
It said 9 O’clock.
What the holy hell is going on?
I tried to stand up
but I was still drunk
and I stumbled a bit.
 
I walked out to the back patio
and saw some Latinos
mowing the lawn.
Not only mowing,
but with their weed-eaters
and hedge trimmers,
tearing it all up.
Loud noises ringing
all through
my heavy head,
I screamed,
 
“Shut The Fuck Up”!!!
 
Which did no good
because the equipment
was far too loud to hear anything,
even your own thoughts.
 
Stumbling to the kitchen
I opened the freezer and
grabbed my liquor bottle.
I took a huge swig.
Put it back,
and stumbled my way
to the bed,
cussing all the while.
 
Don’t these fucking people realize
there’re folks in here
that drank all night long
and have hangovers
and don’t want to hear lawn mowers
at 9 O’clock in the morning
BUZZING into their brains?
 
I guess not.
 
I stumbled back to bed,
crawled in-between my sheets
and passed the fuck out.
 
The funniest thing is
I didn’t recall this whole experience
until weeks later.
 
Thank the Gods for the nectar,
and
thank the fucking Gods.
 
 
—————-
Through poetic expression and creative writing Patrick Jordan sets himself at the center of his search for the truth. Patrick created the Facebook group(s) “Notes From The Edge”, and the independent press “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing Co”, where he prints small unique Chapbooks and supports individual poets.
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Published by

17numa

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. He is a Best of the Net and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Scott's poetry books include: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015), Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2015), and Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016). Scott is a member of The Southern Collective Experience; he also serves as an editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters.

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