Celebrating National Poetry Month

People say I’m crazy. They have no fucking idea. I’m out of my balloons, as Bobby Lemons would say. Good old Bobby Lemons. The Mayor of 10th street. The years I spent in South Philly were a mad slipshod blurring of the lines between love&death. I was crazy enough to live there and I was crazy enough to leave.  Aho. I pulled stakes and closed a chapter of my life that will always  affectionately and ruefully be remembered as “The Never Ending Summer of Evil Kanevil.”
Now I live in Paradise.  Sometimes you got to rattle your chains. Am I right, Brother?

A little bit of madness goes a long way and a lot of madness goes nowhere fast. At this late stage of the game, some of us are taking our Crown while the rest are just taking shit. Oh well.  Had I not been there it would all be for naught and you probably wouldn’t even be reading this blog.
I miss the days of amour fou and ruin.  It’s amazing the things you can accomplish with the single-pointed focus of dying before the age of 30.  But then 30 hits and you take a look around.  There comes this feeling of gratitude.  You get to the top of the mountain and suddenly you see the chain.

This blog ain’t about being crazy on the streets of Philadelphia.  I’m tempted to touch on the particular and startling lunacy of a journalist who reports on the news with a story about how he couldn’t give a fuck about the news-but it only gets worse and I’ll spare you.  I ain’t goin down that rabbit hole.  I’m in a good mood today and it’s National Poetry Month.

My point is, after battle, after War, after trivial half-love and virtues that needed to be proven, we rise.  We discover a no more worthy adversary.  We find that despite our bitching and moaning and haggling and hustling down the beat ends of dirty streets, there really isn’t anything standing in our way.  I’m mostly speaking to those of us living in the First World (as if anyone else is reading this).  Whatever misery it’s been honey, and whatever was so heavy Jack, put it down.  Come take your Crown and sit with us  in the high rooms.
There’s room for us all.
-Hot Snakes

Rattle your chains.  Get free and die laughing.  Or, peck-peck-peck your way through the lead tumblers of the late night, like I do.  Send me a poem and I’ll post it.

Because fuck ‘em that’s why.
–Sicko

Put your motherfucking game face on and read some real killers this month.
–Josh Britton

We’re all mad here.
Best,
The Boy Bandit King

Once Over Coffee Bar

on South 1st, makes the best goddamn cup of  coffee you’ll ever have in this city.  Nice people, too. Once Over Coffee Bar:  between Live Oak and Johanna on South First.

The End