Other Poems by:

Joseph Veronneau

Dr. Frankenstein What's Next?

My nails haven't been touched in a week,
or maybe they're just growing 
much faster these days 
than ever before.
 
I haven't had to see the doctor this week.
I'm content with this.
they'll just try and 
put me on something new anyway
or up the dose
on what I already take.
Their knowledge makes it no further 
than to the curb of academia,
waiting for all of the self-explored minds
to pass them by in their self-thinking 
and creativity,
as they wallow into their momma & dadda
paid for my education and my new pad
and vehicle modes.  
 
The poorest of fuckers don't survive.
 
They mumble to themselves on street corners
looking for copper and bronze saviors 
to line their pockets
for the next quick brew.
 
Minds rubbed into inkspots
of former selves
where the police bring the biggest cans of mace
and the family members claim
to no longer know who they are.

My Brother (of many)

He's content, 
has a couple of cars in the driveway
and passed the others on to his kids.
One is a college graduate
the other is in the process of it.
I see them occasionally.
My brother always has something new
to draw eyes that favor possessions.
A new wristwatch in which you can
see your reflection in.
A new car that he bought outright,
no bank loans needed,
but never offers to help the parents who raised his ass
that fight to stay afloat now. 
He tells jokes and laughs before the punch line
so he can be the first.
he's got his own political opinions
that he used to speak passionately about,
but is more reserved on that now.
His wife cooks meals on demand,
serves him while he's sitting in the living room
watching television.
He'll bark something like not enough pepper, or salt
and she'll come running with more.
He was the first of all of the children to be born,
and they run deep.
He's very computer smart, but then again
his job requires it.
I'm sure his funeral is already paid for too,
his life to me is
boring
and practical.

Sweating With The Oldies

They sit there sipping
Jack and Coke,
waiting for the ladies to 
come to them.

The ladies feel reluctant
to enter into 
the sweaty palms
of such haggard looking older men
with nothing better to do 
on a late Saturday evening
than try to cop a cheap feel
on the backs of these womens thighs.

They get high,
REAL high
before coming out onto the floor

where shots of tequila 
go for a buck

and those that have already had their limit
vomit without hesitation
onto an unswept-for-days floor.

Before It All

Back when I used to smoke,
I liked the cold Fall afternoons
where I could sit in peace
in my friends backyard and down a beer
or two,

before life had to throw me 
the screwballs,
before my best friend had to go and
die on me,
before I had to start worrying about where
my next car payment would come from,
before school loans had to be paid off
or any of that shit.

I lived furiously,
clutched to the notes of each
and every song that I liked
and hoped that someday
I'd write a song that good.

Living naively was
the best of times.

At The Health Food Store

Most of the people there
have dreadlocks and whatnot,
tie-dye shirts as expected and stuff.
I get looked at strangely for going in there.
I have a normal haircut,
I wear khakis most of the time
and a zip-up sweatshirt…..

doesn't matter.

You'd think I'd just walked in with
a couple pounds of hashish slung 
over my shoulder or something,
the looks I get when I walk in there.
 
I just wanted to buy some Broccoli
that didn't have pesticide juice sprayed
all over it,
and felt like that was at least SOMETHING
we could share in common.

still, I'm received as Satan's right hand man
for some reason I've yet to figure out.
I've seen people go in there wearing
business suits
and even they get better service than I do,
thought maybe they were anti-corporate of any kind
 ya know?

A couple of the girls who work there must think I'm cute 
or something, 
so they smile and hand me my shit like it should be.
Others treat me like I'M the one responsible for the
upping of gas prices, the reason why these white kids
need to put extra honey in there dreads to get them to stay 
at attention,
or possibly they are wondering why I don't come in there stoned,
sparking up conversations about WHY Phish broke up
and stuff like that.

Sorry everybody,
I'm not sure what I've done (or haven't done)
to catch your hairy eyes when I come into this place,
but I'm here to just buy groceries
( I swear).

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