Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 46
                                   
Table of
Contents



Fat Jim Morrison

that's what he calls me when he ambles
out onto the porch, my cigarette in one
hand, my beard in the other with an entire
galaxy of suicidal flowers hanging from
my shoulders. I growl from a Doors
song, I've been down so goddamn long,
five years since I was the perfect age to
die bloated and full of heroin and absinthe
in a Parisian bathtub, my fans and admirers
throwing dirty graveside celebrations that
leave them more wasted than my short
life, but I have instead lingered beyond
such a fantasy with the reality of growing
too old to be a rock star, exhausted by
a career based on amateur theatrics
whose self-destructive choreography
has left the soundtrack to my life at near
bottom of the pop charts. My new front
yard companion slaps my large gut, takes
a sip of his root beer and proceeds to tell
me a long story about how he got so high,
he woke up old with his entire life behind
him in an inglorious fog, all alone with
no memories to wash away the pain of
unwanted survival.

  Kevin Ridgeway __













Wrestlemania

the garbage I watched on television
eating grandma's burnt-bacon sandwiches
cheering at strange men in superhero costumes
pummeling each other with folding chairs
and bad acting
has formed a huge part of who I am,
deep down in this strangeness.


  Kevin Ridgeway__

13
©Bob Heman: The Arrival (XIII) - August 22, 2018
Cosmic Space Fuck

she was seated by herself
in the front pulpit at one of
the dozens of chapels
at Rose Hills Memorial Park,
curious about the hoards
of Latino people as they
all drove in when she
realized she was at the
wrong funeral. the
grieving family moved
their parked cars out
from blocking hers
so she could be late
to the right funeral,
three weeks before
her own funeral was
held in that very same
chapel, alone yet again,
and far too early for
every last one of us.


  Kevin Ridgeway__
Tiny Buttons

I've turned into a
post-modern Mr. Magoo
in the weeks following
her death, when my
social services check
was suspended and
my memories of her
became scrambled in
my already electronic,
handheld trivia wizard
brain, but that's been around
since the mid-1980s now,
when there were much
larger buttons on
everything, and people
still wrote long letters
sent from the post office
and great grandma-grandma
still had a rotary phone,
the first phone I ever
used, which is why
I am blinded by all
the tiny buttons, and
all the thoughtlessness
that people like me
succumb to.


  Kevin Ridgeway__

Originally Published in Nerve Cowboy