Three Poems
Joe Wetteroth

Hop City

Town short of bread,
I am so many miles away, and some would say,
Not as lost.
But I long to be near you.
Riding bikes on your moonlit crest,
Or throwing rocks near the sunken ship.

Someday boys it is written in the stars.
Get pissed high above ground,
In tiny corners where the neon shines.
Through worn out wood structures and crossbeams,
We need to see our breath.
Hum tunes only close friends can remember.

It’s been a Long. Cold. Lonely. Winter.



On Grand Lounge

Upper crust, Savior caste can go scoot.
Shoot blue light soul whitened and assimilated.
Well calculated.
Knowing that they like to blow the fifth and seventh chord.
Always imitating, though never understanding

The true meaning of
Of don’t fuck with it.

Music as a device for
Those boys tossing the dice every night,
Cocks like buoys,
Guiding broken ships into danger.

Love and affection sold in package deals with drinks.
G and Ts and overpriced shots of cheap whiskeys.



Infected Personas

Pacing past the point of last call.
The clock still ticks.
Speeds to the beating heart time bomb.
Turn on every appliance, still there is not enough to distract
The only-ness of awake.

Long beyond evenings end.
Sun, rising with breakfast aspirations.
Calling into work because there is no time for straight and narrow,
Just long slopes of sweat freezing to skin.

Where are we when our babies lie half asleep and estranged holding
pillows of lingering stench?
Forget what brings us here tonight.
The conclusions will only lead to returning.