at least there's not love this time

to fuck it up

cause things surely are
fucked enough without it

don't think I can handle losing anything more right now
too much lost already

at least there's not love this time
not love or pity
cause pity's almost half as bad

at least

& it's far better still to gurney the front seat flat & sprawl the
uncomfortable sprawl, waking-

      a) stubbled
      b) bent in the neck
      c) bruised in the back
      d) in need of a shower

than to grab hold of pity by the ears &
kiss its cherry fuckin lips



it didn't rain today

the hours move slower than duck shit on a pond
& opportunity hides
as the man counts to 10 & some thousands more
with his eyes real shut

tomorrow I'll wake sometime thru the brightest hours of day
& lay there
slow as duck shit on a pond
till the last rays of good times have been slaughtered

the man's still counting to 10 & some thousands more
& I'm still thought Mad
& the day's still Ugly

it didn't rain today



About the author:
born at the wrong time. born on the wrong coast. j. michael niotta is a southern california native who hates the sun & never learned to surf. he pens the life you won't find in the palm tree infested brochures. while editor of 86 magazine he maintained the raw, edgy column: true tales of bar madness. more recently niotta released a small press literature endeavor titled: hard fic (featuring dan fante, miles j. bell, & s.a. griffin). a few jobs off the author's long odd list include-hvac, blueprint runner, doorman, baker, mechanic, warehouseman, firefighter, soldier, border patrol lookout, plumber & telemarketer. when free time smiles he fires a single action .45, cruises his custom '52 chevy & strums his 4 string gibson.

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