Cross Country Poetry Collection

Poetry Collection By F. Valentine

Artwork by Sloane Adler


El Dorado

Here he comes again, the man from my dreams. Skin of vanilla and hair of sandalwood A suit, a tie, two eyes of amber. Gucci flip flops. A Rolex, a scent, cheeks of alabaster.

Momentary contact, glancing blow among crowded others. Looking back, I meet his gaze.

“Hey, watch it, asshole!”

Wow, what a piece of shit.

 

Tilted Towers

I found God in my parents’ basement. Turns out he wasn’t far away, just quiet.

I found God red-eyed, laughing to himself, Staving off sleep with hues of blue. Did God have friends down there, where absence meets the bright, blinding tube?

I found God with His filthy feelers tapping in the dark, performing better men’s parts. Shooting and Sprinting, screaming and suffocating. God knew most, but not quite all.

I found God asking Himself, After saving lives, After exploring worlds, After being one person into the interminable next,

Why does the sun rise so soon?

Four Minutes If you had four Minutes left to live, What would you do? Where would you go?

Would you see your Mother sick in bed? Maybe call your daughter Who never called you?

Greet strangers and trees, the roaches and weeds? Pray to the God You hardly believed in?

If I were you, I’d visit Taco Bell And order the usual Chipotle Triple Double Crunchwrap.

With a Baja Blast.

 

Every Poetry Slam, Pretty Much

Look at me, I’m Mr. Meeseeks! But who is really seeking, seeking me? Seeking—no, reeking like the stench of some foul beast. And that beast? Well he’s sitting right there,

on that bench across the street. He’s got jeans, chacos, and a bright red hat reading M-A-R-X.

On your Marx, get set, go. An endless race to the end of our civilized society. Trump’s in first, but who’s in last? How should I know? I’m just a poet– STOP! Now I know it. Here comes America, bringing up the rear. A nation built on lies, corruption and FEAR. We’re all fucked because I’m a millennial in CURRENT YEAR


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