Monday, January 19, 2026

K Pome

 I wish I could write like Jack Kerouac,

Like the stringy cheese on the manicotti

At Gepettos, the dining room half empty,

Sponge Bob on one flat screen,

Tattooed NBA giants on the other.

I wish I could wrap all my words

Around a stained steel fork,

Morgan Wallen explaining about

Flyover Americans on the tinny radio.

I wish I could say that Jack

Would hate that crackhead shit,

But who am I in 2025

Wearing old man Wranglers

From the Amazon rack—

Just a son of a preacher.

Just a pasta eater. 

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