The Gorko Gazette

Morning Joints with Ole J.C.

I’m not this,
And sure, ain’t that.
I don’t fit this
And I know I don’t fit that
Fucking heap of categorical crap.

The same as all the parts
Of the Holy Trinity.
I’m a nuanced
Conglomeration
Of daily,
Minute to minute,
Rotting flesh –
Pretty brains
Splatter gorgeous death.

Ole J.C & I
Laugh about taxes,
Money & clout;
While puffing on the morning’s joint.

I ruin the fun with work commitments.
Ole J.C. hollers
‘You’re an idiot!
That job
Doesn’t even pay
For the heartbeats
It’s really worth.’

I polish off
a sunrise Pacifico.
Hack a lung,
Ole J.C. turns it into a beer,
And makes me chug.

I forgive him
Because he don’t
Know what he does.

Ole J.C. rips a joint pull,
The smoke dissipates.
He laughs about mortals
And passes the ripper,
Spews more reminders
About deadlines and fate.

I pull hard tokes,
And Ole J.C doesn’t notice,
Always preaching,
Rambling,
Chatty.

I toss him the roach,
Gut-punch him for fun’s sake.
He fires a four-word finger at me,
Tongue talkin’ and gaspy.

I fire up the rig and holler,
‘Don’t you worry, baby.
I’ll bring a six pack
Offering back.
But some of us
Have got to go to work.
We all can’t
Have our daddy
Pay our way
Through eternity,
Ya jerk!’

---

Old Westerns and There Ain’t Much Changed

Judge Roy Bean didn’t play.
Truth was one of those things
Like the rest of us,
seen in his own way.

I knew a guy like him,
And homie was much the same –
He didn’t play.

I bet one roll,
Always do, and always all in.
I gave up on truth,
We’ll do anything to affirm our sin.

Everybody’s got a book of truth.
Some choreograhphed list
Of evidence to cure the hurt
Parts of our emotional blues.

I’ve been too wide
And deep;
In dark corners
Where truth
And reality hides.

So, find faith
Wherever you can,
And never worry
About the judgements
Of lip-flipping, basic men.

The proudest knees
Bend and beg
When death comes
And to get what it needs.

Days are meant to simply live,
Pray, shoot some thanks above
And for your fucking mental sake,
Forgive.

The mind and body
Are corroborative.
So, hook it up
If you got any extra smiles
To give.

Mankind has come a long
Fucking way.
Hella improvements;
We got parades for any shade
Of your gay.
But we don’t toss enough grace around.

Which is weird;
Especially for a species,
That’s only guaranteed
A hole in the ground.

---

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. He started writing in high school. After which, he served in the Americorps; two years rebuilding houses on the gulf coast in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, and one year working on a trail crew in the Montana/Idaho wilderness. He graduated from Humboldt State University. Now, he works for the cheap and attempts to get words published under his name. Nicholas is a Hawaiian-shirt aficionado, a pina-colada connoisseur, and enjoys hot, lazy days by the pool with his wifey.

Image generated on Magic Studio

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