Three Poems

June Bug

June bug, is the rumor true
       about your soiled existence:
that, waiting for July to die,
       you toil in concupiscence?
I, myself, might chafe a bit
       if forced to love for grub.
But must you eat—you little shit—
       my only lonely shrub?
Saturn, in a neat retreat,
       devoured his brood with relish.
Ops dropped Jupiter on Crete
       once Saturn’s mood turned hellish.
Myths are but an ancient means
       to say to lads and lasses:
Dads eat genes, and bugs eat greens—
       so cover both your asses.

From Dust We Come; to Dust We Go

From dust we come, to dust we go,
       just rednecks riding rodeo.
If once or twice along the way,
       we stumble, or our horses stray,
it ain’t our dust that stops the show—
       as horses, unlike folks, bestow
decorum upon majesty
       where horse sense senses travesty.
So take it easy, take it slow,
       and take to heart what little glow
may radiate from one cold urn
       in which life’s nettles slowly burn.
If nothing comes of all you know,
       or what your wildest seeds might sow,
then auction off your last remains;
       take your losses; stake your gains.

There’s Nothing Left but Cigarettes

There’s nothing left but cigarettes,
       yet cigarettes are fine
to pass the test—or kill the rest—
       of lust, regrets and time.
Discounting how I finally choose
       to shift this paradigm,
if you think cigarettes and booze
       might make it worth the climb,
okay, then—let’s agree to waste
       each other’s time online
and spend an afternoon in chaste-
       ly existential crime.
A cognac, too, might nicely do
       to rarefy my rhyme.
VSOP’s a pleasant brew;
       XO?  Downright sublime.




About Russel Bittner

Russell Bittner lives, writes and works out of his home in Brooklyn, New York.  His prose, poetry and photography have been widely published both in print and on the ‘Net.