A Dictionary Prompt

The imbroglio between egos
was served with raw oysters;
How smashing
The New York literary scene was.
In May 1925, of course.

Perhaps it was Zelda 
Who ate the egos
until way past midnight.
Leaving the writers
without paper
The paper without pens
And all of the oysters 
On the half-shells
spoiled on beds of wilted lettuce.

One can never have
too many Pickle forks,
Or real pearls
To go with them. 
© Jobé 2021

Skeleton Key
Sitting like a Buddha
And rhyming rats to death
Saturday is quite the book
With pages opening a vein
To the raison d'être of all
The people I am
Thousands of words 
Bleeding as one and
Sitting like a wounded savior.

The Maiden's hysteria 
Was not in the womb
It was not even
According to the Greeks
It was just vanity fair
To be a pub scarecrow
And also a bird of prey
Said the Rook to the Vulture
Sitting like a jeweled Bedouin
And somewhere in the woodlands
The Master wrote in thin air
The bow, the barrel, and the bit
Will unlock the unknown
Secrets to the Universe
But not the grave 
For it belongs to the Vulture,
A quill pen, the day after
And a crowded sitting room.
© Jobé 2022
Page 133
The literary impostures
of the living fade 
not in death but from within.
Writer! Heal thyself.

A chalice
is a curious little volume
of thought -
given the strange
characters of men
hiding on Grub streets
and in garrets.

There are many titles
without books.
So few books without titles.
Never exceed 7 pages.
Perhaps just make it 5.
© Jobé 2020