Jason Ryberg Poetry |A famous American poet

Jason Ryberg 

Piranha Juice and Panther Piss

It was another
night of throwing back double
shots of piranha
juice and chasing them with tall
glasses of luke-warm panther
     piss, and that’s when she walked in…

 Night Light
 
I always dreamt of
being the type of man who
ghosts feared to haunt and
 
women found nearly
impossible to resist,
but the hard, brutal
 
truth is that I’ve slept
alone most of my life (with
a night light left on).

 
Guiding Wayward Wanderers Home

Waking slowly to
a low-hanging slate-grey sky
that’s dumping bucket
 
after bucket of
cats and dogs and hammers and
nails on this little
 
Kansas town that’s just
damn-near too quaint and postcard
perfect (with just the
 
right amount of run-
down shabby charm) for mere words
to encapsulate
 
or convey, while the
ghost of Frederic Chopin
flitters and twirls from
 
room to room and the
light above the kitchen sink
flares like an ice-blue
 
star or beacon to
guide wayward wanderers home
from their nighttime dreams.
 

Somehow

I got it in my
head that, somehow, these sprawling
     black railroad tracks had
become an affront to the
     sky and therefore we’ve had our
     third straight day of non-stop snow.

 

When the Shit Gets Meta

I was hungry as
a dog just cut loose from a
chain, cursed with the hard
 
truth that I couldn’t
play dumb with that kind of raw
bald-faced confidence
 
anymore, ‘cause shit
had gone meta, hyper and
sub-contextual
 
all at once like a
wrist watch frozen forever
at a quarter past
 
5, like the sex lives
of arch-angels suddenly
made public domain,
 
like the secret where-
abouts of the ghosts of loss
and absence being
 
made available
to the highest bidder out
there amongst all our
 
fellow simian
citizens, otherwise known
as “humanity.”
 
And there I was; no
pot to piss in, no window
to throw it out of.