Every time I see Trump on the telly,
I get this feeling in the bit of my belly,
The one that cries not for sanity,
or the days of Obama

But one of rising anger,
An anger matched by knowing I’m not the only one who feels this way,
That from New York to the San Francisco bay,
All of us wishing,
For Trump to simply go away

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017


Truism #59

When your arms finally twisted,
And lifes provided you with more than God’s fair share of guff,
And when your friends stop calling,
And your sanity keeps falling down,
Down the rabbit hole,

Your willingness to sober up,
Outweighs the need to drink from the cup of gin,

The minute you realize you’re throwing away your life,

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017


For a brief moment,
My problems went on consignment,
Knowing the minute I popped 4 of you nifty vicodins in my mouth,
I felt like I landed on a cloud,
High above the fray,
My problems were kept at bay,
Until I crashed,
Naked and Broken,
Desperately wanting more,
Anything to take the pain of being me away

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

Edible Aftermath

I thought I saw the face of God,
that unmerciful sod,
the one we pray to,
Asking for help,
When life backs us against the wall,
And we yelp,
Writhing in agony

Only to realize I ate an edible,
Digesting my fill of THC,
That relief one yearns for,
When you’re ready to hit the floor,
When the ravages of living in this experiment called New York,
Is taking its toll on your soul

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

Untitled #109

As I approach that first year,
I can almost hear,
the now faint echoes,
Of the Church of the Ongoing Human Concern,
their once bright light now an ember,
Praying it exinguishes

So that one day,
I can finally know that feeling,
Of having lived in a cult bubble,
And laugh about it,
Knowing my soul doesn’t need a hit,
Of one sided generosity masking as altruism,
To simply function

© Gregory J. Broderick 2017

Orange County Jail 

A place where dreams died long long before,
the whore,
the banger,
the wife beater,
the pusher,
the cheater,
the thief,
the junkie,
the fucking rummie,
Arrived at the gates of absolute rust

Dressed in Christos brand of gaudy orange,
They admit through their soul,
sullen shoulders,
As absolute sense of sadness wafts and wafts about,
Fear penetrating the room,

The sense of finally knowing,
It’s all OVER

© Gregory J. Broderick 2002, 2017