Dan Provost
Dan Provost's poetry has appeared in numerous poetry e-zines and small print magazines.  Scintillating Publications will be publishing his fourth chapbook "The 21st Century Wretch", later this year.

Nihilist Funeral

Mutant teeth continue to rot
under decaying graves that
have scribbled names and dates
that are barely readable.

Broken pieces of gravel align the
final resting place of so many
who died with no remorse, no mourners
and no one to call dad, mom, husband or wife.

The preamble of their eulogy must
have been brief with quotes
from the bible, while stragglers
who did attend the service waited
with ragged coats and ravaged hunger,

hoping to be fed by the priest after the body has been belted into the ground.

Finally a falling of light snow begins on December's first cold day-and the body, now underneath six feet of dirt, begins its journey into the realm of nothingness.

Graffiti at 507 Main

Graffiti scrawled on the elevator door claiming that "This Place Sucks", as you look down at your shoes, trying to avoid the stare that some 16 year old who has the world on his portable phone is giving you.

And you wonder if the writing on the door should say, "this life sucks", as you reach the seventh floor and enter the domain of filth and grime.

And you understand that when you enter your small apartment, and you finally get the nerve to jot your emotions in a coffee-stained notebook that is filled with scribbling of villains, heroes, and big-breasted fools.

That you will write another self involved poem that describes the plight of your inner turmoil.

Another night of hatred, loathing, and watching time pass that can never be seized again.

You then think to yourself that maybe you should buy some spray paint and draw a picture of a man hanging himself on the elevator.

That thought brings a sad smile to your face.

The Man With No Home

With a quick reflex
of judgment, Laura was
appalled at the sight of
a homeless man sleeping
next to her mailbox.

To make it worse, he was an African-
American with a nose ring.

As Laura scurried out of the way, rushing
to her car to avoid being seen by the man,

she threw all of her mail on the ground.

The man with no home, hearing the heavy footsteps of someone running-woke up, yawned, scratched his head and picked up her mail.

As he picked up a bill from A T&T, he called out in a heavy accent,

"Lady.Hey Lady."

Laura, thirty years old, overweight, and overwrought-stopped her frantic trot.

Not to confront the man, but being way out of shape, her panting was just too much to physically bear.

She slowly turned toward the man; ready to give him anything he wanted.
Credit cards.
But please, no forced sex.
Not with a black person.

The man with no home-wearing soiled circa 1979 gym shorts and a tattered striped shirt with the breast pocket flailing in the wind; again called to Laura.

He smiled and said, "Miss, you dropped your mail", and handed her the stack of letters, coupons, and catalogs.

Laura, less intimidated-in fact now agitated; angrily took her mail and told the man with no home.

"Why don't you get a job and find another place too sleep."

She gave the man a piercing stare as she entered her Toyota, put the car in drive and sped off.

The man with no home shrugged his shoulders then picked up the rest of his belongings-a blue sleeping bag with the goose feathers flying out, a bible, and a pack of Marlboros.

He lit a cigarette, and with weary, blood shot eyes-gazed down the road where the accepted live.
He then opened his bible to where the verse "Forgive and Forget" appeared.
The man with no home silently chuckled to himself and began walking down the other side of the street.
Hoping to find another vacancy to call home tonight.


To die among the weeds which are
flailing in the wind on summer's second hot day.

Body, weather beaten and decaying-no opportunity of conversation with the corpse.

What was his favorite book?
What were his feelings on politics?
Or a simple what's your name?

Sometimes, they find the living among the weeds also.

And nobody asks them anything either.

A Walk on the Graves

Have you seen the victims?

Have you cared-
To learn who they are and try to witness their
own private terror.

Have you endured my friend.
(or foe or acquaintance).

Have you feasted intently on
sublime though and means.

Has hell become an option.?
Or is
heaven only
a pleasant escape.