Spotlight: One of the Crowd Always Bleeds by Dan Provost



I Had No Clue


She gave away bibles just

to fill her quota…

of selfless miracles


Hoping to remain on the

right side of god.


Didn’t matter that all

her family were dead

and buried…


“The lord works in

mysterious ways…”


She often said


To those few who

dared listened…




Only the faithful

dog…ready to keel

over and die, gave

her any indication of



Her freebies stacked

among the statues of



We all must suffer

in some way to find

the house of almighty.”


Drool slurping

onto tinsel dress

and sodden shoes…


Suddenly, she fell–

Looked up at yellowed



Rolled her eyes

And died.


The dog, looking frightened


Licked her hand…


Circled around the body…

Then died.


I was next door, drinking

beers and yelling at Tom Brady

for throwing another stupid pick

in the fourth quarter…


The Patriots dynasty slowly

fading into nothingness…


Feeding my fat face with



Dropping many on the floor…


“It” would be so cheap

and tactless to compare

my football frenzy to

an old dead woman who

I only responded to with a

hello while getting in my





Driving to the package store

To keep the outraged drunk going.


She probably laid there for

days…around her stack of

free bibles and collectable



Jesus wept it says in

the new testament…

Never mentioned any mutt



But that’s the way “it” goes

once in a while…


Living alone…

Dying alone…


Selling our souls

to the next









Yearly Ritual


Roll up into

defenseless position

after the death

of your parents.


Ruin Christmas with

sober reflection face.


No comment

while the presents

are being opened.


Tramp through February-June

in a drunken stupor, rely on

well versed quotes that

put a damper on mankind.


Resume fetal through July-October,

only acknowledge the urge

to self-harm.


Blow off Thanksgiving this year…

Blow off Christmas this year…


Retreat to pitch black



Even noontime has accepted

your request…


Of early night.




Watching People at the Car Dealership, a Troy Schoultz book in my hand


He checks

out her ass.


Bagged by the manager.


She leaves, they laugh

…another bout

of predictable testosterone …


She reenters—tells

him, “I know what you

 were doing.”


He looks abashed,



Then the usual denial…


It’s like another Donald Trump episode.


Bullshitting the thought of valid.

Another justification

from the cackling




that lie for a huge commission.





After Reading John Sweet


Before I’m


will not be necessary.


I have voluntarily left

the paradise—fought

off claims of tragic



Chose to be a hack—a back page



Withdrew from liars

and feelers who shit on

unmarked graves.


Withdrew from my scorn and the

describing of



We are not healers or

champions of merit…


Leaving a game where

so many rules discover

a candid blindness


of hate and shame—has finally

bewildered me.


I cannot cash in

riding the coattails of



So, I will stop

trying to be








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