"J H Hobson is, dear readers, a poet of many faces. One of which is green with blobby pink features. You may find J H Hobson's work in many great and respected poetry journals. Then again, you may not."
J. H. Hobson doesn't give a fuck about being in journals or having his poems shoot through the hierarchical tubes of the publishing world like so much waste through a sewage system. Why? Because he's a bowling ball with a pink playdough face.
O Ow
Cow should rhyme with snow
So
I say now
I'll say snow:
Snouw.
*
Outlaw Gunslinger Poem,
Showing Crime, Punishment and Remorse
Bang!
Hang.
.............dang.
*
Surprise
A saltine cracker,
broken and crumbled,
inside the box.
What's left of it
looks like the head of
a tan and toasty hobgoblin
and
reminds me that no matter
how far we go,
no matter how brightly lit the tables
are of the kitchens
where we eat our dead and processed foods,
there lurks--
at the root of it all,
still alive in the shadows,
and in the boxes:
our ancient
and lightly salted past.
