Archive for the Rex Sexton Category


Posted in Rex Sexton with tags on July 20, 2014 by Scot

Drifting off, rain pounding the leaky roof
of the Crystal Palace, jukebox broke.
This sweltering night is all but over.
I’ll leave it in a stupor, stagger home
down busted backstreets, over broken glass,
cracked concrete, amidst the rotting remnants
of torched buildings some slumlord set
ablaze for insurance.
I try to remember better days. I look in the bar
mirror and shake my head. Those times when
going to work meant making a living not
just surviving.
This ain’t no palace in case you were
wondering. Never saw any crystal in here
either – no sparkling glassware or chandeliers.
This is just a Chi-town dive. It was named
by the crazy owner after some famous cowboy
bar in Wichita, Kansas. Wyatt Earp used to
drink there, I hear.
Most of us are just trying to make it through
the summer. Those of us who do will have to
face the winter. There ain’t no Miss
Kitty in here neither, nor anything like her.
What we got, instead, is why God invented
They’ll never fix that jukebox.



Posted in Rex Sexton with tags on June 26, 2011 by Scot

I caress the slender neck,
cup my palm around the
voluptuous bottom, breathless,
like a young groom on his
honeymoon, or the star crossed
lover who magically chances
upon his yearned for other,
eyes closed, heart racing, soul
braced in anticipation of the
coming moment as I tighten
my embrace, press my lips to
the mouth of the bottle, tilt
my head and swallow.


Posted in Rex Sexton with tags on March 4, 2010 by Scot

Bad times when fall angels fill the sky
like carnival confetti for the devil’s delight.
Bad times when nothing jives and the same
lame lies pass like valentines among the
cubicle people in their sitcom lives.
Bad times when the wind cries toxic moans
as the planet dies.
“The cause of your misfortune is apparent.”
Says an official of the corporate establishment.
“Your errant mind is completely aberrant.”
Candlelit skulls light the windows of the tenements.
Corpses chant mantras throughout the labyrinths.  Each
day shoots for the moon, lands on vampire bat wings.
“Poverty is a privilege not a privation.”
Says the official from the corporation.
“’tis the lifeblood of a mighty nation.”
Bodies float down a river of blood –
orphans, runaways, suicides, fallen soldiers,
the lame, sick, halt and blind in a survival
of the fittest where only the empowered thrive.
In a cellar window a wizened widow eats dog
food from a can at a three legged table.
Bad times when peace is war,
homeless shelters are closed for the poor,
bailouts for the rich take place,
while jobs are lost or shipped out over seas,
up is down, wrong is right, and you’re
in between nowhere and no way out.
Sewers run to the sea, wait for me.