i.) 

The Doomsday Clock is stuck on half-past three, 
And Grim’s not sure where he’s supposed to be.
With global death tolls reaching record numbers,
He can’t be everywhere! And so, he hovers 
Across the roach-smeared floors of the small room 
He rents for cheap, keeps chillier than the tomb,
With the AC blasting, morning, noon and night,
Black draperies patched with crows, to keep out light;
Glides, like a stingray over rippled sands,
To where he keeps his weed tied up with bands,
In little bundles: hundreds of them, flagged
With stickers that describe what skunk was bagged,
How sick the strain, how icky, and how bold
From Grandad Purple to Arabian Gold,
Jamaican Green to Transylvanian Yellow,
Amsterdam Kush, to keep the chill vibes mellow;
To where his fridge purrs, stocked with PBR,
Twinkies and hot wings, pigs’ feet, pickled gar;
Old pizza slices, topped with ravens’ eyes
And poisonous mushrooms, potent for their size; 
Indigenous bats, frogs, lizards, cuts of shark 
That hunt their prey when sea and sky grow dark;
Fuzz-covered bratwurst, moldy cheeses, snail,
An expired milk jug, cans of ginger ale
And orange soda – ShopRite brand – some scotch 
He snatched from a butcher with an itchy crotch, 
Who died from plague four hundred years ago.
A damned good year for booze! But just so-so.

“Screw this!” he shouts. “My old-ass bones are tired!”
As he cracks a cold one, wishing he’d retired
(From his cursed profession) when he had the chance
To trade his scythe in for a golden lance
And join the ranks of righteousness with Michael;
While, on the tube, same tragedies recycle
Their hope-destroying themes. 


ii.)

Grim rolls a blunt, 
Licking it up and down (with no restraint)
Like a broke porn star; sparks up anxiously, 
Remembering crime scenes, things he can’t unsee,
Which haunt his mem'ries: soldiers in pools of blood,
Their torsos Swissed with bullet holes, the dread 
Of leaving this world still fresh upon their faces;
Mangled extremities in trees, strange places;
Arms, legs, blown off; toes, fingers in a slick 
Of tarry entrails, pureed organs, thick 
As larded grease in a neglected oven;
A mother clutching her charred child; an old man 
With femur shrapnel spiking from his neck;
Victims, whose silenced lips, from week to week,
Will speak from the grave about their history
And who they were.
                                       He stares at his TV,
Through a haze of weed, sees tragedy unfolding;
Gulps down the Pabst Blue Ribbon that he’s holding,
Then checks his texts, the latest note from God:
“PUT DOWN THAT BEER AND GET YOUR ASS OUTSIDE!”

*

"The Grim Reaper takes Five" is Section XII of Feichthaler's upcoming book From the Back Porch of a War. 

From the Back Porch of a War pulls no punches in its assessment of a politically-divided America seemingly at war with itself, searching for moral integrity in a hashtag-hardened, spiritually-bankrupt world. Amidst the smoke of riots, election fraud, and vaccine conspiracy theories, apocalyptic forces look to reset the clock on a monstrously self-serving version of humanity, too proud to hear the noise: "Let us engage, dear people, in a conversation/before our politics destroy a Nation."

Watch the book trailer below:

From the Back Porch of a War will be available for purchase on Amazon from Parnilis Media in Spring 2024.

James Feichthaler is a poet with roots in the Philadelphia-area residing in Trenton, NJ, where he pours out 40s for all the poets and rappers he's slayed throughout the years. His first book The Rise of the COVFEFE was published by Parnilis Media in autumn 2020. He was the host of an open mic reading series called The Dead Bards of Philadelphia for a hot minute. 

CONNECT WITH JAMES ON THE FRONTLINES

Twitter: @forrealist_poet
Instagram: @james_feichthaler