J Richard Kron

Fünf Gedichte


Hiding Out ‘Til It’s Time for Heaven


we paint sunny windows on

the cracking walls,

so our son never has

to see the slaughter



What Can Go Wrong with Time Travel?


every time I travel back 

in time, my trying 

to erase mistakes  

only makes matters worse. 


I travel further back each time 

to block another me 

from breaking reality.

but instead of being

glue, I’m just another hammer.  


now there's nothing to do 

but practice what my shrink calls 

             "radical acceptance." 


I accept the angry sun with rays 

    that turn all those who go outside to mud. 


I accept the land run by Plutonians 

    posing as social media influencers. 


I accept a lonely life in a white room 

    and a belly filled with pills. 


I can't accept that I’ll never travel back

     far enough to erase your fate. 


Houses Have Feelings, Too


your new house is hurt 

      by your obsession with renovation. 

you constantly comment to your friends: 

                           “it’s a fixer-upper.” 


your insensitivity has led you 

      to home doors that won’t open 

           and home windows that won’t shatter. 


your walls close in just a little 

      more each day. 

your walls scratch your back and soak 

      up the infections in your skin as you squeeze 

           your way to the bathroom.

your walls will do anything  

      to make you feel. 


and now, as your new house 

      flattens your skull, 

it dreams of a dweller who 

      “loves me for me.”  


High Rise from Hell


in an empty lot

across from my peeling house,

a shiny apartment building 

begins to rise high 

from an unknown place. 


happy inhabitants just seem to bloom, 

and they’re all white as sheets 

worn by the Klan. 


the high rise residents go 

on Fitbit walks 

down my street. their earbuds are in,

and they listen to TED Talks. 


it’s during these strolls

that they mutilate

the needy seniors 

who’ve lived here

before them. 

maybe they believe

that ripping my neighbors to pieces   

is good cardio.


I call the police and described the gore, 

but the cops will never appear. 

now I cower behind my door.

when the neighborhood invaders knock,

my tummy tumbles to the floor.  


Rotting in Scottsdale


inside he screams, “PLEASE




the bro screams, "PAR-TAY!!" 


J. Richard Kron (he/him) is a writer and musician from Phoenix, Arizona. He holds a BFA in English from Arizona State University. His writing has appeared in YabYum, OUTVoices, Deadbeat Poet Society, Mojave Heart Review, De'Lunula, and Meow Meow Pow Pow. Bienvenue au Danse, Richard.