Joined Ray Sweatman, the poet with an attitude, on his new flickr group, You Reek of Stale Poetry. Should be fun!
posted this random access piece just now...
mr. rogers?
I wake to
wrap my mind
around invisible lands,
neighborhood upon
neighborhood,
talk among shrubs
who gets drunk on the
on the pin-stripe couch
by 5:47 Monday through
Friday, productive 8-5,
stumbles over the fringe
on the oriental rug
on the way up to bed,
who's coveting which
neighbor's wife and
does she give
good covet in return,
who has weeds so high
they obscure the basement
windows,
that must be the widow
with the kids, that one,
she can't take care of her
lawn, parties and police
on the weekend,
that's the one with the
wild son,
living out of his car
in the grammar school
parkinglot.
we fuck with eachother
this way,
by stepping
off our own
front porch.
Lock me in, further in,
so far in that nothing
is what I feel
no pin-stripe couch
no oriental rug
no parties, no cops,
no touching, no fucking,
no sound, no words,
no you, no me.
Nothing.
