Past the gaga experiments
to ginger high school thriller days
I wheel fragile issues: a fight on there,
bulbous antennae, a herald
carved alone in the archer position—sweet!
We had a few people over to
celebrate the monotony of the new place.
Meatless meat loaf. Roger. Over to
you. I took a piece of plain foolscap,
my American University in Baku stationery,
sole thing to be underestimated here,
and set down just words that wrote something,
probably as close as I want to keep to it,
all the water and stringiness.
It feels like Sunday today
but it’s Saturday. What does Saturday feel like
on Sunday? Not that it’s that
hard to remember. I’d always be grinning and opened.
No protocol; heck, no manners
on flood watch. She’s one of the famed Gowanus sisters.
It hasn’t affected the weather yet.
Do you get a sense of white table settings,
the so-called vacant stare that afflicts them
as adults on a sit-down strike?
Listen up, tenderfoot. Who says you need to be awake
to appreciate poetry? The landlady, that’s who.
Where are they now?
February 6, 2014
The Most Catastrophic War
On Breaking One’s Neck