Serial Poem Part 2.1



the house rests
on the tip top of pointed mountain
our flurried doings balance the weight,
though we do spin and sway.

this world must be a dream.

Down in the little town
James Bond sprays machine gun fire
from a helicopter
and it is Easter and the plastic eggs
fantasy liquor
got sweet
on my best friends
possessed them
they find me
as I walk to work,
pull up in a big rig
“get in”
“this is the 2nd time we’re going to the state store today.”

That’s how the summer descends
into your junk,
and your preening
foot slams
the gas the car blares
punk muzak in the traffic jam.

The jumble is consciousness
irony the output
the right questions decode
the VIP booth
an angel
gratis Vodka.
But to know her mind
will cost you
a cup of coffee
drunk slow, post-shift
in the just dawn
on a bench by some swirling river.

No comments:

Post a Comment