Thursday, January 1, 2009

poem of the #1


Trust is just a feeling that you have - Paris Hilton

This is a really big waffle. I don't know
if trains need help, but I do right now.
Last night I was watching the teeth leak
on my favorite channel, the mirror,
in the holy hour with the hard light.
Probably I left it on the iron all night is why
it tastes like shadowboxing a Muslim.
But it's better than popcorn at dawn,
my girlfriend's new idea of sharing time.
It's the off-season. I feel like a pair of hunters
lost in bear country. Tomorrow I will tattoo
exclamation marks on each of my knuckles.
I want the earth to know how I feel
as I pummel it with my fists. This waffle
tastes like I have the wrong sunglasses on
but no one is laughing because there is no
hey-to-hey connection. Everyone is just
drinking the water of the eternal-handshake
and I am afraid of getting touchy-touched
in my mouth uterus. While I am dying,
Rodney is dying too. Fuck Rodney.
He is never here when I am weak.
Now I am dribbling waffle into the
trash compacter. Hi down there.
Oh, hello up there. Thanks for the food.
This is the way I talk to God,
when I talk to God, which is never.

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