Monday, March 30, 2009

poem of the #6


Sometimes I leave the galaxy, mid-quail.
All my gravy covered in handsome goo.

Sometimes it's like, "Where are you?"
and I'm like, "Nowhere, but not here."

My trellis dotted with clown flowers
piffling water like schmucks,

spotting grease stains on planets, but
too stuck acting funny to point them out.


These are the cries of my heart
in its prison of nightwalks and groceries.

One time I smacked a ho satellite
and blanked the whole sadistic plumber

under me and the stupid things I do.
The stupidest thing I've ever done

continues like a world, this one, this shotput
God did by accident in his sleep, I think.

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