This is the poem you wanted to read

The scrapyard poem

The dunkindonuts buzzthrough unisex

Door behind which you find

An eagle’s feather on the side of

The faucet in which a bear’s head

Has been painted, white and black.

Read slowly, the poem where alien doesn’t mean death but ludi-

Crous, luminous

Beginning, where your daughter explains just so

Her brother won’t hear there isn’t

A santa but santa is God’s brother

To our heart.  The poem lingers

On shhhh-sh-sh-shh. Hi-hat, on the thiffft

When you rip off a piece of DuckTape, This is the

Poem where you such a badass,

You say Fuck instead of Atwood’s Fug

You can smoke so carelessly you drool mid-

Smoke and spit down into the weeds

In the garden plot.  You can read it on the radio,

Or in your head you

Can bicker yourself in five-seven-five

You were wrong again

You are so inaccurate

You know I’m dead on.

There’s no pelican, no columbine, no wise-sad

melancholic accuracy, no graffiti on the moon.

You can rhyme if you want

Wear black, skullcap, be gaunt

As a piece of paper, type everything, skip the edit,

Ignore the font.

 You can read it to your man: read him this:

You’re worth waiting for in solitary, I invent you while I have

nothing but to find you 10 years later

The smell of gasoline pumps got nothin on you, baby,

You remind me of a thousand and one nights,

The story Sheherazade forgot

When you get me I

Get a part of me I never left a tip.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s