Post by Steve on Sept 24, 2005 6:59:55 GMT -5
alive are friends but this world is too vindictive
their busy throwing salt on my geraniums
in my mother's garden
wake up with a wet face, the sprinklers are three blocks away on 82nd,
but the condesation has soaked my sleeping bag,
and i got tobacco and papers litterin the tent
with a few dollars that are already spent.
but my company is good
got a russian and a handful of dead americans, that aren't as dead as some of those french,
and a salad in the fridge:
but my pipe is a ghost no smoke for toke to take in and dream your voice, to make words blossom into pulsing erections or earthy lips
my bottle is empty, if i even had a bottle to begin with, but liquor will make me thirsty
and walks will be silent with no talktouchseefeelwreelininspinninecstacybyasinglefingerplacedtothecornerofmylips
and end with an achin foot
the mobile Beat wrote similar woes, sore toes and had his bout with driness and fireless and loveless and f*gfilled time-though mine neverowned a typewriter and this queen writes shambly romance stories i wouldn't even burn to keep my child warm.
this not a poem if you want one look somewhere else
in a tree
the leaves burning from finger tips to wrists in the morning sun
becoming ghostvisionsmoke by night
look above you in the diein clouds torn by areoplanes movin a 'you' to another'you' for reasons you could only ask the ants about
