the flower winding over the stone edge
and sitting in the sun for a while, bored and baked and contented
kristin filling rhubarb into the crossword
meeting bollywood, carlton banks, and riotous
that balding bastard feeling life for a second
bad poetry is of the essence
nipping one of your cigarettes - a manchester lady in fishnets
no, but you can have a drag
after which it will be properly singed and sanitized
letting happiness find your vibrating head against a coach window
and letting it drift when it wears out it's welcome
letting yourself believe she's yours for a second
like you used to pretend you were aquaman and could breath underwater
not expressing emotions, but the beatles make you cry
do they? they make dolphins laugh and baby leopards bashful
and real beetles survive the final blast, according to the proper authorities
who finished school without a sweat and are sleeping under air-conditioned halos
and have interesting gigs like deciding what species are likely to outlive our own
bad poetry isn't good just because it acknowledges it's poorness
the president still probably has to jerk it occasionally,
on long trips to venezuela or the newly eu-embraced lithuania
and what does he think about after,
with the light glistening off of perfect white fixtures
sounds awful awful awful
not enough words to describe the awfulness of this poem,
and life imitates art, even bad art, which makes for awful life,
gone stale like j.j. cale*
*look him up if you don't know him, because he was pretty good
see also karen dalton
see also sick boy's unifying theory of life
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