I have to tell you, it's sort of painful to post these so new. This is right out of the box and was written in a 20 minute spurt. But it counts as poem 1.
I won't be putting all my poems up for PoMo, but the occasional one will make its way in (then probably disappear later.)
Poem to Open National Poetry Month
This poem is bellbottoms and acid-wash denim.
It’s fat sideburns and long thin ties. This poem
shuffles its feet when I ask it to dance. Dumb poem
with its white picket fence, its eggplant trim.
This poem spoke loudly, coughed without covering
its mouth. I said “I need a poem for April, something
fantastic, in stilettos to start the month with a bang.”
The poem went into its closet and pulled out a wig
and a gun. This poem doesn’t work for peace,
it doesn’t pretend to know where it’s going. It’s the
path marked unknown, the stoner who plays pinochle,
the baby-back rib from Chili’s left on the plate.
No, this poem’s not a fairytale, or fable, or poem. Its
the moment of sleep when you turn out the lights.
