Wednesday, February 9, 2011


“Please segregate the trash 
before I crack you in the head,”
she said, like a nun. No
fun, I’m always the one 
the foul falls upon (the one
who counter-attacks 
as a way to become re-
undone, like a muffin
too cooked to eat). Let’s
consider the hunger
in my eyes. Let’s back 
all those for whom
the mountain is a violence
of peace, keep amuse
from annoy. Problems arise 
between a tone-deaf 
notes and the unlistened to.
She’s sanguine
about surrenders,
harbors maybe a perhaps.
Instead of raising 
white flags, I could
take up darning.
Instead instead instead 
I'd rather bear-hug
my refuse as I exit—
woes in recycle-mode
bound for the hills; 
deposited fool's gold.

No comments:

Post a Comment