Friday, April 19, 2013

Lit. Theory

I first
felt lusty this morning
when I heard—a robin
faintly singing
far away his pithy
augurs of warmer weather—
but then I saw
the same fat creature swooping
opportunistically right
in front of me
down—to pluck
and gobble the guts
of a dried-
out clay-
colored earthworm—
and thought—
poetry might
get us laid,
but it's
prose nonfiction

that keeps us fucked.

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