Saturday, November 7, 2015

OLD PISSER

Often I'll watch him stand corrected,
walk redirected,
inspect collections already-
finished 
and polished to perfection;

seeking refuge 
in such vagueness—huge 
and warm
and full 
with the pleasantness
of shiny yellow light.

And then—
when he's feeling
quite dizzy

and sunblind
and free—he'll whip it out 
feebly

and write—

hashtag-
beat poetry,

hashtag-doin' it 
in my sleep.

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