The thought hurts.
I've been trying to put you out of the picture
As steely eyes which in turn lie
Toward a fractured groupiness,
Like a flim-flam on the spread eagle.
How 'bout it? the entertainment'll cost you
Not quite a lang unit, calm
In your tethered woodsiness.
Not that they're actually giving it
Away, down on Grant Street, just don't expect
Me to misalign 'foreign' with 'boring'
In an all-out conformity bomb
Laced with broken tin.
Reading classics of Western lit like
Bozo Cleans Up, Pull Knob To Remove Grab Bag
& The Joy of Slipping. But I didn't expect
You to wait out in the rain without a windshield
Or its corresponding wiper. Are these the eyes of a poet,
Or a masher of impersonal pick-me-ups?
Maybe both. Just like I never could decide
Between 'heaven on earth' & 'the wine and the guitar.'
The generalissimo posted a joke to the list
Which wasn't even supposed to be funny. Ha ha.
& Everything else out there
Under the sun (dried up).