maken momma proud

What a woman.


28-a
Old Gold
Bush beer,
she sits like
she’s always been here.

Like the tide’s
highest stain
poetry
remains
in a trailer park bathroom,
(way way way out west)
and I wonder
if it is important
I am alive and drinking
(aging and thinking)
?

Have you heard the blues
comming from somewhere
not yours
and felt
like you could feel comfortable there?
Someone catches your glance
and you walk on.

We are only as cruel
as the cruelty we have withstood
(I have hurt
already broken hearts
and it felt good)
and I wonder
am I already all I am to become?

What a woman.
What a pose.
Maybe she knows
what God knows.
We orbit around her in rapid timelapse
and the lines deepen on her face
her trailer sinks in the dirt
and she hasn’t wasted a moment.











Walton Pond [sic]

I must respond
to Walden Pond;
Fuck you.

Simple cheap
goods,
easily replaceable
like moods.


Poverty is knowledge of what you lack.
Wealth
is my wife
stonned and surrounded by food
and the TV flickering in her eyes.

Poor Emerson’s Almanac
you are an asshole
and that’s a fact.

Bearded colligant men
sit around fires
and like to pretend
Buhda wouldn’t be laughing with me over whiskey sours at The Great Wall Resturant and Lounge.

I met my love
at Wal-Mart.
I smelled her sweat
and fell apart.

We nickled and dimed
an honest living
forgiving
human American fualts.

Waldon Pond.
My trailer park lake
I rename
Walton Pond.
Fuck academia
care to respond?










Siera is seven
and covered in shit,
smells like sewer
and likes it.

See her strut
like she had a ghetto boody but.
By definition
everbody loves a slut.
She will
what ever she will,
it may sound awful
it’s true still.

Childhood
memories
are ours to hold,
let her have hers
how ever it may unfold.


Siera is seven
and covered in shit,
smells like sewer
and I like it.

Cause if she wern’t here
there’d be no Sieras
in a few years
(maybe fifteen or so).