End of the beginning of the big move today, and most if not all the poems you've seen this month are flying across the country on U.S. Postal wings, going into a manuscript contest.
Here's my poem:
BACKPACK VS VIDEOTAPE
Events vibrate at the the end of my life:
that's how backward I pretend I am.
I have a little system of kids, my wife
feels goofy in the shower and smokes,
leaving her pants on next to the tenement.
This hot suburb is rolling in the dark.
On the fancy desk, enjoying the flood,
surfing the moisture makes my window
sweat onto the toilet paper. The robots
hurt my tummy and the bikers look nice
with the colored lights, we're close to death
at this jukebox, and the Apaches are hanging
out at this bar we like.
Everybody's face hurts the wild plants,
everybody's stripping their muscles down
at the nightclub, we're enjoying ourselves
and I say it's good. Let's stay home while
the movie characters die, the television
person's a porno, an inch above his head
is a long black wig. It hurts me to look at magic,
I'm going to buy whatever this guy hums at me,
I've got this funny feeling the cops are arresting people.
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