short poem 9
it was in a journal
that i learned how to
write down
all of
my
unevenness...
tanka 7/23
nothing so gay as an exotic dance or the turning of leaves on tired branches ** on the southern side an empty parking lot - i can think of nothing but being in bed ** after dashing off a few anti-ghazals the cute one calls the front desk asking for my help ** my ol' man is insular... he's to himself and then there's me searching for my skin ** after work enjoying a cigarette (though i don't smoke) and a small cup of vodka ** have i become a drunk? these days it is Crown n' Coke that satisfy me ** tonight... i secretly hope or not so secretly hope that i don't have to greet another person ** these days i am doing the work excavating my own self for the authentic me **
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