photograph by Chris Felver (2000)
Jim Brodey
Fire escape slashes feet dude
But thanks for the intro to nudie
Mags & staying all day sitting
To be pointed in the direction
Of acid nail-biting and told to go
& to go, sad, away from the repeating
Myth straight to someone else's
Typewriter commanding you to get
It together and type up your hundreds
Of poems, argh. Who cares? Endless
Shrimp, for one. "The truth" that only
The disapproving understand so well
They can't begin to convey how hard
It is to be difficult around the appropriate
Children cook you broccoli though
And if scared at rented silence and big
Trash bags of blues tapes, defend that
Let me be after you're dead plus fuck
You plus I don't fucking electric lights
Scraping knowledge off the sky and love
It's toxic residue, bad skin, pork marriage
Who'll ever let me sit, whatever. Peter
Poking me in belly and asking about my
Cherry, some Naropa sicko predicting
Mother death, a junkie trying to mail me
A soccer ball and allowance made me less
Nice to you, meaning not speaking, than
I should have been, but I was what, thirteen?
So fuck it. Be looking for your star if the sky
Shows one anytime soon. Get me in for free.
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