Hey, Kookster!

OK, trucks, get out of the way--
Beemers, I'm screamin,
you should live so long--
Snort my smoke...

And spin, locally,
doing day jobs
and corncobs
for a smacking living
like an engine, delivering,
like a child, shivering.

The blueness, the blackness,
the touchiness
of all this late century
hankering, collecting, correcting,
can only happen in sunshine--
so who's watching the mist, pissed?

 

POETRYP||| MUSIC ||| INTERVIEWS ||| REVIEWS

1961 CHRYSLER ||| UPCOMING EVENTS ||| ART ||| WRITINGS

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