building memories

for the boredom yet to come

writ large, writ large, writ large

ladies night confessions

reveled without torture

Monday’s bike ride for day old donuts

as the words whiz past my ears

and the crack and thump

of rifle fire meant to end the poem

but there is no cease fire

the 1% have endless ammunition

and the painting looks good

from any angle

as the evening creeps toward midnight

and the thoughts of

walking home after the buses have ceased

fearing that my exit

would  be construed as a rejection

of the poet on the cross

of performance and driven

by the beat, the beat, the beat,

does three consider a rhythm

only apparent

to those not really listening

good a break so I can leave

without making

an un considered

bad vibration




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