picture came from my jane-phase, poem from last night
I envision a man with a strap-on piece
About his thighs
But it’s not in imitation of sex
It’s a building.
And he’s sticking-it to this country
Not because she likes it
Because he’s a rapist,
Sadist,
And metal craving oil—
Son of man! The bitch
Is getting stuck.
I dig the bitch, she’s green.
And I, this night:
Sit on green blanket
Middle of my personal outer-space—
Bedroom floor, perfectly,
Among and in-between
My luggage packed and boxes
Of things
For my next, new veracity.
I picnic here with notepad.
I AM green blanket
Laying as the floor for cosmic park
For these quiet moments I get it
But I only understand
In silence.
I try to break thru
By word-thing.
I am green and unsure
If it’ll ever
Really work.
