Month: January 2019

at 10am
among the branches
some crows gather
for poetry

that wasn’t my bell it was his,
it was his, his bell, his smell,
his line, his tab of acid,
his line of cocaine, coke, his coke,
his glass of coffee, his exquisite corpse,
his sick meta-writing, it wasn’t mine,
it was his, his, it was never mine,
Nevermind, all those boys, chanting,
all those men, boys, that
Dancing with Wolves Avatar hero,
flying in on a dragon or on
his own wings to save us all,
     but not to save me, they weren’t
     my wings they were his, his dragon,
     his wings, that wasn’t my bell it was his,
and I am so sick of all his names for things

“Tourist Trap”, a photomontage by Thomas Barbèy

the asphalt street takes women
children hats trams fences down
between the buttresses
of a rainforest grandmother tree
with thick spreading arms
Dali signs the brain
of the artist who Photoshops
so I can see
the entrance
in game worlds
with laws of physics
set by a programmer
my son meets his friends
on his Surface he makes a city
with lights in shop windows
hangs lanterns
meticulously over the square
using the tip of his stylus
Dali signs the brain
with thick spreading arms
the asphalt street takes women
at a workshop in a room
with purple walls
orange tables
and lime green couches
with laws of physics
I feel sick and take
a walk outside
the entrance
so I can see
the rainbow