Saturday, January 5, 2013

So Much Depends/Upon Pink Chickens

the place between feelings and a jar of tea is supposed to be poetry

but it’s nothing more than the in-between organ or two that can’t be


called he or she but is maybe Z or zim and zim doesn’t matter any

how because if I don’t go out looking and kicking over wheel bar-


rows on chickens scattering rain whatever everywhere where is zim

then? Kar blah blah kar blah I save me, this is why I’m free. I sip on


cardboard cup of tea, chickens at the market in the cooler pink skin in

their white light all around me sit all around me they’re not moving.

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