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.