Aught, no. 11/12 (2003)
It Has Not Been Autumn for Seven Years
is boiling in a
pot on the stove.
The pot is burnt—it smells
like burnt toast. The macaroni tastes like rubber.
A tire is rubber. It tastes like a tire.
A tire is black like the sea, or
maybe like space endless as my heart.
Or maybe like the burnt stuff at the bottom
of a pot of boiling macaroni.
The astronaut is falling.
Falling. Can you see him,
spinning through air,
falling like a leaf
in autumn? It has not been
autumn for seven years,
and still you are falling, dangling
on a thin string of hope.
I' ve got a keeyr ius
Now, where wood
she get that krayzy
just cus I lyke
words doos not meen I got that ol'
muse lyke that
poet, what's his
naym the 1who lyked to wright
about snoe 4
sum reesun. Poets ar always wrighting
stuff 'bout that. It's ther nay-ture, I'm guessin'
though I don't noe what nay-ture has to do with nothin'
cus nay-ture is just
about all them brds and flowars and got nothin'
to do with no
Copyright © 2003, by the author.
All rights reserved.
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