I chewed Ma's fat while the
gang checked windows for law
and saw shrubs growing out of
boulders.
The melody frightened her as the
cabin exploded in slow motion
sounding like black mud sucking
the galoshes off someone's feet.
Ma had a long hair growing out of
a mole and I had a cigarette
hanging out of the corner of
my mouth.
A close up of her eyes revealed
our terror and
the whole scene became warm
plastic.
Four November leaves fell from
the very top; rusted, orange,
and red.
It felt like when Dorothy was still
aroused in that crazy, spinning
farm house.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There's just something about that mole...This is just awesome poetry...