the rain forged its anvil arm
through the dusty membrane
kissing the grass leaves
into an ocean trance
now snow is turning...
i'm bone-jacked
with slink shy girlfriends
here in the third floor apartment
trimmed behind
a grey city back porch
now and again
we run out
for this and that
i saw the best minds of a generation
lying
asleep
we worked at races over the phone
made calls for a collection agency, too
gaining consent
like the electric moments
of afternoon thundercrack
ancient sense
like spring soil ascending...
then you're dazed with strength
randomness compels
lucky circumstances
which can pay the dream tax
for all the ammunition we need
our gang was movie stars- no film
no ammunition for our pistols
five gallons of gasoline
in big glass jugs
weird sisters tried to warn me...
i know that now
but i scotched it like a bug
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I am reading this whilst listening to the Paul Jones Show on BBC Radio two. Real R&B to make the soul sing. every Monday 7 -8pm GMT (Go on! try it online, it's like a secret passion.) I gotta say, it's like strawberries and cream.