BP :: PJ71

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

Bombing down toward mason pond
past homoeroticised firemen
walking past old man his dog
Accelerating toward a prehistoric vulture beast raising his wings to the early morning late night low clouds and fog
dreaming of ideal pens – waterfields and mont blancs
fountains of sappy ink
ream upon ream of prickly
paper
Visions os sugar plums.
Smile! all things are simile – you are me I know I know what you know what I mean?
Tehre is no distinction between the symmbal of a rose and my skateboard!
Stevens wastes his time in trash heaps – his suits smell of refuse and the suburbs still build duck ponds.

I sit by such a pond now. “No climbing on rocks” the corregated iron sign reads. “Reserved” printed in happy yellow letters on teh table at which I sit.
But I have gained admittance to the table – and to the rocks.

Interrupted by a gas
powered edger – scrapping
unwanted grass from the
curved pathways – upon
which queer fireman jog
longing for the fountain
dreaming of ink
skating away.

I am warm when even the ducks have frozen into their feather clusters scrams Rocky as flys down among the prearanged rock displays.
He lowers his brown tale and screams “DI Immotale! I have no lift, only glide. And the sky is faull of clouds – and I don’t no my own sex!” zephyr awakens and blows rocky the weekly post
I don’t read the post
he mutters to Olson and climbs back into his
historic hole.
(w)holes?
no! the challange is linear
as the dawn rising over
the pacific
circles are distractions
and webs designed to entrap
what ducks do on
land is more to the point!
on the surface of the lake their easy is obvious, yet on land!
Crab like and direct dont mix — Hand guns!
Ammo!
boxes of frefired french
texts! HelpHelp!