the grass is always neon
on the other side
said the rich man to the poor
he is a glutinous water jug
his hands and feet are swollen & wet
it is in his DNA he says
he wrings his hands like a wash cloth
and slurps his nonwork
into importance
(importance
is so close
to impotence)
inability
that halo of
inactivity
but here
let me just pull
one poem idly
from my eye.
the dying cough
of the creative
must still create.
It’s like all my creativity
is trapped behind a wall
trickle trickle tap tap
My hands shake
and my mind is
clouded with
clenched fists
I pound at the dam
catching trickles
on my tongue
Fuck this.
poempusher 