This evening felt like childhood and church and Bacchanalia.
I do not try to resolve the contradictions

No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
This evening felt like childhood and church and Bacchanalia.
I do not try to resolve the contradictions
sitting here feeling like a used car
one part after the other failing me
the aroma of fresh brewing coffee
wakes my brain cells
To be born in a paradise of green
Rich crops in fields protected by scarecrows
Amidst trees, flowers and endless hedgerows
Below hilltops that overlook the scene
Stretching far across an idyllic dream.
Is to know, that urban longing follows
To escape from rural woodland hollows
Towards the big city’s magnetic gleam.
Jimmy Carter looked green
as he delivered his last state
of the union. Of course, everyone
did on the old Magnavox for ten
I live in minefields, study dioramas
of disaster, pose in crime scenes. I pay
attention. Last night, I overheard a woman
Each word is a fly foregrounding the gap of its silence.
I scan for microscales something