Saturday, June 28, 2014

Baking in my sleeping bag

You're on the other
being abstract, acting

I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead

I'm writing this; an

alarm goes off, it's mine

saturday morning, you're
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds

and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,

this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn't
make sense anyway; it's
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,

which is everything,

we aren't friends; I can't see the

I'm hiding from the sun.

No comments:

Post a Comment