I think it’s time for my poetry to find a new home.
It never really liked the weather
here and it always got sand stuck in its shoes.
I think it’s time to leave this sultry surrounding
that has given my poetry chapped lips and
left it with a desert growing in its mouth.
It’s time to take out these knives stuck in my
baby poetry’s guts – like the sharp edges of these
tall tall towers.
It’s time to forget these orange faces with lonely
Lonely like a cat dying on the streets at 2 AM.
Like a butcher’s eyes.
Like the cute girl with the lisp.
Like the old pious man working at that alcohol store.
My poetry has spent too many hours building
blocks under the sun when they were
bound to fall apart.
My poetry has seen way too many
gigantic malls and
has met more insignificant people than it should
in its natural life-span.
My poetry ought to revolt now before it is too late.
It ought to rebel.
Like the small pieces of glass
that were missed while cleaning.
Like the scar on a single 35 year old
woman’s face that
refuses to be concealed with cosmetics.
Like the appearing and re-appearing
of a salesman’s true accent.
My poetry was never content here anyway,
it always worked extra-hours at a minimum wage.
The closest my poetry ever got to friendship was
watching the pure sight of it and
smelling the stench of its odor.
In fact, my poetry should leave this
suffocating chain of envious antagonists
who pretended not to care that
it was published.
I think it’s time for my poetry to
pack its things and get the hell out of here.