A Street Poem
This is an okay kind of day.
I try not to notice much,
and the ‘much’ pretty much ignores me.
There’s a flashy bookstore.
Bookstores don’t sell my kind of books anymore.
My favorite books are never interactive,
or linked to a crappy website.
The best authors are not - on-line celebrities.
I can’t read Tolkien anymore,
those ‘Ring’ movies stuck a sword
through the heart of my imagination;
now I only fantasize about sex.
I’m having a bad day now.
The street is full of cell-phone zombies;
the blind digitally humping the blind.
I’m an endangered sub-species – I’m old.
Back sometime in 1949,
I was also a street poem of sorts,
a dark secluded corner of a street.
I was a travelling squiggle of sperm. That was a fun time,
the whoosh of the whoosh was even better.
I’m grateful that my parents didn’t murder me,
thus, allowing me to write free verse street poetry,
or do I mean blank verse?
What the hell is poetry anyway (rhetorical pause),
probably not this.
This street is full of much more stuff than I care to mention.
However, there’s a liquor store.
Liquor store servers
always make a point of saying ‘have a nice day’,
you know they don’t mean it. They are professionals,
they know you are not buying all that booze
for a backyard party with your many friends.
The street ends about here,
it meanders off into the city
like a clean poem looking for a dirty ending.
I think the day is just okay again.
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