rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Thuggery

My neck does not like me sitting at the computer. I have ice on it (my neck, not the computer) so it's the only part of me that isn't uncomfortably warm. The summer and my neck have ganged up on me. I want them both arrested.

The air will remain sultry all night, as it did last night. Perhaps I'll go out and watch the thin crescent of the waning moon rise before dawn brings the sun back to broil another morning. I'll have to be careful not to look up at it for too long, though, lest my neck go further awry.

Cut and paste, my neck says. Enough with the keyboard! Me, following orders.



Sunday Verse


The Poem You Asked For


by Larry Levis


My poem would eat nothing.
I tried giving it water
but it said no,

worrying me.
Day after day,
I held it up to the light,

turning it over,
but it only pressed its lips
more tightly together.

It grew sullen, like a toad
through with being teased.
I offered it money,

my clothes, my car with a full tank.
But the poem stared at the floor.
Finally I cupped it in

my hands, and carried it gently
out into the soft air, into the
evening traffic, wondering how

to end things between us.
For now it had begun breathing,
putting on more and

more hard rings of flesh.
And the poem demanded the food,
it drank up all the water,

beat me and took my money,
tore the faded clothes
off my back,

said Shit,
and walked slowly away,
slicking its hair down.

Said it was going
over to your place.

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