Had time for some selective reading tonight, but I’m glad to have come across this one from “The Used Life”
the day’s a stale word
the kind that’s afraid of
an honest mouth
(a thing so
strangely made)
a conversation like
a broken arrow, busted wind
and a tree of fire, death at
the roots of the all the palms,
and a half-flung syllable
that punches like an empty fist
i don’t know about you but
i’m tired of empty talk
the kind that slips
off your shoulders
like a saggy dress
or a squirt of
old perfume
jargon and
buzzwords and
attack words and
the kind that make the day
kick over like a bad news story
or a pundit with an ugly sweater
every Sunday’s a lazy quatrain
the clouds are meaty pink and
the air’s spilled milk and
all the tables are empty
and the porch sitters are
strumming bare guitars ‘cause
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Wow. Amazing poem and message, Lee. Thank you for sharing.
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