I have gotten accustomed
To reading some
Of these things on
Here

Sometimes I read them
And I wander off

I see some things that

Brush off like wind on a coat
Like the unnoticeable bark
The whistle of a passing train

I see others
Trying to make the word

I see how the doing is done
But not entirely
Never entirely

Each minute comes up
Passes
Something happens

A mass of tiny words inside a tiny page
Inside a tiny machine within tiny houses
On tiny streets that weave like veins
Through the entire country

All of it
Is beautifully
Profane

A nodding to ones
Striking my groin more
Than it does my mind

Half the point I thought

Half the point

And with each word comes an
Idea about themselves and
With each poem comes more
About themselves and there
Is so much about the other in
These words that a face and a body
And a skinny body or a fat body
Or a short one

Doesn't really matter

That stuff will

Just

Melt away

Like a mist rolls off of the mountains

Like the hangover dulls
Like love dulls
Like everything dulls

Praising informality and
Calling all New Form

Praising mediacore hands
For just

Giving it their best

How the mirror turns
On me

When I
Shout

With

Fingers