love blooms each morn...
[how am i supposed to write the quintessential love poem when the short, dumpy, plain girl at
the next table
desperately, too loudly interjects her
placating ‘wows!’, ‘awesomes!’ and ‘that’s amazings!’
into every stunted breath-pause in the stun gun voiced,
spine stabbing soliloquy
spewing
from the hirsute parody she followed in.
as if volume and volume somehow trump tepid, vapid content
tho it might have been interesting that
“this one time, ginsberg ****** in your mouth” if you had had the ***** to swallow it
but you spit it out you coward
and so, bored and ******,
i remembered
ginsberg wasn't into hairy
or three year olds
or hairy three year olds] where was i
... like a glory
awakens to the sunlight in your smile
and the gentle breeze
of your sleeping eyes