I know. I know another cheapy post with a poem. Those of you who hate poetry I’m sorry. I’m working on some new posts and hope to have one up this weeked–or at least something. Until then have a great Friday and again any thoughts (good or bad) welcomed.
Sundays with Ginsberg
Pockets and pockets filled with pills.
We dined on tables, made of trash cans turned upside down;
to see the truth in everything. Poems and cognac covered the ground.
We ate our weight in chicken wings and
left finger shaped BBQ stains on the couch
oozed with bodies as the sun rose and slept crept in the window
witches were drawn in ashes. I named mine Piqué.
It started a chorus of boos and murmurs. She was the bell of the ball
-ed up condoms became art. And when my wife called I almost always took it.