Saturday, January 14, 2012

the minimum


Absurdly named, a pesto-pan-tomato-roll
roars past my face

and I am sore, sore afraid: bad news
bears are uh-comin.

Scheduled to work 12 days
in a row, I moan, alone:

I got no angle on the truth
but the truth's got an angle on me.


You tired, you sick, you hungry?
Too bad, you. We in charge

all priapic for money;
we in charge got you where we want you.

We the redneck in the woods
lowering his trousers for a chafing go

at your shivering

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