Heading Toward Poetryville

Took a wrong turn on the interstate.

Hear that’s a bad part of town to wander.

Get jacked.

Get beat.

Fall in love.

Nothing good ever came from poetryville.

No fancy car plant,

no pig processing,

no industrial byproducts of radiological progress.

Just these fucking, haunting thoughts.

These carnivorous brain worms;

the ones that just won’t leave

until they’ve devoured all my capacity

to not think of the dainty elegance

of a pink elephant on a circus ball,

the sexual possibilities of

a lesbian tight-rope trio,

the damp sweat rolling down

a chocolate malt melting in the afternoon sun.

Poetryville – Where the details hurt,

where observation can kill

with delicate, impossible gossamer

hummingbird aerodynamics,

where no rose is ever a rose,

and no stone lays unturned.

The biggest problem laying

in wait for the unwary traveler in the heart

of poetryville is the black hole

of self-involvement. “Oh, how

do I feel about this or that?

How do I look? What do they think about me?”

Get sucked past the event horizon

and crushed to an infinite point

and ripped into your constituent quarks

all at the same time;

It’s dinner _and_ a show.

Better to be in prison for all my days

– fuck the poh-leese –

for stabbing some motherfucker

than to be in prison for all my days

– oh dear, a rather poor review –

cow-towing to pernicious ass-hats.

I gotta make a hard burn,

go without shields

to escape that gravity well.

This car just won’t make it –

ain’t gonna do the trick.

Get myself a ship

– doesn’t have to be much –

and a clear sky with hard stars.

Light the fires, kick the tires

and let it rip right off the edge of the page.

Boosting to break orbit is no time to hold back.

Fuck the poh-leese

and fuck poetryville.

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