has come a long way.
wireless laser printing
and now, the new thing is,
I hope there is a great poet, still young
Somewhere, perhaps in Bogata, or Buena Aires
Who writes with a stick in sand,
Or charcoal on white ash tree trunks,
Who will be captured by Google Earth
Each letter disappearing into the cold black sea
As the tides push in or the fire blazes.
I am naked
The humidity is causing my lungs to grieve.
I relax them with a cigarette
which only makes their lugubrious mourn
A bit more acrid.
The ceiling fan methodically returns by ritual
As if not by physics or electricity.
Perspiration has risen to form a nice thin sheen
of silky sweat off my skin
I am watching my cock get bigger and smaller
as if it has a brain of its own,
it's difficult to be serious enough,
to feel the un-pleasantries of heat
when I am staring at my own penis.
The last 25 minutes have been a waste of time
Please forgive me, reader
These poems rather suck,
Sometimes writing makes me feel as if
I am dissolving in time to a climax tragically in decline
These times, I need to go outside
And change my tires.