A picture-story of a hearer-man

Or: A welfare office for appropriate people

Damn! To be insane instead of edging toward my rye
naked and limping thrusting my thumbs in my eyes—

says the man his suit from the 1970s what raw nonsense
did he imbibe his spirit of spirits gone and obscene—

mutters the commodore he calls himself when he mounts
the little cranny-nook of a husband he hooked on heroin—

gibes the preacher up from Kentucky his kids at home
doing things with their skins he taught them well—

quotes the listless young man from his head in mires
he chucks in there like blonde to a deep-voiced Southerner.

~ by Jeremy on May 29, 2012.

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