Friday, August 7, 2009

poem of the day 08.07.09


read my journal
and discovered that i am
that nothing ever
happens to me
except the passing
of another day.

wish i could sit in silence
with basho.

clean issa’s hut.

brooklyn is so
hot and weary
i am nothing
but a refrigerator
full of scotch
rotting iceberg lettuce
and an old box
of arm and hammer
lingering toward
the dying light
in the back.

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