i seem to remember a time
when other things lived in ink
and burned my blood
with a killer’s instinct
a victim’s instinct
mimosa: i have just learned
that is the color of the year. yellow
for the stars that shine for you, or
more probably for cowards who cut and run,
cut chem, and
can’t count
perhaps the art supplements
or the black! white! black! white! nature
of one side’s view of nature
made me wonder about bravery
red cloaks
and funny boots
or wonder if there was any time when the pleiades
signified pleading reality
if i can handle the kid gloves
and what the hell even happened to me
mimosa? please
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3 comments:
this one is good, but i am mildly worried about you.
transcript request forms are mimosa. *shudders*
i think you potentially achieved your goal, i really only am unsure about the "other things in ink" "you" and if the kid gloves are nazis or leather.
oh whoops, i never commented on this. it's sad. ):
in response to you, recently a lot of my poems are about the vietnam war because that's what we're learning about in history. but that one in particular was more about how my life is fucked and less about how the vietnam war was fucked.
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