Dumb Lumberjack
They said that the reason
I keep my poems so jagged
and covered in piss is because I can't
fulfill a true glorious sentence---
a pathetic attempt on my part,
according to them, at distraction.
I told 'em they were probably right
and bought them each a drink.
Then a few more.
One woman wanted to dance.
The lights were a hazy red,
white and blue. I kicked the jukebox hard,
and everyone laughed.
"Joan Biaz no more for you," I said,
brushing the sawdust off my shoulder.
campus walkway . . .
crabapples crushed
into roses