d.

 

 

 

   Who knew, poetry is a selfish act. It never considers what the reader knows about brown

   squirrels, the acrobat of sunsets or achy blooms. It never wants to know how close one is

 

   standing to the lake; never cares of the aquital of trees set free from their moon charge;

   of this there is no compromise.

 

   Even the mouse with its bands of fear knows to hide the thin, flat crumbs from the

   energy of the cushioned trap. The squirrels, out of the barn, ballsy and fat with the

 

   baloney I left  for the strays, wander on my porch, dirty from a night of dodging

   old cars and banderillas.

 

   Dad would shoo away, you see, he use to write poems but his prostate was swollen

   so he stoped and bought a pint rather than call the pee doctor who put two hard

 

   fingers in his a*s and , as he said, tried to turn him homo, to wear pink petticoats and

   talk with a Liberachii voice. Never trust the reader to know the meaning of the revolution

 

   you know the spirit of. In other words, (and this is the whiskey talking) kiss the leather

   in that old Buick, let the hard rain splash on your good pants you dont want wrinkled,

 

   laugh out loud when your cornered by truth. And chase the fat squirrels back in the barn.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i think what makes your words fresh and real and juicy to me is the surprise factor, i really never know what kind of pulpy words i might find, I think if your words ever got to perfect, too sanitized, they might not have the same ability to wow me

it really is a holiday now! new work from Dana - time to celebrate

[caesarkreshen]

why is there a / after charge? You typo-ed the second squirrel.

Somewhat turned off by "pee doctor"

STILL, I like this a good amount.