My record with publishers is a perfect
streak of rejections. This one feels like
no commas, only periods, a poem
with the clocks slightly off, men's t-shirts
kicking adjectives, the second stanza
pulling things together, curious piles
in the hamper, pleasant drinks at noon, stiff
necks bent to catch a glimpse of pretty girls
secretly desiring to be degraded
and the ambiguity that leads to
(poignancy here that is effective
especially in details that follow)—
Some sip cocktails, some don't. Distinction
between sub-species is so far lost on me.
A collaboration poem written with Daniel Abo (http://danabo.wordpress.com/).
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