A stout vulture on your engraved plates
fueled by pink gratitude.
Big napkins in your wool,
you hide wing nuts
in your worthless statues,
reflecting on lost curbside trophies,
black eyes, evil and full-on hollow.
Dragging, soaking, burning, and stashing.
Another day of not doing
what you were supposed to do.
American Culture, Day Job, Depression, Failure, Idealism, Isolation, Poems, Poetry, recovery, Resistance
This entry was posted on March 9, 2011, 5:15 am and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
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#1 by Evelyn on March 9, 2011 - 8:48 pm
“Dragging, soaking, burning, and stashing.
Another day of not doing
what you were supposed to do.”
Wow.
just a delicious punch in the gut.
I love your poems.
#2 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 8:57 pm
Oh, thank you, Evelyn! You are too kind!
#3 by heather grace stewart on March 10, 2011 - 10:09 am
The end is brilliant. This is such an intelligent poem!
#4 by Carl on March 10, 2011 - 8:32 pm
Thank you, Heather!