torn labels

dead trucks in a cold wind and gas
station cigars.
th poet cursing everything local.says
poets are th toughest.sighs
rise through diesel
in afterthought.big rocks
al night in a hotel, no room
for sympathy.stars remind of a life
once wasted, or wasting – my, th hotel parking lot
is grand at 3 a.m., drinking warm beers out th back of minivan

th country dancers shuffle;
a real intellectual says “hello”.

no rooms for locals.th night
forgot us in th rest of th story.men
hunting for th’act of it.100th ave.say it
w- open arms and it sounds better. 

                 words not understood
                 by th waitress but we like her
                 smile anyways, and feel bad b/c she
                 has something stuck in her throat.                                    may be words

lights out, poet reads a poem
abt a game of assholes
at 4 a.m. from an awkward position on the bed.poet
fucks fixes his
glasses and says yea man.       ( wonder, what is a poet aside from tired )        

can’t imagine remembers

                 purdy –                  oh fun
                 police.a cold wind
                 on th fourth floor.  

# posted by hardyf : 12:59