pseudo-chapbook

I'm assembling most of the small poems I've written over the past year into a small collection.  And I'm posting some of them here.

So here's one.

*
SETTLERS

The world keeps opening and falling over,
spilling through something I can't identify,
can't countenance and yet cling to
because love has taken over my chest.

It's hard to breathe here but breathe we must
mon frere.   And you're not really my brother
but I don't think that's the point. The point
is this:            we can take it with us. 

Conventional wisdom is conventional because
frankly, it's stupid.   God laughs at people
like us.  Probably because we're not all
that smart.  Neither is she.   Probably.

If you were Neil Young and I were David Bowie
perhaps we'd make love in an alley, or fuck
on a pile of trash.  I think in this, we would
be at our most beautiful.

I was going to make this a sonnet but I'm way
over the line limit.  A piece of paper that
has been shot through with these words cannot,
in any way, make sense to the commoner.

We are not common.  We are dumb little people.
We've spent our collective life smiling
at other people less fortunate, if only because
we can.   I'll take a taxi cab to the next state.

Please don't follow me.  I'll only hurt you
and fuck your friends. Don't worry: I'll only
be dead as long as it takes for the ferry
to reach the next island. Then: trees, grain.