Prose on Pome

I think this will be the last pome I write for a long time.  I like the words, but lack the patience to read

it.

In my opinion, prose is much superior to poetry.  The best writers mix genres anyways:

collapse

dual

ity.

Wolfe, for instance, wrote poetry, though he isn’t considered a poet (or, sometimes, even a real writer) but he wrote pomes that began and ended in margin.

Poetry is for folk who like to go to those restaurants where plates are served half, or even a quarter, full.  Who like to talk about the intricacies of the asparagus

between

bites.

But I like to feast!  I will eat the last morsels from stranger’s plates!  I use my bread to scrape the fat and flour from any dish.  I eat with gusto!  Damn.  You bet!

but,
anyways,
here,
it
is
….

Grey
day,
today.
Escaped
slumber
serenade
early,
coffee.
Couple
eggs
and
m
dog.
Kitchen
light,
blinding.

Sleep,
far away.
Hot
shower.
Dreams
wash off
skin
like
sticky
tobacco
ghost.

Alive,
again,
in
the morning.

And she
there
too.

Dream
talk
silliness,
transformed,
all
too soon,
into
plans.

Dog pisses.
Dog shits.
Dog fed.

Try to recall dream.
Here.

Come
back
inside.

Coffee
gurgles
grind.

Aroma
mixed
with
garbage.

Burned
hand
aluminum.

Cold
water
and butter.

And then,

Skateboard.
Surfing
down,
Mountains behind.
America.
South.

Look,
for debris.

Street
cleaned
earlier this
morning.
No fall.

Spring,
instead.
And buds.
And birds.

More
coffee.
Shop.
Horrible
music.
Until,
earbud
rubber.
And
Frog
Eyes.

Peripheral
music.
Barbarism.
Drums
and
keyboard
too.
Release.

Blog.
Novel.
About
Novel.

Wolfe.
Whitman.
Blake.
Jack.
Hyperlink.
Together
at last.
Eternity,
Riddle,
Footnote.

Twitter.
Dissemination.
Conversation.
Miles away.

Facebook.
Dissemination.
To friends.
Closer.

Email.
To,
Love.
Closer,
yet.

And
now
here.
Familiar.

Much Changed.
Beer
balances.
So
much,
caffeine.
View from
a
cross,
the road.

Closer to
man
asking
for
change
or
smoke.

Closer to
humanity
without
pretense
or
scarf
(much
the same
thing).

But

Hats
are
popular
here.

Brimming
all around.
Waiting.
Drinking.
Palm
golf.

Far
from
Ganges.

Far
from
thick
smell.

Lemon,
disinfectant.

And
Frog
Eyes.
Still
playing.
Still
wailing.

Eternal
frogs.

PS.

I am glad this is not in paper format.  Poetry should only be printed upon Macintosh screens.  Save a tree!

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