or Systemic Lords Born of Doors
"I'm bored," he wrote
"Crap," I thought, "Pure Crap"
I thought hard and shutdown
then cleaned off my screen
this evening you rumba and I eat salsa
Tomorrow that's all I think of for an hour; spend the whole day thinking of tomatoes, peppers and your Rumba, even if all that really happens is clicking and banging on machines
I'm writing you hopefully that counts for something.
I pulled lines out of my wallet, wads of paper. More paper than you can shake a stick at. Lines wrought in the nothing of the air that surrounds a half-drunken man in a bar with a quickened, bourboned mind. What I stole from you has been modified. It's has a confused history.
Hope you're well.
My twin is running around here somewhere and he's a nastier mother fucker than I am, I tell you
And that's sayin' something
again
at a poetry reading
upper limit poetry
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lower limit testosterone-laced conversation about American Pie
quick its seagulls eyes
squiggly lines mean nothing
our basements are full of cheap, ugly things
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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