May 5 by The Running Son
Look also last.
I’m not some up-from-the-pit
of hell-ish guerrilla spirityrants
or yogi-babbling vagrant-migrants,
saying stupid crap with violence,
anger or drooly popped-his-lid ragings,
or mind-mappings of latent ages of fury
in sly places in limericks, across pages
in strange iCadence, or bi-verse.
I’m not a desert-cabin-fire creativ-matic
all-hands-on-deck missile-charged tragic
manic blog-addict, too tight-beamed and sprightly,
too quick witted and poet-slick for this poetic banquet.
I aint that. You’ll see. I can slow down and reeeeeeally feel you watching.
I aint some integrity-bad can or canned-up madman
seal-swollen and gone bad, “wish it was fresher–
the energy it takes to throw that crap away” kind of lad.
“Where’s the maid? Leg broken? Damn” No I’m no broken Unkle Sam,
so no need to move away. Metaphors faded, and I prefer you stay.
See what’s up huh? Maybe there’s a plan
that I ain’t thought of.
by Jim Aldrich