Tuesday
Toast from the grey shirt in the blue green smoke in the pipe of the sardines from South Carolina City going down the street by the white line like velvet paperclips on the fresh cut lawn rolling next to the brain in December.
Lost the brain
In the wheel
On the floor,
Covered with mud
In the kitchen,
Covered with mud and blood.
Why?
That's the way they like it,
For the neighbors,
For the friends,
It doesn't matter at all,
In the end,
In the end everything's grey,
Grey to dark,
No one can see,
No one can breathe,
It's in the way,
It's almost dead,
It is all nonsense,
All you've read.
It makes sense to someone on the 4th of July where it's illegal.
It's all garbage,
Just garbage,
Nothing but garbage,
Not poetry,
Garbage.
Run-ons, fragments, and poor punctuation,
That's all I'll ever hear.
8th Grade
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