Thursday, January 12, 2012

collaborative poem by K.P., C.S., C.T., B.P., N.K., C.S., M.K., and others, at Public House










why are there monkeys in my wheat bread?

Monkeys don’t eat wheat.

where nose hair has no place, this breathe we

one tempt block with a lack of emphasis

pressure mounts, I am afraid to decide

1, 2, 3, @4, my name is free:

named after no one but maybe not many

people. At least not many people that matter.

I turn young and every goddamn woman

stronger than me holds trophies above

me, relaxing as if they must, helplessly!

and the cup/guy remains swathed and somewhat

tangible, my body soft enough to drive a knife

through. Too many monkeys in the way

around in === OK OK OK

if we are armed we are change of relation

right? And this includes several monkees who

are not yet in the wheat. Not yet.

The knives are moving closer, the dips in

the coast, our cancerous coast. Ten years to

slash to five, steel fellas in the tooth –

(copy, clip, clap) Come closer

“Monkey Revolution”, the first one in space was a squirrel monkey

named Baker.

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