Poetry can be found
At the most unpromising
Of addresses
Down dark alleys smelling dimly
Of redemption puked out with alcoholic
Forgetfulness, steaming from the dandruff populated
Eyebrows of shifty looking men in trousers
That have not been washed for days.

These men are poetic souls though they’d only
Move about their ugly feet decked by torn socks
And give you the sordidness of a deliberately clumsy smile
If labeled thus
To claim poethood invites the thunderous spell
Of a writer’s block
But they are poets in so far as they are
Escape artists, they do not, in fact
Live in this world, but one other where they are
Lean and muscled and maybe even
Differently sexed, going on neverending motorcycle chases
Choreographed to Nickelback and coming to life
With the neverending emergency of a kiss
The kiss that ends all narratives and brings them
To the crapitudes of their desk.

My friend, you whose sorrow and stunned
Shame, compels the seeking out of music
In foldable form forgettable in a dress pocket
Remember poets are the sweetest
When treated like sweet potatoes
Left to pickle their brains with dreams their torpid
Bodies make impossible in the warm moist darkness
Of their hovels.

In all essences, a poet resembles a crack addict
Whose second love is Pizza Hut.


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