i´m going to get you t.s. eliot
april’s rotting teeth open
up like pinwheels on bike tires
in the wind before breaking
over wooden nickels in a field of
abandoned styrofoam cups and plastic
flowers that smell like spilled vodka
and dish soap — where half buried
infants finally admit that
‘maybe it’s time to move back in
with my parents’ and see the dogs
again back at the
house which looks a little
smaller everyday or maybe
the city’s just getting bigger
w/ all its amputees and construction
workers who spend all their
money on laminated pictures of
cigarettes and ukuleles
and soccer moms who sling
crack to helpless insomniacs
and baristas in between soap
operas while rock and roll posters
and filthy newspapers surround and
consume the first bank building
as if to prove a point
poem for emilie, connor, jason, and sadye
we missed nina by
20 miles and about
an hour’s worth of
endings
the radio man sang about
henry miller
the five of us got
progressively more
wound up in our lostness
like a bosch painting
zoomed all the way in
never trust a seagull in the city
— Dustin Holland lives and writes in Longmont, where he organizes a poetry/ music/art event series called Don’t Yell At Me.
Send poetry sumbissions of 250 words or fewer to [email protected]
