a poem for today, 18 October 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of eight sentences and its image]
Like a shotgun needs an outcome, I'm your prostitute you gon' get some.
What one says remains forgotten behind what is said in what is heard.
You've got a bag of pennies and everybody else is using credit cards.
The struggle is always inner, and is played out in the outer terrains.
It was nearly as large as a soccer ball and weighed two pounds.
It is only irritating to think one would like to be somewhere else.
They've just got to carry on about true love, new life, deep understanding.
I want you to know what you're doing really sucks.