sordid sonnet 21

                       only a slim skimpin’)
in the place where the nobodys from out
a that symbolist poem yatter-blat, play the radio:
all the way toward impin’
into the middle of a closed-door shout;
always revise where certain—say, do you know
where they keep their blimp...  In
the shed of anger, or in the garage of doubt?

drenched, right near the fountain
of borrow,  i fought
the law, but ended up just loungin’
next to the codes (which i flout,
during sessions where i bounded in
& sealed everything w neon grout:

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