robot talk. bleepity bloop.
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there is a language here
set between the spaces and pixels and air and computery
they're just words
but they're my words---and thoughtfully so
and im thoughtful enough to look around sometimes and
I'm never the only one being duped.
I wrote about the man across from me on the PATH. How his
moustache curled around his nose like a puffy cotton
cupcake wrapper---like Pete curls around my head when I'm
sleeping like a fancy hat. french hat. french
bulldog...scuze me...freedom bulldog.
And the man kept drifting in and out of sleep and you could
tell that his eyelids felt like two socks filled with
quarters and his neck was going on strike against his head.
Like in Math class when you're squeaking by on a C and you
know you've got to know you've got to know you've got to
and when he looks up and sees me taking notes, i divert my
eyes quickly in time with the tick tick tick of the tracks.
but he knows and i know he knows
poets make great liars. poets are the best liars.
nobody has paid for these yet.
I'm not quite a poet.
with these words curled up around my fingers.
like a fancy freedom hat.
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