With whistler from sellers I can’t be
trusting. That’ll get me into some
Trench or ditch or pit. It makes
me sick. Can’t I just go for a walk and
enjoy quiet or the blackbirds diving
at me like a normal Sonoma bloke?
I’m imagining things,
no bothers, actual
collection– damn us poem
sayers. Fallen branches aren’t
that to us. They’re messages, some
blues song or a jazz session or a speech from cloud royals–
Invisible grips that only we understand,
I swear, ask Emerson!
But he’d probably say for me
to defend myself, and if someone asks
they themselves are one of those professional
deviations, no mind
to be paid.
Tied by a know, it’s called expectation to
Newspapers with their classified ads,
Reminding me of what I’ll be doing if
I get fired– or, WHEN.
Rattles, harassed by toddlers or younger,
that’s how juvenile they are with us.
I lose concentration in my pressed jaw
like an incensed swarm– dare me to jump, leap with teeth. I
Will. My branch abandoned, my
tranquil interrupted so I can