I’m not having fun

when time flies,

so clip the wings to the stub

& dump my clock in the Rhine.

Right all.

I’m sorry this poem sucked, by the way.

Lies in wait—
bacon cheese sandwich,
growing cold.

Its owner,
hungry, only sleeps.

Yes, I have the sadness,

‘side my flavorless tea & headache cheese crackers;

but it’s not the sadness I had before,

& that’s what most matters.

That was left on the gray beaches o’ summer chills,

wandering & pretending I was knowing & did science,

when nobody invited me to be taught to grow gills.

I’m still waiting for die Tagssonne

to stretch my seed’s boughs.

& this time the point won’t miss its rows.

Just look @ where the sluggish storms sleep now:

when life gifts you oranges,

Mike’s soft bottles don’t e’en crack skulls beyond sore fringes.

Leave me in stitches—p l e a s e.

but I saw
you, flesh-shelled crab… Please.
Keep scuttling.